Journey of Triumph, Journey of Tears

Some years ago a young man was struggling to find a sense of purpose for his life, and decided to write a letter to Mother Teresa, so noted for her compassionate work among the poor, the suffering, and the dying in Calcutta, India. Small in physical stature, Mother Teresa nevertheless drew the world’s attention, including many of the world’s most influential leaders, so much so that she became one of the most admired people of the 20th century. The young man hoped that she might provide a word of wisdom in response to his query as to how to might make his life count for something. He waited some six months for a reply from Mother Teresa, and when the reply came, it was printed on a postcard with just four words on it—four very powerful words—“Find your own Calcutta.”

Were we able to ask Jesus a similar question, I wonder if he might not respond, “Find your own Jerusalem.” During the weeks of Lent we have been exploring what it means for us to journey with Jesus on the road to Jerusalem—what it means for Jesus to “set his face to go to Jerusalem” (Luke 9:51), and what it means for us to respond to the call to deny self, take up a cross, and follow Jesus. For many, Lent is a somber time, a time that reminds us of our shortcomings, our failures, our sinfulness. But Lent is also a time of invitation, a time to take on something new in our journey of discipleship, a time to find our own Jerusalem.

You may be aware that on the church calendar this Sunday has two names, each pointing to a very different mood, a very different perspective on the final events of Jesus’ life. Most familiarly, we speak of this Sunday as Palm Sunday, and the mood is one of triumph, of Jesus entering the city to the cheers and acclaim of the crowd. Only one of the four Gospels, the Gospel of John, speaks of the waving of palm branches, and yet palms have become the primary symbol of this day, as we remember and celebrate that entry into Jerusalem.

But there is another name and mood for this Sunday—Passion Sunday. Those church traditions that assign prescribed Scripture readings for each Sunday offer alternative gospel passages for today—a Palm Sunday text highlighting Jesus’ triumphal entry, or a Passion Sunday text, recalling the troubling events of Jesus’ betrayal and arrest, trial and death that follow so quickly on the heels of Palm Sunday.

In reality, both moods are present on the initial Palm Sunday, even though they feel strangely out of sync to us. In this morning’s text from Luke, chapter nineteen, the crowds seemingly go wild with hope and excitement, so much so that Jesus responds to some critical religious leaders who urge him to silence the crowd, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out” (19:40). But one verse later we read of Jesus pausing to weep, crying out to the people of Jerusalem, “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace!” (19:41).

Pastor Kate Penfield, writing in The Pulpit Digest, speaks of the ambiguity between Palm Sunday and the Passion that follows. Writes Penfield:

I don’t know how you feel about Palm Sunday, but I am here to tell you that for me it is always the most confusing day in the church calendar. It has the festive feel of a prelude to Easter high with its fragrance of spring flowers and stirring sound of trumpets; yet it has the dark and down, old, cold shadow of Good Friday looming on the horizon, with its smell of death and its sounds of silence. In fact, the only way to get from Palm Sunday to Easter is straight through the darkness in between—shortcutting the pain of this week that stretches before us will only short-circuit the power on the other side. Trying to get from the peak of Palm Sunday to the peak of Easter without descending into the valley of death will not work.

What do you make of Palm Sunday? Is this day good news or bad news? On the one hand, on the first Palm Sunday all kinds of people clearly recognized something about who Jesus was and either acclaimed him or abhorred him, depending on who they were and whether they perceived him as good news or bad news. On the other hand, the very same folk in the very same week came together and colluded to kill Jesus. You almost have to fasten your seatbelt, so abrupt is the transition from celebration to crucifixion, from waving palms at Jesus to nailing him on a cross.

Fasten your seatbelts, for the experience of the Holy Week events is something akin to a roller coaster ride. The crowd that yells Hosanna one moment will soon shout Crucify. Looking back on the events, we recognize that the phrase shouted by the crowd, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord,” had deep significance, that Jesus was indeed the blessed One of God, coming in God’s name to speak of a new reality among us, the realm or kingdom of God. But did the people really understand what they were shouting? That shout, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord,” is taken from a psalm of thanksgiving—Psalm 118—and had become a standard greeting for pilgrims coming to Jerusalem for its great festivals. Adding cries of Hosanna and the waving of palm branches, the people are giving voice to their hopes for a conquering hero, a messiah or ruler who would restore Israel to its former position of glory. Thomas Long, professor of preaching at Candler School of Theology, reminds us that the waving of palms is “something like the display of American flags in the weeks after the terrorist attacks of September 11. It was a patriotic display, a symbolic expression of hope that this young Galilean who had stirred up so much attention might strike a blow for the nation, a blow against Rome and for the homeland.”

It soon becomes clear, however, that Jesus does not measure up to the crowd’s long-held expectations and aspirations. For instead of a conquering hero, the people encounter a suffering servant. In the place of a politician or a general—a political messiah, a savior comes in humility. Rather than a ruler victorious in battle, complete with chariots and stallions, Jesus rides upon a lowly donkey. Instead of crowing over the vanquished, Jesus cries for peace and proclaims a gathering love for all manner of peoples.

