…they had been enemies…

1: All other Sundays we begin the service inside. Why do we begin outside on Palm Sunday?

Every year at least one person tells me how much they dislike our Palm Sunday ritual of blessing and processing with palms – and it’s never been a complaint about how, in the old days, that is, in medieval times, the procession used to be from one church to another and back again, and now it’s just out one door and in the other. “Why do we do it at all?” is the question behind the objection. My response is not intended to stifle the grumbling – grumbling is usually okay with me because it’s a sign of engagement; it’s a sign of intelligent life! My response is that I prefer embodied liturgy and there just aren’t nearly enough opportunities for folks in the congregation to move and pray, or move and sing, between our boxy seating arrangements and our Anglo-Saxon religious heritage, which is pretty buttoned up. I do understand that going outside and coming back in is disorienting and chaotic and chews up time, and it separates those who are willing and able to do it from those who aren’t. Besides, this Palm Sunday is also a day when we have visitors who are in town for the marathon. On the other hand, church is a place where we regularly have the chance to participate in things that we don’t necessarily like, with the assurance that the thing that one person dislikes is the very thing that someone else in the community loves. When we’re doing it right, we take turns liking and disliking things in this community. Sometimes we are giving by our participation, and sometimes we are receiving. Sometimes it’s both.

In Jesus’ time, palm branches were a sign of Jewish freedom from oppressive government. Waving them in a crowd in defiance of the Roman government was a revolutionary act.[1] Hosanna means “save or rescue us please.” Our ritual re-enactment places us squarely on the side of those calling for freedom from oppression and with those in need of help, acknowledging that we cannot save ourselves. Both of those seem to me to be prayers that I want us to practice praying in public – even if it’s for a few minutes out on Newbury Street. I do think it’s interesting to note, though, that Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem, reported by Luke, does not include any mention of palm branches or shouts of hosanna. Luke might have been trying to downplay the insurgent nature of the Jesus movement.

Our Palm Sunday liturgy takes an abrupt, nauseating turn from blessing and processing with palms, singing praises to God and pleading for help, to the story of the passion according to Luke. Luke tragically joins the other evangelists in writing a polemic against Jews who were not Jesus followers.[2] It’s not just a problem of translation – there are slanderous and defamatory accusations, repeated in the Gospels and in Acts of the Apostles, probably as a rationale for the split between Jesus-following Jews and non-Jesus-following Jews in the crisis that followed the Roman destruction of the City of Jerusalem, including the Temple, later in the first century of the common era. This has had murderous repercussions that continue in our own day, in our own city. So I dare not stop preaching and teaching against Christian scripture that accuses anyone but the Roman government for the execution of Jesus, the rabbi from Nazareth.

…he handed over Jesus as they wishes…

2: Palm Sunday rubrics permit reading the Passion in parts. Why do we not read the Passion narrative that way?

Why, if I want to encourage embodied liturgy, are we not reading the Passion narrative in the traditional way of assigning parts and having the congregation reading the lines of the angry mob? Well, here’s why. It’s because, while I think we do need embodied practice of calling out any government that impoverishes and oppresses people through economic and environmental exploitation, militarism, and racism, and we need practice calling out loud to the Divine to save us, we do not need practice playing an enraged crowd, clamoring for violence against someone who has done no evil, or against someone who does not conform to our hopes and expectations. We certainly do not need to act out calling for the execution of Jesus or anyone else. It’s enough to fearfully acknowledge that otherwise decent people, including us, are capable of getting swept up in calling for someone’s death. We can pray that we never succumb to that temptation or we can repent and return to the Lord if we ever have. Let’s practice being the people who stand with and advocate for humane treatment of criminals, prisoners and captives.

…this is the king of the Jews…

3: On all other Sundays we rise for the Gospel reading. Why do we sit for the first part of the Passion narrative on Palm Sunday?

Why do we sit for the Gospel reading until we get to the part of the passion narrative that says, “when they came to the place that is called The Skull,” (or Golgotha from Hebrew or Cranium from Greek or Calvary from Latin)? The answer is that the congregation is permitted to sit in deference to the length of the reading. We rise when Jesus arrives at Golgotha, the place of the skull, because it is a posture of heightened alertness, respect, reverence, and prayer in our context.

We rise in attentiveness, and respect, and reference and prayer as Jesus reaches the place of his execution. Notice that even here, he was not alone. Jesus was put to death with two others, and really, tens of thousands of others whom the Roman government executed for crimes of insurgency and sedition. The inscription that read “This is the King of the Jews,” was there to frighten the folks that had wanted Jesus to be their king instead of Caesar. Jesus never called himself a king, and Jesus didn’t heal or save himself. He maintained kinship with people who were most vulnerable. He pleads with us to do the same.

In his book, Barking to the Choir, Jesuit priest Gregory Boyle writes: “For Jesus, the self that needs to die is the one that wants to be separate. This is the self that recoils from kinship with others and balks at union at every turn. It is the self that wants it all to remain private and thinks it prefers isolation to connection. We know that the early Christians believed that ‘one Christian is no Christian.’ This larger sense of belonging to each other acknowledges that many are the things that connect us, and those things that divide are few and no match for our kinship.”[4]

…women stood watching these things…

4: All other Sundays we sing an uplifting closing hymn and hear an organ postlude. Why do leave the church in silence on Palm Sunday?

On all other Sundays, we sing an uplifting closing hymn and hear a beautiful postlude and then enjoy conversation and refreshments in the lobby or the parish hall. On Palm Sunday, our liturgy ends in a solemn and silent procession. It marks the beginning of our holy week. It’s not the silence of being alone, though, because we go in kinship, collectively listening for the stones that are crying out. We go in remembrance that Jesus never wanted to be worshiped. He wanted people to follow him, to join his ministry. He didn’t want so much for us to be astonished at his power, but for us to inhabit our own power to live and love as he did.

Luke’s primary emphasis is not that Jesus’ death salvific significance. For Luke, Jesus’ death was not a means of redemption. No, Luke’s primary emphasis is that Jesus was a martyr executed by unjust people and systems. In one of my most well-worn Bible commentaries, a book called Preaching the Gospels without Blaming the Jews, the authors point out that Luke’s understanding of Jesus as a righteous martyr derives from Judaism. Jewish writers in antiquity named the importance of remaining steadfast in witness (which is what martyr literally means) even when facing the threat of execution. Luke was emphasizing that the Holy One is faithful to those who suffer because of their faithfulness.[5] Being the Christ won’t help Jesus or anyone else get off of a cross. Luke is asserting that Jesus’ being the Christ will help righteous, faithful people to pick up their cross, that is, to shoulder a burden on behalf of another for the love of God, even at great personal risk. Believing that Jesus is the Christ won’t keep anyone from suffering, but it can help people to remain steadfast in their witness to the love of God in even the most dehumanizing circumstances. For us, this mustn’t be a story of Jews rejecting a messiah. We can claim Jesus as the Christ without denigrating those who don’t.

Before we go today, we will say our prayers and have a little bread and a little wine to strengthen us for the week ahead. Brother James Koester, superior at the monastery across the river has said about Holy Week, “This week is not an easy week because in it we will discover once more all that is within us, both light and dark, both good and evil. May God grant us all the courage and grace to continue this journey, so that we may know the power of God’s love….Our journey to the Garden of the Resurrection must pass this way, so let us begin. Let us begin.”[6]