The Trip that Had to be Made
Text: Matthew 21:1-11
Mary Hammond
March 16, 2008
Text: Matthew 21:1-11
Mary Hammond
March 16, 2008
I spent Palm Sunday last year at a nursing home in the Chicago-area.
When the hospice social worker left Friday afternoon, she said, “I will
be shocked if your mother makes it through the weekend.” Come Monday
morning, my mother had proven this seasoned social worker wrong.
Peggy Malone tells us that hearing is the final sense to go, to always assume that a person in a coma can hear. So it was, on Palm Sunday, my bedridden mother that could neither move herself, feed herself, nor speak, responded to the nursing home Chaplain as he cheerfully made his Palm Sunday rounds.
“Good afternoon, Ruth!” he said in a strong, inviting voice. I could tell he had been there many times over the past year by his familiarity of tone. My mom’s eyes turned a tiny, tiny bit. He continued, “I brought something for you. It’s Palm Sunday, you know!”
The chaplain held up a little cross made of reeds. The corner of mom’s mouth moved ever so slightly. A tear dampened one eye. She was ready to remember this day, the start of Holy Week, as best she could.
This story seems symbolic to me as we take this journey with Jesus that begins at his entrance into Jerusalem, continues to a cross, and culminates in an empty tomb. Into the darkness of terminal illness comes the light of a simple, reed cross. Into the darkness of impending betrayal and arrest come the praises of children, too innocent and trusting to imagine what is to come.
This past week, I have read through all four Gospel accounts of the events between what has historically been considered “The Triumphal Procession” and the betrayed by Judas. In this process, I have been forced to ask the question, “Why has Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem ever been coined “a triumphal procession?”
First off, Jesus doesn’t plan a parade for himself. That is the stuff of dictators and other politicos careful to control appearances. Jesus doesn’t hand-pick his audience, or even care if there is one. His main purpose is getting into Jerusalem. The crowd gathers and erupts as it tends to do whenever Jesus is nearby. This may be a much more loaded public appearance than most for Jesus, but enthusiastic crowds are nothing new for him.
When Jesus sets his face toward Jerusalem, he makes a dangerous decision. His disciple, Peter, tries to talk him out of it. Jesus rebukes him forcefully, saying, “Get behind me, Satan!” (Matthew 16:21-23) His own brothers taunt him and challenge him to travel to Judea sooner than Jesus believes he should. He flatly refuses (John 7:1-9). When Jesus asks his disciples to go get that donkey waiting for him, the moment has finally come.
In her powerful sermon, Palm Sunday is always happening, Kathy Galloway notes that Jesus rides into Jerusalem as a non-combatant (from Eggs and ashes: Practical & liturgical resources for Lent and Holy Week, by Ruth Burgess & Chris Polhill, 2004, Wild Goose Publications). He mounts no stallion and wears no armor. He carries no sword nor club. Neither does he arm his male disciples, who become so afraid to be associated with him as the week wears on that they eventually flee in fear.
The crowds are looking for a military leader who will overthrow the Roman oppressors and set Israel free, a King who will establish justice and righteousness by the power of force. They are restless and tired; they are ready for freedom and unity.
Some are hopeful that the One they are waiting for is Jesus. “Is he the Messiah?” they ask one another. Others fear the popularity of Jesus. “Look how the people all run after him,” they complain. Some are determined that Jesus will never succeed. “He is a blasphemer, a follower of Satan!” they proclaim.
Why has the Christian Church ever come to celebrate this journey into Jerusalem as a “triumphal” procession? The more I ponder the events of that day and the next, it seems like the mixture of a funeral march and Oberlin’s Big Parade. Spontaneous outbursts of joy and incredible sorrow mingle that day.
In Luke’s Gospel, what does Jesus do as he enters the city? He weeps over it. He sees so clearly its future destruction, the horrors pregnant and nursing mothers will face at that time. His heart breaks for his people.
What follows this processional into Jerusalem in the Gospel of Matthew? The spontaneous cleansing of the Temple--the agony of God outpoured in the breaking of tables, the rustle of escaped pigeons, and the bleating of scattered sheep. “My house shall be called a house of prayer, and you have made it a den of thieves!” Jesus cries out (Matthew 21:12-14).