Jesus enters the city, and will soon be betrayed, arrested, tried, and executed by the power of the state. His disciples will flee and cower behind locked doors. On this day that signals both triumph and tears, all hell is about to break loose. Jesus will experience unimaginable suffering and pain. And yet you and I are prodded to find our own Jerusalem, to join as followers of Jesus by denying self and taking up a cross. Could it be in that the story challenges us to look more deeply, that those who are able to see through to a deeper truth will sense that the suffering that comes with Jesus’ cross bearing—and ours—is not meaningless suffering, but rather redemptive suffering? It is a suffering that points to the unfolding of something markedly new.

Today is the thirty-sixth anniversary of the day that Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. Perhaps more than any other person of the modern era, King stands as a martyr, one whose faith and witness captures so much of the essence of Christ’s self-giving love and servanthood. Two months to the day before King was murdered, he preached a sermon entitled “The Drum Major Instinct” in which he looked honestly at our basic human desire for recognition, acclaim, status, and attention. It’s the drum major instinct, the desire to be out front, to lead the parade, to be first in line. It is an instinct which, left unharnessed, can do significant damage.

The apostle Paul understood this. When writing to the Philippian church, Paul urges them:

Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests alone, but to the interests of others. Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,

who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited,
but emptied himself,
taking the form of a servant,
being born in human likeness.
And being found in human form,
Jesus humbled himself
and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross
(2:3-8).

To the disciples who aspired for positions of honor, Jesus asserted, “Whoever wishes to be become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many” (Mark 10:43-45).

Noting that Jesus gave us a new norm of greatness, Martin Luther King, Jr. continues:

If you want to be important—wonderful. If you want to be recognized—wonderful. If you want to be great—wonderful. But recognize that the one who is greatest among you shall be your servant. That’s your new definition of greatness … . everybody can be great. Because everybody can serve. You don’t have to have a college degree to serve. You don’t have to make your subject and your verb agree to serve. You don’t have to know about Plato and Aristotle to serve. You don’t have to know Einstein’s theory of relativity to serve. You don’t have to know the second theory of thermodynamics in physics to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love. And you can be that servant.

King continued on his sermon, pondering what he might like to have said at his memorial service, at the time of his death. He reminds his parishioners that they need not mention his many awards, not even the Nobel Peace Prize. Instead, he continues,

I’d like somebody to mention that day, that Martin Luther King, Jr. tried to give his life serving others. I’d like for somebody to say that day, that Martin Luther King, Jr. tried to love somebody. I want you to say that day, that I tried to be right on the war question. I want you to be able to say that day, that I did try to feed the hungry … to clothe those who were naked … to visit those who were in prison. I want you to say that I tried to love and serve humanity.

Yes, if you want to say that I was a drum major, say that I was a drum major for justice; say that I was a drum major for peace; say that I was a drum major for righteousness. And all of the other shallow things will not matter. I won’t have any money to leave behind. I won’t have the fine and luxurious things of life to leave behind. But I just want to leave a committed life behind.

Powerful words. Words that begin to capture the flavor of the life to which we are called as followers of Jesus. The kind of life to which Jesus pointed, not only on Palm Sunday and the ensuing events of Holy Week, but throughout his life and ministry. It was a life of tears and triumph, a life exemplifying the path of self-giving love and servanthood, a life flowing from a heart full of grace, a soul generated by love.

Blessed be the One who comes in the name of the Lord, inviting us and empowering us to discover our own Jerusalem, our own Calcutta, our own journey of triumph and tears, our own journey of self-giving love.

Pastoral Prayer

We need the touch of your grace and goodness, O Spirit of the living God. For the road before us is often confusing. As Jesus and the first disciples had to journey through the pain and hurt and suffering of Good Friday in their movement from Palm Sunday to Easter, so our journeys, O God, do not long avoid the roadway of confusion and uncertainty, even of pain and suffering and betrayal.

Gracious and Holy Spirit of God, we need not scratch far below the surface this morning to discover the reality of pain. Some of us face the disappointment of broken relationships, the uncertainty that comes when the promise and hope of a relationship fade, and in their place are loss and hurt. Some of us, God, know the reality of depression; some of us struggle to find our place in life, our purpose, our connectedness to you and to one another. Some of us confront the reality of shattered dreams; others of us question where the next step of our journey will lead.

Through it all, O God, we hear the challenge to place our trust in you, to allow you to melt us and mold us, fill us and use us, in your service—and we ponder, where will this lead us?

Spirit of the living God, grant us courage and wisdom and peace as we make the journey through Good Friday on our way to Easter. Soften our fear, that we might take the risk of trusting you and each other. O divine Spirit, fall afresh on us, and grant to us the kind of peace that sustains us in the midst of the trials and storms of life. Grant us the kind of hope that sees new possibilities even in the midst of life’s uncertainties. As the earth greens around us, as trees bud with new life and blossoms unfold, so may we anticipate the promise of new life unfolding within us and among us.

Loving God, hear us as we hold before you those in special need of your healing mercies. We pray for…

God, hear also our prayers for peace in our war-torn world, for justice in a world far more accustomed to oppression and fear. May your righteousness be among us as an ever-flowing stream.

Creator of us all, hear us as together we pray the prayer Jesus taught the initial disciples:

Our Creator God who is in heaven, who loves us as a father and cares for us as a mother, holy is your name!

May your realm extend all around us, and may your will be done in our world, as it is in heaven.

Give us the food we need each day; and forgive us our sins, as we forgive everyone who has done wrong to us.

Give us strength to resist temptation, and save us from all that is evil.

For the whole realm of the universe is yours, will all power and glory, forever and ever. Amen.