Sermon

And those who went before and those who followed shouted "Hosanna! Blessed is the one who

comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the kingdom of our father David, that comes in

the name of he Lord! Hosanna in the highest!"

Mark 11:9f.

The Palm Sunday story is perhaps the most perfectly ambivalent story in the Bible. We hear

the crowds shouting "Hosanna!" and know that in a few days these same crowds will be

shouting for his death. We see the Lord entering Jerusalem in triumph, and know that just

ahead lies the crucifixion. Yet at the same time, we know that beyond the crucifixion lies

the true triumph of the resurrection. The resurrection could not have happened without the

crucifixion, and the crucifixion could not have happened without the triumphal entry.

This last statement may need a little explanation. Judea was a Roman province at this

time, and a particularly problematic one. It had a history of rebellions. From the Roman

point of view, the leaders of these uprisings were simply religious fanatics. There were a

lot of them around, and it was delicate business deciding how much latitude to allow them.

As long as they just talked, it was probably best to let them be. To suppress them for

talking would be to make martyrs of them, to feed the resentment that rebellion feeds on.

But if they began to rally any kind of substantial following, that was another matter.

Any such developments had to be dealt with promptly, before they gained momentum.

Things looked very different from the Jewish point of view. What the Romans saw as

fanaticism looked more like faithfulness, belief in the prophecies that the Lord would

raise up a king who would make the nation independent again. This king would have to be a

descendant of David, though, and a thousand years after David's death there could be no

question of identifying the legitimate heir to the throne on the basis of the family tree.

Clearly, the Lord would have to mark this individual in some way, presumably by some sign

or signs, by the gift of special powers. We can look back to the period of the judges for

precedents, when in times of crisis the Lord would "raise up" a temporary leader.

Jesus's ministry certainly qualified him as a candidate. His ability to work miracles set

him apart immediately, and his teaching showed a rare understanding of the Law, a wisdom

that must have set his hearers thinking about Solomon. Yet for a long time--scholars

estimate that his ministry lasted about three years--he did nothing to encourage

rebellion. He did not organize armed bands or preach about the injustice of the Roman

occupation. He spoke of the coming kingdom, but described it as the "kingdom of God" or

the "kingdom of heaven" rather than as the kingdom of Israel. From the Roman point of

view, he might have been worth watching; but the more the months that passed without

incident, the more harmless he must have seemed.

Palm Sunday broke the pattern. Suddenly this itinerant healer and teacher who had been

working the small towns in the north came to the capital city. Not only that, he organized

a major demonstration with obvious political overtones. In the centuries of Israel's

independence and the years of her glory, this was how kings had entered the city when they

returned in triumph from battle. This, if you will, was the great ticker tape parade of

the victorious general, launching his campaign for the presidency. This marked him as

someone who might have to be dealt with.

In fact, of course, Jesus was no threat to Rome. In a sense, he was no threat to anyone,

since the whole focus of his ministry was to bring blessing into the lives of everyone.

However, he was perceived as a threat by people who claimed a monopoly on the blessing

business, namely by the more calculating members of the religious establishment. In the

parable of the sower, Jesus had spoken of the seed that fell among thorns. He had

identified the thorns as "the cares of this world, and the deceitfulness of riches, and

the lusts of other things" (Mark 4:19).

The workings of this kind of mind were displayed when some of the chief priests asked

Jesus by what authority he was teaching. He promised an answer if they would tell him

whether John's baptism was from heaven or from men. Matthew's gospel goes on, "And they

reasoned among themselves, saying `If we way it was from heaven, he will say, "Then why

did you not believe him?" But if we say it was from men, we are afraid of the people,

since they all believe John was a prophet."

What emerges here is that there is no interest whatever in deciding what the true answer

to the question is. The real question--the only question--is, "What's in it for us?" The

cares of this world and the deceitfulness of riches have taken over, and there is no room

for the seed to grow. In the story of holy week, this is taken to its extreme. Not only

must the seed be choked out, the sower himself must be eliminated.

Again, though, the threat was more perceived than real. To continue with the image of the

sower, the priests and elders were afraid that the crowds of people would prove to be

fertile ground, that the seed of Jesus's teaching would take root and grow. As events

turned out, and as Jesus undoubtedly suspected, the crowds were more like the stony

ground, "who, when they have heard the word, immediately receive it with gladness; and

have no root in themselves, and so last only for a while. Afterwards, when affliction or

persecution happen for the sake of the word, they quickly turn their backs on it."

