It had been a long walk
of many days under the warm spring sun. But he was used to walking.
Most of his walking – most of their walking – was from village to
village in the same small region around the edges of the lake.
Seldom did they take such a long journey away from Galilee. But the
Passover was drawing very near. Everyone wanted to be near the
temple for it. And so, for his own reasons, did he. So he, and
those with him, set out on foot. But because he'd earned a
reputation, it was not possible for it to be a quiet journey. There
would be many pit stops along the way, many occasions to slow down
and catch his breath.
There was one village,
early on, that he'd walked through. A pack of lepers lived outside.
They'd stood by the side of the road and called out to him, asking
for divine mercy from this man who set the world abuzz. He'd bade
them go get a check-up, and hinted they'd find themselves cleared at
last of all that ailed them. And then he continued on his way. But
only nine of them went through with the physical right away; one
caught up with him before he left town, shouting how great this God
must be, how he'd been moved with compassion by a poor leper's
plight. It was the first of many shouts along a not-so-quiet journey
(Luke 17:11-19).
He'd kept walking along
the road. No time to stop for too long – just overnight here and
there, but the day had to see movement. He hadn't been alone on the
road. His dearest friends, his students, were all with him – the
ones who tagged along with him everywhere, watching his every move,
imitating what they could. But others wanted to go to the big city,
too, for the festival. Tall folks and short folks, slim folks and
round folks, menfolk and womenfolk and li'l young-folk, too. Even
Pharisee-folk were on the way. Some of them fell in alongside him as
he walked, asking questions about these things he'd been saying. But
mostly he talked to his best friends; the rest could listen in as
they pleased. He talked about a divine inspection, a visitation of
the earth – would he find anybody who still trusted him? He talked
about how God values the humble tears of a hopeless wreck over the
applause of the squeaky clean; how God's favorites aren't the
accomplished but the helpless, not the well-adjusted but the loud and
messy who're quick to trust, like little kids (Luke 17:20—18:17).
Others fell in alongside
him on the road, but – like them Pharisee-folk – only for a
little while. There was a rich fellow, not too old, a synagogue
trustee in his town. The fellow lived a good life; he did lots well,
but he was hoping more for a pat on the back than an adventure with a
price tag. The fellow didn't walk the road with this teacher man for
long (Luke 18:18-30).
The dusty road wound its
way for all the pilgrims through the oldest town they knew. Normally
the far side of town was a quiet one. Dusk was getting near; all the
inns were open for business. This was the rush of tourist season.
Outside town, a fellow who couldn't work, couldn't earn, couldn't
see, started yelling for help. He yelled for help from the man
walking the road. The parade had paused for his sake. And the man
on the road helped the fellow to see. And the fellow shouted, and
the whole parade shouted, all the road was full of shouting. Town
was overtaken with noise and festivity that night. A little man, an
oppressor hiding in a tree, would play host to the man and his
friends – this was, after all, what the man was all about, rescuing
folks from themselves, hunting them down when they'd lost track of
what they were for (Luke 18:35—19:10).
That was last night.
This morning, the whole parade kept marching up the winding road
through the cliffs and cracks. Safety in numbers. And they made
quite the racket, singing and clapping. What a day it was, no clouds
in the sky, a light breeze all around. And everyone wanted to be
close to this man – this Jesus – and his best friends. They knew
what they'd seen. This was no ordinary trip, no ordinary festival.
The host of the party was on his way. So when they reached a couple
little villages, separated by a small mountain from their
destination, he sent a couple friends ahead to fetch an unbroken
colt. He was going to announce, without any words, what he was all
about: the appearance of Yahweh in the middle of his city, to protect
them and throw them a party, replacing warfare with peace from coast
to coast (Zechariah 9:9-17).
Up they went, over the
hill, and down the other side they started. The whole parade surged,
and as other road-travelers saw him, they sang their songs louder.