The heart of God is laid bare for all to see.
On one of my mother’s final days of verbal communication, she shared a dream that she had the night before. I was there with our oldest daughter, Sarah. Thank God that Sarah is a scholar and compulsively takes notes wherever she goes. She grabbed a pen as my mother spoke and recorded this most amazing dream.
At the time, my mom was only feeding herself intermittently and communicating haltingly. She was incapable of moving her legs or torso on her own. She was living daily with excruciating pain due to severe allergies to pain medications combined with her profound determination to keep her mind as long as she could. The medical staff told me, “If we medicated her pain as much as she needs, she would be in a coma all the time.”
The protagonist in the dream is mom. God has put her in charge of the world, “to keep it moving, to propel it forward.” Evil is present, embodied in treachery and confusion or deception. Good is also present, embodied in gentleness, creativity, and perseverance–“and we’ve got that [perseverance] down” she added, as Sarah and I nodded in agreement. “Anybody’s capable of having any one of these traits as part of his or her personality,” she warned.
Mom continued, “I tried to shift the world if something was going on that I didn’t like–that was part of the dream–to stymie the evil that was going on and propel the justice. I was the controller–that kind of person. It was terribly hard sometimes to stymie the evil and to promote the good. I was having a terrible time last night.”
“To stymie the evil and promote the good.” So was Jesus’ journey into Jerusalem, where he challenged both treachery and confusion. In gentleness he wept for the city. In creativity he washed his disciples’ feet, using his hands to indelibly impress a lesson about humble service into their very muscles and sinews. In perseverance he stood before Pilate, accused yet blameless, captive yet free.
Disciples of Jesus are called throughout the ages to follow him where he leads. “To stymie the evil and promote the good,” to be faithful to God at all costs isn’t an easy journey. That confession of my mom–-it was so hard, I was having a terrible time last night–-rings in my ears to this day, just the way she said it.
Holy Week is a hard journey, but it ends in glory. Where evil seems to triumph, good has the last word. In the wake of despair, hope is reborn. Where there is death, resurrection follows. Let us take heart as these truths take hold of us. Amen.
Peggy Malone tells us that hearing is the final sense to go, to always assume that a person in a coma can hear. So it was, on Palm Sunday, my bedridden mother that could neither move herself, feed herself, nor speak, responded to the nursing home Chaplain as he cheerfully made his Palm Sunday rounds.
“Good afternoon, Ruth!” he said in a strong, inviting voice. I could tell he had been there many times over the past year by his familiarity of tone. My mom’s eyes turned a tiny, tiny bit. He continued, “I brought something for you. It’s Palm Sunday, you know!”
The chaplain held up a little cross made of reeds. The corner of mom’s mouth moved ever so slightly. A tear dampened one eye. She was ready to remember this day, the start of Holy Week, as best she could.
This story seems symbolic to me as we take this journey with Jesus that begins at his entrance into Jerusalem, continues to a cross, and culminates in an empty tomb. Into the darkness of terminal illness comes the light of a simple, reed cross. Into the darkness of impending betrayal and arrest come the praises of children, too innocent and trusting to imagine what is to come.
This past week, I have read through all four Gospel accounts of the events between what has historically been considered “The Triumphal Procession” and the betrayed by Judas. In this process, I have been forced to ask the question, “Why has Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem ever been coined “a triumphal procession?”
First off, Jesus doesn’t plan a parade for himself. That is the stuff of dictators and other politicos careful to control appearances. Jesus doesn’t hand-pick his audience, or even care if there is one. His main purpose is getting into Jerusalem. The crowd gathers and erupts as it tends to do whenever Jesus is nearby. This may be a much more loaded public appearance than most for Jesus, but enthusiastic crowds are nothing new for him.
