"Two Kingdoms...Two Parades"

Ever since I was a child I have loved Palm Sunday, which makes this homebound Palm Sunday all the more bittersweet for me.

 

I loved Palm Sunday for all the reasons one might expect a child to love Palm Sunday: kids carrying palm branches on parade, singing joyful hymns, and shouting "Hosanna!" I think I even saw a donkey once in church. Or perhaps I just like to remember that I did. But I wonder what that child of yesteryear actually knew about Palm Sunday?

 

For that matter, I wonder if the meaning of Palm Sunday is any clearer for adults? Most people seem to know that Palm Sunday marks the beginning of Holy Week. Indeed, the more liturgically astute among us might also notice the glaring contrast between the exuberant acclamations of "Hosanna!" and the shocking shouts of "Crucify him!" in the readings appointed for the day.

 

But even these adult observations do not answer the obvious questions surrounding this day: What was really happening on that first Palm Sunday? What did Jesus expect to gain by orchestrating this bizarre spectacle? And why would he acquiesce to the crowd's open acclamation of him as Israel's long-anticipated king?

 

In their book,  The Last Week: What the Gospels Really Teach About Jesus' Last Days in Jerusalem (2007), Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan, fittingly point to another procession that would have taken place around the same time; a week, perhaps only a few days, before Jesus' own procession. Each year the Roman governor of Judea (in this case, Pontius Pilate) would make his way up from the coast to Jerusalem just prior to Passover. Meanwhile, tens of thousands of Jews would be congregating for the feast that commemorated their ancient exodus from Egypt. Borg and Crossan set the scene:

 

"A visual panoply of imperial power: cavalry on horses, foot soldiers, leather armor, helmets, weapons, banners, golden eagles mounted on poles, sun glinting on metal and gold. Sounds: the marching of feet, the creaking of leather, the clinking of bridles, the beating of drums, the swirling of dust. The eyes of silent onlookers, some curious, some awed, some resentful."

 

The Jews came to Jerusalem during this feast to acclaim Yahweh as their Sovereign Deliverer. The Romans came to remind the Jews of who was now in charge. As Crossan observes elsewhere, "There was a human being in the first century who was called 'Divine,' 'Son of God,' 'God,' and 'God from God,' whose titles were 'Lord,' 'Redeemer,' 'Liberator,' and 'Saviour of the World'" ( God and Empire: Jesus Against Rome, Then and Now, 2007). Modern Christians could hardly be faulted for assuming that Crossan speaks of Jesus, but they would be mistaken. His point is that these were titles that belonged to Caesar Augustus before they were ever ascribed to Jesus, indeed before Jesus was even born! 

 

Once we grasp the theological and political force behind Pilate's military parade into Jerusalem we can perhaps begin to see what Jesus' own parade was all about. Meek and mild, riding into the city on the "most un-military mount imaginable" - a nursing female donkey with her colt - Jesus' "triumphal entry" has all the appearance of political theater, a lampoon against imperial aims, a parody meant to challenge not only the Roman Empire, but every human kingdom and system that relies on violence and oppression to control its subjects and to defeat its would-be usurpers.

 

For these reasons, Borg and Crossan are quick to dismiss the New Testament picture of Pontius Pilate as an unwilling participant in Jesus' crucifixion, seeing this instead as an early Christian attempt to rehabilitate Pilate for the purpose of appealing to potential Roman converts. But I think this conclusion is a little hasty. Even today, politicians can often be obtuse to satire aimed in their direction, particularly if it is subtle. Reports of strange religious processions might make their way back to Pilate, but this was Passover, and Jesus was not leading an armed insurrection, but rather a parade hardly worth noting. 

 

Nor were the crowds necessarily in on the joke. To them Jesus was the picture perfect fulfillment of the prophet Zechariah's description of Israel's king riding in on a donkey, the foal of a donkey (Zechariah 9:9). Even Jesus' own disciples seem to have been blissfully unaware of what was happening. 

But, make no mistake about it, Jesus knew what he was doing, and he knew what it would cost him. So did those who actively sought his destruction. At his trial before Pilate, the chief priests and elders accused Jesus of claiming to be the "King of the Jews." In short, they charged him with sedition against Rome, a capital offense. Contrary to popular belief, crucifixion was not Rome's preferred means of capital punishment. It was reserved for the most egregious of crimes.

 

For those who struggle with the question of why Jesus had to die, or how Jesus' death fits into God's plan, Palm Sunday offers, as the all-important clue, a contrast between two kinds of kingdoms on parade: the one that Jesus taught and lived - a kingdom of peace, of justice, of radical inclusion of the disenfranchised; and the worldly kind that conquers by force and maintains its rule by the threat of death. 

 

So why did Jesus die? He died to expose the injustices and inequities of all human kingdoms, and, perhaps, as well, to expose the pride, prejudices, and hardness of our own hearts. These two kingdoms simply cannot co-exist.  Even though he knew it would cost him his life, he mounted a donkey and took Rome for a ride. Today, our own Palm Sunday parades and shouts of "Hosanna" are obviously far less risky. But even so, I wonder if we dare take them so casually.