They ripped off their coats and robes and threw them under the hooves
that carried him. And this Jesus rode with no outward show but their
celebration. All his friends, all his students, all the folks who'd
decided to walk the road with him – they sang and they danced, they
went ahead and waved palm branches and fruit, they talked about what
they'd seen. The beggar was there, shouting, “I was blind but now
I see!” The tax collector was there, crying out, “Salvation came
to my house – it's him, it's him!” Men and women and little kids
sang, “Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the LORD!
Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!” It was time for
everything to change, they sang. It was time to party.
So they partied. Before
they even got to the venue, they partied. The party parade marched
toward the big city, overwhelming and sweeping along scattered
pilgrim troops along the way over the crest of the hill. Folks here
and there along the side of the road must have heard the raucous
ruckus long before they saw a glimpse. As for this Jesus, he was no
mere man. He was the king. He was the god – he was the face of
the God who owned it all. He was Yahweh on the march. He was here
to review things, to make his sudden move. But he was also here –
and the parade saw it loud and clear – for a party. That's why
they blessed him.
Bearing Yahweh's name on
his shoulders, he was coming to throw all Jerusalem a surprise party,
a party nothing could break up. He was coming to snap the bars in
every jail, haul folks up from the deepest holes, so they could join
in the party. He was coming to protect everybody, gather them under
his umbrella from the rain, shelter them like a mama hen shields her
chicks with her wings. And safe from the rain and wind under a mama
hen's wings, the chicks can peep and chirp to their heart's content.
Their God had come near to shelter them, to be with them, to break
out the good stuff and fill their cups to running over. Their God
had come to throw them a surprise party. He was on his way for the
big reunion. So there was no time to be quiet. The party was
already underway (Luke 19:28-38; cf. Zechariah 9:9-12, 15-17; Matthew
23:37).
That's the part of today
we usually remember. The donkey. The coats. The waving branches.
The singing and shouting. The blessing and praising. The triumph.
The celebration. The applause and the hootin' and the hollerin'. Not
for nothing do we call it Palm Sunday. But there's more to today
than the palms and the cloaks and the donkey. It's been a long trip
from Galilee. The roads are dusty and crowded. But there's more to
come. How is this party-on-the-move received? It is festival time,
after all. The sudden appearance of the host is the surprise; the
time set for the party, the sounds and smells of the party, shouldn't
be.
And yet there, along the
side of the road, are some Pharisee-folk from town. The experts.
The neighborhood watch. The zoning board. The homeowners'
association. And they have something to say about this party:
“Teacher, rebuke your disciples”
(Luke 19:39). God came to throw them a party. They bang on the door
and warn God they're filing a noise complaint, and his guests better
pipe down. They throw cold water on all the festivities. They want
things safe and orderly, nice and domesticated. They want business
as usual. They want their customs, their liturgy, without
disruptions. They want a quiet meal in the corner of a candlelit
restaurant – and they don't want this kind of God or his riffraff
at their table. Jerusalem is no place for such a party.
As
the parade descends further the crest of the hill, the whole city is
spread out before them. The palm branches still wave. The songs
still go up. But not from the God on the donkey. He isn't quiet.
But he also isn't singing psalms. He sees the city and sings a
different tune – a lament. He takes his mind off the prophet
Zechariah and turns it to the prophet Jeremiah. And so the God on
the donkey, praised by the whole pilgrim band, begins to sob. Tears
get tangled in his beard. His cheeks are salty and wet. Do the
disciples catch on, or do they keep up their oblivious songs? He
sobs over a ruined reunion. He sobs over a crashed party. He looks
down on the city and sees that she's in no mood for his party, the
party that's been centuries and millennia in the planning.
He
looks down on the city and sobs with his old prophet, “Run
to and fro through the streets of Jerusalem, look and take note!
Search her squares to see if you can find a man, one who does justice
and seeks truth.” He sobs,
“They do not know the way of the LORD.”
He sobs words about their “stubborn and rebellious
heart.” He sobs about how
“their houses are full of deceit,”
how “they know no bounds in deeds of evil,”
how within the city walls their “prophets prophesy
falsely, and the priests rule at their direction; my people love to
have it so, but what will you do when the end comes?”
(Jeremiah 5:1-31).
