SERMON, March 15, 2008

Palm Sunday Matthew 20:29-21:11

Last summer when I was contemplating my retirement from parish ministry a friend who had retired some years earlier told me that she had set ten goals for herself for her first year of retirement. This had helped her give some structure to her days—and furthermore, she told me, she had accomplished them all! I actually tried to do this. But the truth is that I couldn’t come up with ten goals. My list was a lot shorter. Topping the list is something I am still working on and praying for: the gift of open eyes. I am trying to learn how to see—more clearly and in new ways. This—in spite of the fact that I know that physically speaking my eyes aren’t what they used to be—in fact I’m going in for a check-up soon. “Lord, let my eyes be opened.”

“Let our eyes be opened,” the words of the blind men Jesus encounters on his way out of Jericho as he sets his face toward Jerusalem. The two men cry out to Jesus for mercy. He asks them what they want—I love the way Jesus does that so often—not presuming to fix them, but asking them what they want. “Lord, let our eyes be opened.” After their healing with their eyes newly opened they follow him on the way—to Jerusalem—the donkey—the abandonment--betrayal—arrest—the trial—ridicule—the cross—death. With their eyes open they follow him.

In most Episcopal churches today the story of the entry on the donkey is read, and then the passion story itself is read. After the ride on the donkey comes the lifting up on the cross. This custom of reading the whole story began I think when church leaders realized that so few people get to church on Good Friday—so few actually hear the whole story. It better be read when they are there. So that people don’t get the impression that Jesus entered the city to acclaim and then rose from the dead—the next Sunday! Best not to skip over the suffering and death—the cost.

The truth is that the entry itself gives us plenty to think about—in important ways it foreshadows what is to come. It gives us clues about the cost. And, it is so provocative. We’ve lost that I think—how provocative an act it was. (And how hard to see for those whose eyes are not opened).

If you are one of those who thinks that faith and politics should not be mixed together—should not be discussed—then this is one of those Jesus moments you need to skip over. For there were two processions into Jerusalem that week. The one we read about this morning—and another one—much easier to see and to understand. The Roman governor of Judea made it his habit to come to the city for Jewish festivals. Not to affirm them or participate in them—but to make sure there were no uprisings. Pilate entered the city from the West—from Caesarea Maritima on the coast where he lived. His procession was one well-known and understood by the people. He came mounted on a war-horse, accompanied by the cavalry and long lines of foot soldiers—armored, helmets shining, weapons on display--metal and gold—the clatter and sound of marching—the show of military might. A procession proclaiming the kingdom of Rome—the Roman empire. You can imagine the streets lined with silence—people with their eyes wide open. Here before them was real power—the power of Rome and, to the Roman way of thinking, also the power of God—the governor was the emperor’s man—and the emperor was the son of God.

Jesus’ entry from the East—the passion story starts and ends on the Mount of Olives—his entry is radically different. A single man—not on a war horse—no weapons—no clatter of metal—stamping of feet. The clip clop of the hooves of a donkey and its colt according to Matthew—and that softened by the cloaks and palm branches strewn before him. His followers shouting out “Hosanna!” “God save us!” and passers-by who took note—who had the eyes to see—not comprehending—asked “Who is this?” “Who is this?” “The prophet from Nazareth in Galilee.” An outsider to the powers that be—this one—a prophet.

Matthew quotes words from the prophet Zechariah when he tells this story. These are words that would have affected Matthew’s community deeply. Kind of the way if I quoted to you just a few words, say “Fourscore and seven years ago…” you would think of Abraham Lincoln, of the Emancipation Proclamation, of the Civil War—of the whole history. Just a few words would set your minds going—recovering the larger story.

When Matthew quotes the prophet “Look your king is coming, humble and mounted on a donkey…” This little snippet would have triggered in his people the context of those words and the lines that followed. Lines that describe how Yahweh will cut off the war-horse and the battle bow, and command peace to the nations. They would have remembered that Zechariah was a visionary—a man who described how Yahweh was going to do a new thing—setting the people free from the oppression of others.

Jesus on the donkey and the words of Zechariah would have set them thinking about the new thing God was going to do—a new thing that wasn’t like the old—wasn’t like the other procession. Matthew, you see, edits out a line of Zechariah’s prophecy—a line that describes the king as coming “triumphant and victorious” on the donkey. People would have noticed that missing line. They would have wondered about that. About the humility that stands alone. The humility that rides into the city. About perhaps God’s new thing in humility. The power of God processing in humility.

When I was a child I grew up in Latin America—in Venezuela for a number of years where we lived through various coups and changes in government—all brought on by military action. I can remember standing on the curb watching military parades go by—to me they seemed most impressive—tanks, and armored cars, foot soldiers, guns everywhere. This didn’t have any overt religious meaning—but it was clear to me even as a child that this was all about who had the power and what kind of power.

The people in Jesus’ day and Matthew’s day knew about the two processions. And you and I do too. For whether we’ve seen a military procession like the one I described or not—we live enmeshed in a culture of power—power built not on humility but on the power to coerce. And I’m not talking here just about the military power of the United States—but the power to coerce behavior. It runs deep in all our systems of governance, even in our schools and social services, and often in our families as well. The power to make things happen. The power to make others do what we want.

Have my eyes been opened? Who do I see coming into town? Coming into my life? Who do you see and follow? Which procession are we in? I mean which one are we in most of each of our days? Jesus who came riding into town on a donkey—stood up before the powers of his day—and spoke hardly a word. He stood before them in his truth—the truth of God’s radical inclusive love—coming in humility—not to force or coerce—but to invite. He suffered the consequences—the powers that be don’t get it—but they do understand that this kind of power in lowliness threatens their ways. Coercive power has its effects of course--we know that. You can make most people obedient—you can shrink them sometimes—change their behaviors by making them fearful—you can breed violence with violence—but you can’t coerce them to become more loving, more truthful, more generous, more welcoming, more forgiving, more joyful. Only love can transform us into the people we are meant to be. And love is humble and risky. It invites.

It is not always easy to accept the invitation. But, there are choices to be made. Always. We are invited this morning to live with open eyes. We need them to see beneath the hype and the surface of things: to see the one who comes in humility. We need to see him to dare to accept his invitation to follow. To join in the procession of the faithful—the one with the donkey. To let the love of God transform us and make us new. God is doing a provocative new thing—right now in the midst of the old thing that so pervades our days. Right now. Right here.

------ Note: Marcus Borg and John Dominick Crossan in The Last Week (HarperSanFrancsco: 2006) offer their interpretation of the meaning of the two processions.