(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on Mar 20, 2016, Palm Sunday)
-----
“Just Think of All the Adventures”
“Can we keep him?” one of the kids asks. “He’s been hanging around our house for weeks now.” The mother remains quiet. This is a delicate matter. The kids have always wanted a pet, but do they really understand the responsibility that a pet would mean? “See how well-behaved he is?” the child appeals. “He purrs when you pet him.” The mother tilts her head, trying to find the right response. The child continues, “And he’ll make life funner. He’ll do silly things that make us laugh. When it gets boring, he’ll surprise us. And we’ll have all sorts of adventures together.”
“Well”—the mother finally ventures to speak—“I can see how excited you are about all the possibilities of having a pet. But all those possibilities are exactly why we need to be careful. Even if he is fun and well behaved, there are many possibilities about him that we are not prepared for. Having a pet means big changes: feeding him, changing his litter box, taking him to the vet when he’s sick. And those adventures that you’re imagining—they might not all be fun.”
“Are you saying no?” the child pouts. Slowly the mother nods, “At least for now. Maybe when you’re a bit older, and your dad and I have more time, we can reconsider.”
Tales of Mixed Welcome
It’s a familiar conversation, and chances are, sometime in your life you’ve been on one side or the other of it. Sometimes, as a compromise, a family will sort of adopt a stray animal: they’ll put food outside, tolerate its napping on the back porch, and maybe even allow it indoors during a bad storm. They offer it hospitality—but only up to a point. Only up to the point where it requires little change, little responsibility on the family’s behalf. Up to the point where it doesn’t become a threat or risk to the family’s lifestyle. But as soon as the stray animal trespasses against the family’s personal time or invades its personal space, it is rejected.
In a curious way, it’s a bit like today’s scripture. The tale of our stray cat and Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem are both stories of mixed welcome. Both are stories of just where the line is drawn, just how far hospitality is extended.
Jesus and Jerusalem
At first glance, Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem is modest enough, even humble. Like the stray who’s content to hang out on the deck, he appears happy enough just as he is. He enters on a lowly colt—and not his own colt or his disciples’, but a borrowed one.[1] This is not someone bearing privilege and presumption. The powers that be in Jerusalem, the metaphorical heads of the household, would presumably not be so worried by someone like this.
But there’s more to the story than meets the eye. In the Old Testament, entering Jerusalem on a colt is a powerful symbol signifying victory. It’s basically a claim to the throne, a declaration of kingship. And if Jesus’ entry on a colt would have raised the eyebrows of the Pharisees, who were the self-appointed religious authorities in Jerusalem, then seeing him received enthusiastically by crowds of followers would only confirm their suspicions. This man could turn things upside-down if they’re not careful.
Whatever misgivings the religious authorities may have had, the crowds of commoners are beside themselves with happiness. The scripture says that they are crying out with joy for all the “deeds of power” that they had seen. In the Greek, the word for “deeds of power” is a lot simpler. It’s a noun that comes from the word “to be possible.”[2] So in a basic sense, it means that the crowds are crying out with joy for all the possibilities that God opens. They are praising the God of Perhaps, the God of Maybe, the God of what lies beyond our dreams, the God of things to come. Like the children who want to adopt the stray cat, the crowd is focused on the adventure in front of them, on the wild possibilities of the future. They welcome Jesus because they desire new life.
And it’s for this very same reason that the powers that be in Jerusalem protest Jesus’ entry, telling him to pipe down. They don’t want new life. They are content with the way things are, with the order that they’ve established. They’re happy enough with the God of their Temple, the God of security and stability, the God of what they know. What else would the powers that be want except to stay safely in power?
Receiving Jesus with the Crowds and the Pharisees:
With Joy and Terror
Every year, thousands of churches celebrate Palm Sunday by re-enacting the story: bringing palms into church, singing “Hosanna,” proclaiming Christ as king. Part of the reason we do this, I think, is because it feels more natural to identify ourselves with the crowd who celebrates Jesus’ arrival to Jerusalem. Why would we re-enact the grumbling of the nay-sayers? We’re the followers of Jesus, not the religious authorities who protest him.
But I think if we read the story a bit more graciously, we’ll see that these authorities have a place in our heart too—perhaps even in the center of our heart.
If you traced the story of Luke, it would be one long journey from Nazareth to Jerusalem, from some podunk town to the center of the world, the seat of power. Is that not the story of faith? Does not Jesus journey from the outskirts of our lives to the center of our heart? And just like the family who is alternately excited and anxious about the stray cat, just like the crowds and the Pharisees who are alternately awed and afraid about Jesus, we too receive Jesus with both joy and terror.
Security or Faith
At first, we cannot help but be overjoyed by all the things Jesus does and says. We feel new life pulsing through us as we hear him proclaim good news to the poor and freedom to the oppressed, as we see his compassion for the ill and the blind and the needy, as we are caught up in his stories of redemption and hope. With Jesus, there is always more to life: more than we’ve seen, more than we’ve heard,[3] more than we know, more than we can know. We’re like children on Christmas Eve or on the cusp of a new pet. There’s just so much possibility. How could we not be like the crowds who receive Jesus with such joy?
But the closer he comes to the center of the heart, the more we begin to think seriously about what this means—or more precisely, about how we cannot know exactly what this means. The closer he comes, the more we become like concerned adults: the more his words become a threat or a risk to our way of life. “Deny yourself and take up your cross”? “The first will be last”? “Sell all you own…and come follow me”? “Love your enemies”? “Forgive those who persecute you”? The closer Jesus comes to the center of our life, to the temple of our heart—where “God” becomes another name for what we know or what we want—the more we are inclined to reject him. Because to welcome him would mean to welcome new responsibilities: not a litter box or a food bucket, but an embrace for strangers and enemies as well as friends. To welcome him would mean to welcome change and risk: not a furry ball occupying our favorite seat, but love and forgiveness, the kind that expose us to a future we cannot control, the kind that opens us up to hurt and heartbreak. To welcome him would mean not security but an adventure.
Prayer
God who comes,
So humbly and yet so insistently,
Whose way of love inspires us to joyful praise
Even as it threatens us with change,
With hurt and heartbreak:
Welcome into our hearts.
Welcome into the temple of our lives,
Where sometimes we confuse what we want with who you are.
Surprise us. Confront us with the holy risk that leads to abundant life.
Amen.
-----
[1] This would appear to be consistent with the way Jesus identifies himself. He links himself to the poor and the needy, and describes himself as someone who has no place to lay his head (Matt 8:20; 25:35-36).
[2] The plural noun in our story, dunameon, comes from the verb, dunamai.
[3] 1 Cor 2:9.
No comments:
Post a Comment