He
sobs that the city hasn't recognized the party, hasn't recognized the
day of her divine visitation, hasn't recognized the king who comes
with salvation and peace. He sobs at what's going to come – how
she's going to get herself into nothing but trouble, how she'll be
taken apart piece by piece, how blood and fire will run her streets.
He wants nothing but to protect her and wrap her in his arms and hug
her close, wants nothing but to celebrate with her and soak her cups
in his wine and party her into paradise. But she won't, this city;
she won't make peace, she won't listen, she won't sing for him, she
won't dance for him, she won't do anything but give him a cold
shoulder and the stink-eye.
He
sobs, “From the least to the greatest of them, everyone
is greedy for unjust gain; and from prophet to priest, everyone deals
falsely. They have healed the wound of my people lightly, saying,
'Peace, peace,' when there is no peace. Were they ashamed when they
committed abomination? No, they were not at all ashamed; they did
not know how to blush”
(Jeremiah 6:13-15). And so he sobs, he weeps, for them. It won't be
long before the armies of Rome “set up a barricade around
you and surround you and hem you in on every side and tear you down
to the ground, you and your children within you; and they will not
leave one stone upon another in you”
(Luke 19:43-44).
And
he sobs, he moans, he weeps, he groans, over the city (Luke 19:41).
The party showed up on their front door, and they were unimpressed.
They looked their God in the face and hadn't the foggiest clue who he
was. They didn't want to know. The beggar shouted, “I was blind,
but now I see!” But the city had their eyes wide shut. The tax
collector was amazed salvation had come to his house. Salvation came
to every house in the city, but the doors were locked, and the signs
out front by the fence said, 'No solicitors,' 'Beware of dog,'
'Trespassers will be shot.' The city was rotten to its core. The
Pharisees and other sectarians, those phony prophets who twisted
God's liberating life-wisdom into an enslaving rule compendium, Vol.
1 of 613, prophesied falsely; and the corrupt priests in the temple
establishment ruled by their direction, straining out gnats and
cramming their mouths with camels.
In
this city, they were addicted to their ways. Addicted to their sins.
Addicted to their injustice. Addicted to their falsehood. Addicted to their greed. Addicted
to their pride. Addicted to their social order. Addicted to their
business as usual. So the way to real peace and wholeness was hidden
from their eyes (Luke 19:42). They didn't know it when it tapped
them on the shoulder, didn't know it when it blew a trumpet in their
ear, didn't know it when it smacked them in the face with a palm
branch. They couldn't see their God on the donkey. They didn't want
his kind of party. They stared their God in the face and ordered him
to get off their lawn.
And
so he sobbed, knowing how starved and joyless they'd be without him,
how much they preferred blindness to sight and lostness to being
found. His heart was broken over them – each and every last one.
Palm Sunday was not merely the day Yahweh God of Hosts rode into
Jerusalem's midst amidst shouts of hosanna. Palm Sunday was the day
Jerusalem made her God weep tears of grief and pain, so broken was
the heart of her Maker. And without his party, destruction loomed
inevitable.
How
different, though, are we? Because in every human heart, in the
depths of each created soul, God planned a holy city. And none of
our hearts and souls has God neglected to visit. Time and again, in
many various ways and on many various occasions, this God has ridden
his donkey of peace and humility to the gateways of your heart and
shouted, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock”
(Revelation 3:20). In the person of the hungry, the thirsty, the
homeless, the unclothed, the imprisoned, the outcast, the refugee,
the stranger, God has ridden his donkey and bid us open the gates.
In the circumstances of fire and trial, in the days of ease and
luxury, the God of Love has ridden his donkey to our hearts and bid
us join in his songs.
So
often, though, have we put up a sign at our hearts: 'No solicitors.'
'Beware of dog.' 'Trespassers will be shot.' So often have we found
God's kind of party too noisy, too messy. We worry he'll litter up
the place. We worry he'll draw too much attention. We worry he'll
disturb our sleep and our comfort. We worry he'll crowd the town
with tax collectors and sinners, beggars and lepers, foreigners and
deviants and all manner of riffraff. We worry he'll eat us out of
house and home. We worry he'll call us to lay down our weapons and
our agendas, our vision and our ambition and our plans – not to
mention our peace and quiet.