It is a peculiar situation. The crowds are cheering wildly for something that is not going

to happen. The power brokers are becoming alarmed at a threat that does not exist. This is

fantasy land, this is tilting at windmills or grasping at shadows.

Yet it has to happen. It has to happen because this is the world these folk are living in,

and no one seems to be questioning it. Their own desires give substance to their

illusions, their dreams of glory, their fears. Swedenborg describes people in hell

hoarding what they believe to be their treasures. In the light of their illusions, they

see precious gems or gold coins. Let a touch of heaven's light in, though, and all there

is is rubbish.

The Lord came to save us from our sins, not from our circumstances. The kingdom he brings

is not necessarily the one we expect or even the one we want. It is not a kingdom in which

we are waited on or honored or gratified. It is not even a kingdom founded on our

liberation from those who oppress us. It is a kingdom founded on our liberation from

ourselves, a kingdom we enter whenever we forget our self-concern in acts of care and

service. It is a kingdom we leave whenever we get caught up in anxieties about our own

worth or become preoccupied with what we deserve.

This whole thought-world of what we are worth and what we deserve is a world of shadows.

Think for a moment. How can I figure out what I am worth? Can I make a list of my good

points and my bad points, give them numerical values, and see what the total score is?

Can I give plus and minus point values to my words and deeds for the week? Of course if I

want to, I can always find someone to compare myself to, but should I choose Mother Teresa

or some serial killer? Is there any conceivable way I can discover where I stand in regard

to the human race in general?

Of course not. I have levels of being of which I am not even aware, so how can I claim any

real self-comprehension? I am living in one little corner of the universe for one brief

span of time, so how can I have the perspective I need for a valid comparison? No, when I

get caught up in these ego-concerns I move into a world of unreality, a world in which

there is nothing I can get hold of.

This is my present equivalent of the world of the Palm Sunday crowds and of the anxious

power brokers of Gospel days. This world of self-concern is what is pictured by the

outward, earthly kingdom, created by political and military means. It doesn't work. We do

not form peaceable kingdoms by defeating other people. We do not create heavenly community

by force, by any form of imposed authority, or even by persuasion. Heavenly community

grows by voluntary change, by our exercise of our God-given freedom of choice in

intentional care for each other.

Our illusions are dear to us, though. It is not easy to let go of our self-image, even if

it is one we are not contented with. It was no easier for first-century Jews to let go of

their dreams of drama and glory; and that is why Palm Sunday had to happen. The dreams had

to be brought to the surface, brought into the light of day. Only in the light of day

could the dreamers see how insubstantial their dreams actually were.

This leaves us with one last question. If these dreams are so insubstantial, why are they

so persuasive? The answer rests in some of the basics of our theology. The dream, the

outward kingdom, draws us into it because it is an image of the more substantial reality

within. Plato used the image of being in a cave and seeing on the wall shadows of things

happening outside. In that image, he was asking people to turn around and see the

substantial beings or events that were causing the shadows.

We might modernize this by using the image of a mirror. When we face it, we see a

reflection of what lies behind us. Yet as long as we face the mirror, we cannot

participate in that world. Only when we turn around and forget the reflection can we begin

to deal with the reality.

Our dreams of glory, our concerns for our worth and our just deserts, reflect genuine

needs of our souls. The deepest of these needs is that we welcome Lord into our hearts.

To put this in terms of the Gospel story, after the ascension, the apostles could no

longer look outside themselves and see their Lord. Now in order to find him they had to

look within. In other words, he had entered their hearts in a new way, a way no longer

subject to the arbitrary limitations of space and time. He was with each one instantly no

matter how distant they might be from each other. There had been a spiritual Palm Sunday.

To put it another way, the excitement of Palm Sunday reflects something real. There is a

beauty and a wonder at hand. In fact, it is closer than we can imagine. I have long been

fond of the image from the Qur'an that God is closer to you than the vein in your neck.

There is that kind of intimacy to the kingdom of heaven.

Perhaps it is because the reflection is so appealing that it seems so hard to turn away

from it. We need only think of the billions of dollars that are spent on movies and

television programs that provide us with vicarious drama and romance. They can be

persuasive indeed, and the roots of that persuasiveness are in our own yearnings. We have

a need for beauty and a sense of beauty.

To summarize, then, I am suggesting that Palm Sunday is a call to turn around. Look at the

story, be absorbed in the image of the Lord's triumph, and then turn around. Do not look

for the Lord to come into the door of this church or of your house. Look within for every

slightest hint of that presence in your heart. That is where justice and love begin.

Amen.