When Jesus sets his face toward Jerusalem, he makes a dangerous decision. His disciple, Peter, tries to talk him out of it. Jesus rebukes him forcefully, saying, “Get behind me, Satan!” (Matthew 16:21-23) His own brothers taunt him and challenge him to travel to Judea sooner than Jesus believes he should. He flatly refuses (John 7:1-9). When Jesus asks his disciples to go get that donkey waiting for him, the moment has finally come.
In her powerful sermon, Palm Sunday is always happening, Kathy Galloway notes that Jesus rides into Jerusalem as a non-combatant (from Eggs and ashes: Practical & liturgical resources for Lent and Holy Week, by Ruth Burgess & Chris Polhill, 2004, Wild Goose Publications). He mounts no stallion and wears no armor. He carries no sword nor club. Neither does he arm his male disciples, who become so afraid to be associated with him as the week wears on that they eventually flee in fear.
The crowds are looking for a military leader who will overthrow the Roman oppressors and set Israel free, a King who will establish justice and righteousness by the power of force. They are restless and tired; they are ready for freedom and unity.
Some are hopeful that the One they are waiting for is Jesus. “Is he the Messiah?” they ask one another. Others fear the popularity of Jesus. “Look how the people all run after him,” they complain. Some are determined that Jesus will never succeed. “He is a blasphemer, a follower of Satan!” they proclaim.
Why has the Christian Church ever come to celebrate this journey into Jerusalem as a “triumphal” procession? The more I ponder the events of that day and the next, it seems like the mixture of a funeral march and Oberlin’s Big Parade. Spontaneous outbursts of joy and incredible sorrow mingle that day.
In Luke’s Gospel, what does Jesus do as he enters the city? He weeps over it. He sees so clearly its future destruction, the horrors pregnant and nursing mothers will face at that time. His heart breaks for his people.
What follows this processional into Jerusalem in the Gospel of Matthew? The spontaneous cleansing of the Temple--the agony of God outpoured in the breaking of tables, the rustle of escaped pigeons, and the bleating of scattered sheep. “My house shall be called a house of prayer, and you have made it a den of thieves!” Jesus cries out (Matthew 21:12-14).
The heart of God is laid bare for all to see.
On one of my mother’s final days of verbal communication, she shared a dream that she had the night before. I was there with our oldest daughter, Sarah. Thank God that Sarah is a scholar and compulsively takes notes wherever she goes. She grabbed a pen as my mother spoke and recorded this most amazing dream.
At the time, my mom was only feeding herself intermittently and communicating haltingly. She was incapable of moving her legs or torso on her own. She was living daily with excruciating pain due to severe allergies to pain medications combined with her profound determination to keep her mind as long as she could. The medical staff told me, “If we medicated her pain as much as she needs, she would be in a coma all the time.”
The protagonist in the dream is mom. God has put her in charge of the world, “to keep it moving, to propel it forward.” Evil is present, embodied in treachery and confusion or deception. Good is also present, embodied in gentleness, creativity, and perseverance–“and we’ve got that [perseverance] down” she added, as Sarah and I nodded in agreement. “Anybody’s capable of having any one of these traits as part of his or her personality,” she warned.
Mom continued, “I tried to shift the world if something was going on that I didn’t like–that was part of the dream–to stymie the evil that was going on and propel the justice. I was the controller–that kind of person. It was terribly hard sometimes to stymie the evil and to promote the good. I was having a terrible time last night.”
“To stymie the evil and promote the good.” So was Jesus’ journey into Jerusalem, where he challenged both treachery and confusion. In gentleness he wept for the city. In creativity he washed his disciples’ feet, using his hands to indelibly impress a lesson about humble service into their very muscles and sinews. In perseverance he stood before Pilate, accused yet blameless, captive yet free.
Disciples of Jesus are called throughout the ages to follow him where he leads. “To stymie the evil and promote the good,” to be faithful to God at all costs isn’t an easy journey. That confession of my mom–-it was so hard, I was having a terrible time last night–-rings in my ears to this day, just the way she said it.
Holy Week is a hard journey, but it ends in glory. Where evil seems to triumph, good has the last word. In the wake of despair, hope is reborn. Where there is death, resurrection follows. Let us take heart as these truths take hold of us. Amen.