Our Story

Luke 19:28-40 & Luke 22:14-23:56

I’ve had a lot of conversations lately about this particular Sunday liturgy. Palm Sunday done in its fullness is an exceptionally long, logistically complicated service with a sharp change in tone about midway through the service. We begin in joy and pomp, with props and upbeat music and even a bit of choreography to mark the progression of our sacred story, and then we turn- we turn toward the painful reality of betrayal, of loss and grief and loneliness. Both glory and humiliation are rehearsed year after year in this liturgy. It is meant to feel disjointed, abrupt, a bit of a bummer. That’s the truth of the matter- this story is not just a story. This glorious parade and devastating trial are not metaphors or movie montages. What we are talking about today is as real as the lives we lead, and with that reality comes joy and pain, love and heartbreak, friendship and betrayal, death and new life. Jesus moves toward the final chapter of his earthly ministry to the cheering of disciples and crowds, and in the process the seeds are sown for his betrayal. Some who praise him on the mountain will abandon him in the city, various rulers will attempt to pass the blame, and the disciples will be divided into two groups- the ones who run and the ones who follow Jesus to his cross. At the center of the drama, a man falsely accused, executed by the state. This is a deeply human story.

Like so many prophets before and after him, Jesus bears the burden of expectations, of the human narrative of military triumph and power toppled by violence and war. The triumphant march down the mountain is not a separate story, but an irony woven into the story of the Passion. The irony of our hard hearts and closed minds welcoming the Word into our midst. The irony of trying to make an idol out of the living God. The irony of death’s hold on us even as the Way, the Truth, and the Life stands with arms outstretched to embrace us. Without the liturgy of the palms, without the march toward his own betrayal, without the passion there can be no Resurrection Sunday. This liturgy is a hard look in the mirror, these palms in our hands and pinned to our chests are an invitation to star our idols hard in the face. These palms might as well be battle flags, or brand names, or the symbol of our political party of choice. These palms are evidence of our opportunity to live a different way, and choosing ourselves again and again instead. Jesus is Lord looked like palm fronds waving and voices singing hosanna, all the while conspiratorial whispers hummed below the surface. The royal greetings, all glory laud and honor to thee redeemer king, were sung to a man who would be crowned with thorns and dressed in torn and bloody robes. The irony is we still do this. We still decide for ourselves what role Jesus should play, and skip over the parts of his ministry that don’t align with our worldview. We still lift Jesus up and parade him through our lives when it suits us, and hold our tongues when claiming him would inconvenience us and change how we live. We still fall into the terrible trap of the crowds, shouting “Crucify him” about the people God created with whom we disagree or quarrel. And so we need to hear our story, and feel it in our bones. We need to hear it read in familiar voices and feel the palms in our hands. We need to experience the entirety of Holy Week, not just the satisfying bookends. The story of God is our story too, the human story woven into the divine life of Jesus. Thank God this isn’t where that story ends.