Palm Sunday

 Palm Sunday 2023

Mt 21.1-11, Psalm 118

I wonder whether you have ever been part of a procession or a march?

They come in many shapes and sizes. Small processions like those we start our morning worship in church with, that simply signal that the service is about to begin, or vast protest marches that snake their way through the streets in one cause or another. They can be joyful celebrations, like the Notting Hill Carnival or a Pride March, or they can be dark, threatening events, designed to spread hatred and violence. They can be secular or religious in intent, like the procession Philip and I went to see a few years ago in Sardinia, where, every year, thousands of local people process the statue of their patron saint, Ephisio, through the streets of Cagliari, and on out to the place where he was martyred in the fourth century. It's a great spectacle, with the traditional costumes and decorated ox-carts, but it’s also an act of worship; they pray the rosary as they walk.

What unites all these marches is that they aren’t just about getting from A to B. It’s no accident that some of them are called demonstrations. They are meant to convey a message, to demonstrate something to the onlookers. There is usually at least some level of planning and organisation, placards, slogans, banners, music, symbolism or ritual to underline what they are trying to say. 

It’s just the same in today’s Gospel reading. When Jesus comes riding into Jerusalem on a donkey, he knows exactly what he’s doing, and what effect it’s likely to have. 

The details matter. Jesus rides in on a donkey, in fact, according to Matthew, he rides on the colt of a donkey too, which is a bit hard to imagine. It may just be Matthew’s invention, because the other Gospels don’t mention it, but it’s possible that Jesus did indeed seek out a donkey with a foal, because he is very deliberately trying to echo what would then have been a well-known prophecy from the prophet Zechariah, written hundreds of  years before, which said that God’s Messiah, the new King who would deliver his people from oppression,  would come “humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey”. The repetition was really just intended to emphasize the humility of this king, but maybe Matthew, or Jesus, decided to take it literally, so no one could miss the point. And whether it’s one animal or two, the fact is that Jesus could just as easily have walked the short distance from the Mount of Olives into Jerusalem, but he didn’t, because he wanted people to be in no doubt about the claim he was making, to be the one who was coming “in the name of the Lord!” The very deliberate message of his actions obviously had the desired effect. The crowd went wild. Freedom was coming. God was on the move. 

But this rather strange procession wasn’t the only one happening in Jerusalem at this time. The Roman Army was also on the move. This all takes place about a week before Passover. Thousands of Jewish people were gathering in Jerusalem, from all over Judea and Galilee, and from Jewish communities all around the Mediterranean. Religious and political feelings always ran high at this time of year. So, the Roman Governor, Pontius Pilate, not only sent troops from his base in Caesarea Maritima on the coast to police Jerusalem, but came himself too. He wanted to make sure that everyone knew that Rome was watching them. He didn’t just amble into Jerusalem with his soldiers. He knew the optics mattered. He had to have a procession too, one which would strike fear into the hearts of those who saw it; the sunshine gleaming off armour and weapons; the fine war horses;  the chariots; the clank of swords and spears and shields and many marching feet. Don’t mess with Rome, was the message. We are the ones with power. 

The Romans, just like empire builders throughout the ages, made much of the idea that they were bringers of peace, saviours. They were there to save people from warfare with their neighbours, to save them from barbarism, to save them from themselves. But their form of salvation came at a huge cost. The Pax Romana – the Roman Peace – was won by brutally suppressing anyone who didn’t want to be part of it. 

Rome had all the power. It held all the cards, as these two processions made their way into Jerusalem. And yet, it’s Jesus who gets the Hosannas, not Pilate. Hosanna is a Hebrew word that means “save us”. You only cry “save us” to someone you think can save you. But how do they think Jesus can do so? A man on a donkey, with a handful of followers, and unlikely ones at that; fishermen and tax collectors, women, the poor, the marginalised, people with no influence, never mind any armour. And yet, says the story, this is what salvation really looks like. Not swords and spears, not wealth and worldly power, but love and humility and service which draws people together and gives dignity to everyone. 

Perhaps as they acclaim him, they might have today’s Psalm running through their minds. Psalm 118 is one of a group of Psalms known as the Hallel psalms –Psalms 113 -118.  Hallel means praise, and these praise psalms were particularly sung at Passover. They tell of God’s saving action towards his people, salvation which they saw at work in their history, and in their daily lives, rather than salvation that came only after death. The psalms reminded them of the God who saved them from Egyptian slavery, the God who sees and helps the poor and needy, the God whose “steadfast love endures forever”.  In the words of Psalm 118 God brings his people into a “broad place”, a place where there is room for them, where they can thrive. “It is better to take refuge in the Lord,” says the Psalm “than to put confidence in princes”, and although it may look as if you are defeated, “pushed hard, so that [you were] falling”, in the end, God will carry you through.

Of course, many of those who shouted Hosanna – save us – at Jesus would melt away when he was arrested and killed later in the same week. It’s hard to believe that love is stronger than hatred when you are confronted with the overwhelming brutality of crucifixion. But at this moment, at least, they caught a glimpse of the message that the God who had saved them from slavery could save them again, even if his salvation looked very different from that on offer from Rome. That message wouldn’t be confirmed until after the resurrection, but this was a foretaste of it.

Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem wasn’t just a challenge to the authorities, it was a challenge to all of us, asking us what salvation looks like to us, and where we look for it. Salvation is really just another name for security or safety, something we all hunger for. We all want to feel safe, and it’s tempting to try to find security through money, power or popularity, but these can be dangerous illusions, and clinging onto them for dear life often damages others as well as ourselves, and ultimately, it doesn’t work. We can’t make ourselves safe in a world that is so often uncertain and frightening, where the threats are far beyond our power to control.

This story tells us, though, that ultimately, the security we crave, which causes us to cry out “hosanna” – save us - can only come when we put ourselves into God’s hands, and learn to live in the “broad place” of his generous love. Receiving that love and sharing that love, is what carries us safely together through all the world can throw at us, just as it did for Jesus.  

Amen