Luke 19:28-42
As a child, I loved parades. The
Christmas parade in Greensboro
was probably my favorite. My sisters were too small to brave the cold winds
sweeping down Summit Avenue
so usually it was just dad and I, watching the floats, listening to the bands
and waiting for Santa Claus. I was small enough to sit on dad’s shoulders where
I had as good a view as anyone. After the parade we would head over to the new restaurant
in town, a place called MacDonald’s, for a hamburger, coke and fries. Those are
my most pleasant memories concerning parades.
As I got older, and learned to play the
trumpet, parades actually became something I dreaded. Being a parade participant
meant arriving hours before hand, standing in the cold without a coat, and then
marching for miles playing the same song over and over again. It was always
good to memorize the music. That way you could watch where you stepped.
I still remember my last official parade.
It was September 4th, 1975, at 10:30, in Gordonsville. I
participated as a member of Fort Lee’s 492nd
Marching Band. The following day I began graduate school. I purposefully saved three weeks leave so my
tenure from the Army did not conflict with the continuation of my academic
endeavors. While everyone else in the band was playing a rousing version of
Sousa’s El Capitan, I was softly accompanying with a
counter melody, the Mickey Mouse Theme
Song, played of course in the same key. By the end of the parade all of the
band members had joined me, in three part harmony, much to disdain of our First
Sergeant. But the song put smiles on the faces of all the children. After the
parade, I checked my shoes, hoped in my car and never looked back.
It is one thing to observe a
parade. It is something all together
different to participate in one. This morning we celebrate one of the great
enigmas of Christian calendar. On Palm Sunday children wave palm branches. On
Palm Sunday, the choir pulls out its own version of El Capitan. And
on Palm Sunday Jesus, the man of the hour seemed to be part of the band yet
he was definitely whistling a different tune. Am I the only one confused by Palm Sunday? Why stop there? I am the only one confused by all
the parades leading to Easter Sunday?
The parade began innocently enough, at
least in the eyes of the casual bystander. Jesus finally entered Jerusalem. All of his
warnings concerning the consequences of this action seem to have been ignored
or forgotten. Jesus just didn’t slip into Jerusalem
by the back gate. People lined the streets, spreading their cloaks along the
road. A cheer went up at each corner, “Hosanna in the highest. Blessed is he
that comes in the name of the Lord.” It was a day of triumph, celebration, and joy,
for everyone, except Jesus. Sitting quietly on the donkey, he participates,
because he must. But his heart is elsewhere. When it is over Jesus slips from
the back of the animal, retreats from the crowd, finds a quiet place and weeps.
He knows what we often misunderstand. To fully live one must die, and death seldom
seems a viable alternative to life.
The parade continued into Jerusalem. Jesus spoke
openly about resurrection and the destruction of the Temple. These were dangerous conversations
that were best presented under the cover of darkness. But the parade was
winding to an end and it was too late to be careful. With each new song, the
opposition grew larger. With each new storm, those faithful to Jesus began to seek
shelter. With each new revelation, even the disciples began to wonder what
possessed their dear friend.
Eventually all parades head toward the
reviewing stand. The judges and special guests sit, waiting to be impressed as participants
save their best for that one special moment when all eyes were focused on them.
Legs are lifted a little higher; backs are held a little straighter; and most
importantly, the selected piece is played as if it was a gift offered to the
gods.
The
reviewing stand on Holy Week was not a set of decorated bleachers, but a
designated table, adorned with each peculiar dish that celebrated Feast of the
Passover. The prayers had been spoken, the food eaten, when Jesus picked up a
piece of discarded bread, tore it in two and declared, “My friends, this is my
body, broken for you.” The disciples, worn out by the day and drowsy from the
wine consumed, realized something extraordinary was happening. Jesus was taking an recognizable tune and
playing it in a new key. One minute they were celebrating the Passover and the
next they were confronted with a reworking an old theme. “This is my blood,
shed for you. This is a new covenant for the remission of sin.” Now the
disciples were wide awake. A meal designated to celebrate the passing of the
angel of death had become an appetizer announcing the presence of death in
their midst. It had been a long week. It was more than they and perhaps we are
capable of comprehending. Exhausted and confused the disciples stumbled past
the reviewing stand, toward the garden where they slept and Jesus prayed the
parade would end. Only Jesus knew the parade had only just begun. Friday the parade continued. It featured its
only participant; it entertained the same observers. But now the chant was
different.
Why
would the same folks who praised Jesus on Sunday call for his death on Friday?
Why do many folks who celebrate Palm Sunday have such a difficult time with
Good Friday? That is both a fair
question and an accurate observation. According to those who calculate such
things this is what we know. On April 7th, 30 A.D., Joshua ben Joseph, a teacher
from Nazareth was crucified outside the walls of
Jerusalem
between two other men. Each of the Gospels as well as the Apostle Paul gives us
an interpretation of those three hours. Each tells the story a bit differently. To further complicate matters the crucifixion
was a baffling, even embarrassing event for early Christians. Until the time of
Constantine,
the cross was never depicted in the early art of the new faith. Friday was met
with silence, both from God on the day of the event and by the followers in the
days, and years and centuries that followed. Questions haunted the early church.
“How can one explain such event?” “What was God’s role in this event?” Those
questions still haunt and baffle many of us, yet for two thousand years
Christians have stared at the cross, a cross often misunderstood, and believed
nothing can separate us from the love of God.
Where
is the logic in that? How can love come from death? Who was responsible for the
death? Was it the Jews? The Romans? Us? God? If it was God, why would God use death
to bring about life? I can’t give you a satisfactory answer. But I will suggest
if you shout, “Hosanna” on Palm Sunday and exclaim, “Christ has Risen” on
Easter Sunday without experiencing the silence and pain of God on Friday, you
may find your faith to be little more than wishful thinking.
Palm
Sunday was fool’s gold and Jesus knew it. It was a parade leading to death. What does Palm Sunday tells us about anything?
Like most parades it takes take place in
the daylight because we want to see where we are going.
Jesus’
parade takes us into the darkness. Jesus’ parade walks us through the chaos. Jesus’
parade can be painful because Jesus’ parade is real. His parade is where we encounter
death in hopes of discovering something new.
I
can’t explain Palm Sunday any better than I can explain Good Friday or Easter. To
explain those events would mean that I can completely prove what happened each
of those days. If faith can be proven it becomes something else. Faith is about belief, not proof. So I can only tell you
what I believe happened. I believe during the Holy Week parade the band started
playing a song, a beautiful song, a well known song while Jesus was quietly playing
another tune. The more he played, the
louder he got. The other band members, one by one, starting dropping out until
finally Jesus was playing all by himself.
And
then he stopped;
Until a few days later;
When the band got back together,
And played the new song,
As all God’s
children smiled.
Amen.
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