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Well, here we go: the church’s annual soul-churning, week-long emotional roller coaster ride. It begins today, a day of ironies and paradoxes, of parallels and reversals.
Today we begin on a high note. I find it thrilling to enter into the scene in which Jesus rides triumphantly into Jerusalem, greeted by an ecstatic crowd, as king. I love the hosannas, the crowd hailing the Son of David. Don’t you?
At the same time, I’ve always found this a tough day, a tense day, because we all know that the throng that shouts hosannas today will, in only a few days’ time, be calling for Jesus’ blood. The fickleness of the crowd sets my teeth on edge. Mostly because, in their inconstancy, I see my own.
Jesus knows how this is going to go. Even as he rides into the city to the acclaim of the crowds, Jesus is already weeping for Jerusalem; we hear it in the section right after our reading in Luke’s gospel. “Jerusalem, if you had only known, on this your day, the way to peace.”
But they don’t. So Jesus rides into this week that gives us spiritual whiplash 2000 years later. He knows what’s coming: betrayal, abandonment, injustice, public humiliation, heartbreak, body-break, and finally death. And yet, he makes it to the very end saying, not “Father, smite them back to the Stone Age, for they know exactly what they’re doing,” but “Father, forgive them; they don’t know what they’re doing.” How does Jesus get through this week with such steadiness of spirit?
I think it’s because he is utterly secure in who he is. So today I want to talk about identity and the reversals of life. But before we get into that, I want to take a moment for some setting of the scene, and getting a feel for some of those ironies, parallels, and paradoxes.
You may have heard this one before: There’s a bit of street theater going on here. The procession led into Jerusalem from the east by Jesus is, both geographically and theologically, the opposite to the procession led by Pilate into the city from the west. The theologies underlying them are radically different. Pilate represents Caesar, and Caesar, they used to say, “is Lord.” Julius Caesar was declared a god, and his son Augustus, along with subsequent emperors, was considered the “son of God.” When the first Christians said “Jesus is Lord,” and called him the “Son of God,” they were engaging in an act of political defiance that cost many of them their lives.
Another parallel: Jesus is going to “empty himself,” or “pour himself out,” as the Philippians reading tells us. The day before he rode into Jerusalem, Mary of Bethany “poured out” her self, her love, in the form of costly perfume, on Jesus’ feet (or possibly his head)—preparing him, as he said, for his burial.
And another one: members of the crowd threw palms and their cloaks on the ground before Jesus as he approached. Cloaks symbolize power and authority: think of Elijah throwing his cloak to Elisha as he turns over his prophetic ministry to him, the “mantle” of authority. And in 2 Kings (9:13), when the reformer king Jehu was anointed king of Israel, the people threw their cloaks down before him, as a way of honoring him, and acknowledging his authority.
Meanwhile, Pilate processed into the city with his legions: charioteers, horsemen, and foot soldiers. Jesus rides into the city on a young donkey, defended by nothing but his authentic self.
So let’s talk about that self. It had been affirmed in the signs at his birth; I don’t imagine Jesus remembered all that, though he was probably told about it. The sign that really set things in motion was at his baptism: there’s a voice from heaven that says: “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.”
What happens next? He goes out into the desert, and the tempter takes aim exactly at his identity: “IF you are the Son of God…grab at safety and security. IF you’re the Son of God, get people praising you. IF you’re the Son of God, make a grab for power. If, if, if.” “These are the things people use, Jesus, to prop themselves up. You’re human, right? Use them!”
Through his whole career Jesus will experience the fickleness of people and of fortune. One reversal quickly follows another: he preaches to huge crowds, and is rejected in his home town synagogue. He casts out demons, only to be told he himself has a demon. He heals the sick only to be rebuked for doing it on the Sabbath.
Up and down, up and down, the Wheel of Fortune keeps turning. But Jesus knows the secret of the wheel: the only ones who are jerked around by it are the ones on the rim. If you’re at the center, everything stays steady—and you can too. The center is where Jesus knows himself as God’s beloved, and no one and nothing can change that. There will be many reversals of fortune: the crowd with the hosannas will soon be replaced by the crowd calling, “Crucify him!” But Jesus knows this is coming. And he stays at the center, rooted in his identity as God’s beloved. And we can, too.
The difference between Jesus and us is that he kept the externals…external. He didn’t bring them in, didn’t build his sense of self on things that will certainly change and may collapse completely. That’s the way of the world, the world Pilate represents. But as Jesus rides into the other side of Jerusalem, he represents a different kind of kingdom, a different God, a different way.
This week will be a roller coaster ride. But aren’t we feeling these days like we’re already on a roller coaster? I mean, no matter where we are personally, it’s a ride. It’s at times like these that we need to live secure in the knowledge of who we are: God’s own beloved. There is no other way to weather what’s ahead. But the good news is: this way is certain. It is what Jesus called “the way to peace.” And we can, and we will, walk it together.