So
we don't recognize him when he comes. We don't recognize his party,
and we don't want it; we cling to sin, we embrace sin, we make our
bed in sin and lie down in it. We want our share of 'unjust gain' –
of property, of ease, of health and wealth, of reputation and power
and dignity. We want the prophecies of quiet prophets and the
ministrations of quiet priests. We want affirmation as we are.
We
want to hear 'Peace, peace' as we grab our pitchforks. We want to
hear 'Peace, peace' as we resent our parents and brothers and sisters
and children. We want to hear 'Peace, peace' as we keep a loose grip
on each other but a tight grasp on a grudge. We want to hear 'Peace,
peace' as we guzzle the resources of the earth. We want to hear
'Peace, peace' as we clock in to our daily 9-to-5 grind. We want to
hear 'Peace, peace' as we gift our children our hand-me-down idols.
We want to hear 'Peace, peace' as we retire and collect our pensions
and our Social Security. We want to hear 'Peace, peace' as we watch
the news and get angry and feel good about ourselves for being angry
at all the right things. We want to hear 'Peace, peace' as we sit
alone behind our cloistered walls, shielded from our neighbors. We
want to hear 'Peace, peace' as we tend our little gardens and walk
our little streets and shop at our little shops and eat at our little
restaurants and go back to our little homes.
So
we're happy to hear 'Peace, peace.' We're happy to have our deep
wounds “healed lightly”
by conventional living and the American way and the spirit of the age
in the twenty-first century. But such a spirit is no peace, no
matter the 'Peace, peace' of the prophets of You're-OK-I'm-OK. We
want to hear 'Peace, peace,' and shun the prophet proclaiming,
'Party, party, for the good of your soul!'
And
this God on the donkey comes partying to the door of your heart, he
comes when you least expect him, he comes when you thought he'd look
so different, he comes at a bad time, he comes with a crowd, he comes
with an eye for faith, he comes with a racket rising up all around
him, he comes stirring up dust and stirring the pot. He comes with a
zealous love that blazes and smolders and burns down the life we
built. He totes a chisel, a pick-axe, a jackhammer to crack the
concrete we paved over Eden's grasslands. He comes with a torch and
a flashlight to shine in our eyes, comes with a party horn to blow in
our ears, comes with mud on his shoes and grit on his palms, comes
with a thousand songs you've never heard, comes with a fragrance in
his lungs that'll sweeten death to life or melt your face off, if you
catch a whiff.
And
we don't recognize him. We post the signs. We pull down the shades.
We lock the doors. We warn him to get off our lawns. We file a
complaint. We turn out the lights he turned on. But he saw us
anyway. He looked down over us, and every pocket of resistance was
laid bare in an instant. He saw the corruption filling us, the
corruption we can't see ourselves because we can't have an aerial
view of our own souls. He inspected us from the inside, and his
report was not promising. Will he find faith anywhere on the earth?
Will he find it in you? Is your heart, is your soul, is your life
place for such a party?
This
God on the donkey brought his party to your door. But in every sin
you protested. In every slowness of love, in every slackness of
faith, in every smallness of hospitality, you put up a sign. And for
all he saw in you, he wept. Hast thou no wonder, that he shed those
tears for thee? For you, he sobbed. For you, he moaned. For you,
he wept. For you, he groaned. He took a gander at what was in you,
what was lurking in your shadows, what shady business was going down
in the back alleys of your heart, and God wailed and shrieked and
sobbed. Because he came for a long-awaited party, and so often have
we ruined the reunion, spoiled the surprise, taken the sweetness out
of the moment, sounded the wrong note and wrecked the melody. What
can we do? What is there to do on the day God cries over you, cries
because all he wants to do is set you free and be with you and wrap
you in his arms and give you real peace and throw you a party? On
the day God weeps for your sins, weep with him – and watch, this
week, what he'll do.
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