Philippians 2: 5-11 & Mark 11: 1-11
Palm Sunday/ 1st
April 2012
My friend, Bill Carter, a
Presbyterian pastor in Pennsylvania, tells the story of visiting the Mount of
Olives in Jerusalem several years ago.
The forty pilgrims in his group stepped off the tour bus. Their plan was
to walk down a road that has been there for three thousand years. At his left was the largest Jewish cemetery
in the area, established in the old belief that the Messiah will appear on the
Mount of Olives. At the bottom of the
hill is the Garden of Gethsemane, guarded by the remains of the olive trees
that perhaps overheard the betrayal of Judas Iscariot. Straight ahead was Mount Zion, with the
ancient wall of the city of Jerusalem.
This is the route that Jesus took when he entered the city on Palm
Sunday.
Right by the bus were a couple of
local men. They waited for the tourists like them. “Would you like to borrow a donkey to ride
down the hill?” they asked. “Perhaps you
would sit upon one and we can take your picture.” These were not kind offers by
generous new friends; this was the way those men make a living.
No one in Bill’s group took them up
on the offer, particularly when they heard it was fifty bucks for the picture
and one hundred and fifty bucks to “borrow” the donkey. These guys could demand such fees because of
the location. Apparently, the Mount of
Olives is the most famous place on earth to “borrow” a donkey. I didn’t know this! Although when I was
there, I missed the donkey-lenders. They
weren’t there that day.
The people behind Bill and his
group, however, were pious folk from California. They were shelling out cash
right and left for the privilege of riding those donkeys down the hill. The
scene was pretty comical. Bill says that
if these people really wanted to take their Bibles seriously, they should have
insisted that no money should have changed hands – because that’s what we have
in the text.[1]
Two different ways of approaching
Jerusalem from Mount Olives. One was
thoughtful, serious, and contemplative – Bill’s group was intent on walking
along Jesus’ way, following the road into the city. The other was comical, commercial. Two different ways of approaching the story
of what happened on that day when the people shouted, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of
the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!”
I have to confess, I have considerable
ambivalence around this story. It’s so
often celebrated in the church as a triumphal entry with the cloaks and palm
branches and the crowds yelling, “Hosanna!”
There was a time when I didn’t feel this way, have this ambivalence. I loved the processions and the palms and the
hymns – and, don’t get me wrong, I still do. I really do. But when I really started to read the
accounts of Jesus’ entry into the city and went deeper into the narrative, and
knowing what we know happens in the city by week’s end, when I reflect upon this, that’s when I begin to have
problems.
This week I think I gained more
clarity around this feeling within me.
It’s pretty simple, really: I don’t trust the crowd. I don’t trust the crowd. I’m suspicious of their commitment to Jesus’
mission. I’m trying not judge them, but
did the crowd waving their palms and shouting their “Hosannas” have any idea
what was about to be unleashed in their city on Friday? Did they have the slightest hint that this
victorious king was going to sweat blood on Thursday? Did they have any intimation that Rome and
their religious leaders would together come down – and come down hard,
inflicting a devastating blow to their hopes and dreams? Did they know? Even though the crowds rejoiced and welcomed
Jesus here, we all know that the crowd is fickle; for by week's end the way of
Christ will be at odds with the way of the crowd.
On the one hand, we can’t blame
them. They could not see into the
future. Just like you and me. We cannot see into the future, which, I think
is my point here: the entire narrative
forces us to acknowledge that our way is not God’s way, our thoughts are not
God’s thoughts, our hopes and dreams and expectations are not God’s hopes and
dreams and expectations. It’s quite
evident that Jesus is clear about what God’s intentions are; it’s not all that
clear what the crowd has in mind. Do
they get it right? Is it all empty praise?
There’s an old Latin proverb of
unknown origin that goes like this: Vox
populi, vox Dei, meaning, “The voice of the people is the voice of God.” The voice of God is known through the voice of
the majority. The Protestant Reformers
didn’t always agree with this view of political wisdom. Although we are
democratic in our Church polity, led by the majority views of the Church, the
Constitution of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) encourages us also to make
space for the voice of the minority,
because it just might be the minority that bears the voice and will of God. The
majority is not always on God’s side.
Sometimes the majority can actually stand God’s way. There’s an early reference to this Latin
aphorism that dates to 798, in a letter of Alcuin of York (d.804) to
Charlemagne (c.742-814), the Holy Roman Emperor, that goes like this: “And those people
should not be listened to who keep saying the voice of the people is the voice
of God, since the riotousness of the crowd is always very close to
madness.” The riotousness of the crowd
might be close to madness, but so is the (self-) righteousness of the
crowd, at times, close to madness.
Perhaps my suspicion of the crowd
comes from hanging out too much with the likes of Sören Kierkegaard (1813-1855),
who said, “For ‘the crowd’ is untruth.”
Or, “the crowd” is a lie.[2] He’s right. This isn’t true all the time. But
sometimes it is, one has to admit, enough to put us on guard. The crowds, mobs, the collective – what
everyone else thinks or says or believes, the prevailing views and perspectives,
whatever’s popular – are all sometimes just wrong. Sometimes it’s difficult of us,
as individuals, to stand out from the crowd – like Jesus; to make our
way through the crowd – like Jesus; to not be shaped by the crowd – like
Jesus; not be hampered by the crowd – like Jesus. We know the limitations and dangers and
challenges of herd mentality, group mentality, and groupthink.
I find it fascinating how the Lectionary
for today juxtaposes Mark's account of Jesus' entry into Jerusalem and Paul's
use of an ancient hymn to Christ, the Carmen
Christi, in his letter to the Philippians. What struck me was Paul’s
reference to the “mind of Christ” and my own ponderings on what the “mind” of
the crowd might have been like welcoming Jesus into Jerusalem. I found myself imagining Jesus on the colt,
surrounded by the crowds, yet clearly striking his own way through the crowd. He knows
exactly who he is; he’s obviously in control the situation, his destination –
the temple – is clearly in his sights. He arrives at the temple, looks around, and
because it is late, leaves. He returns
on Monday to “cleanse” the temple and says, quoting Isaiah, “Is it not written,
‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’? But you have
made it a den of robbers.” – which then lights the fuse that explodes on Friday. Mark writes, “And when the chief priests and
the scribes heard this, they kept looking for a way to kill him; for they were
afraid of him, because the whole crowd was spellbound by his teaching” (Mk
11:18). They know the crowd is still
with him, but what does the crowd expect from him? Jesus doesn’t say a thing; he withdraws from
the city. In Mark’s Gospel the crowd is
generally viewed in a positive light.
That is until the end, after Palm Sunday, when the crowd turns on Jesus
and prefers Barabbas instead of him at the trial. “Hosanna” one day, “Crucify him” another. Same crowd?
Different crowd? We’re not sure;
there was probably some overlap. It’s still the crowd, the clouded wisdom of
the crowd.
So what was/is the mind of
Christ? We don’t hear this kind of
language in Mark’s Gospel, but in Paul.
When we hear “mind of Christ” or “put on the mind of Christ,” it’s
natural for us to think he’s talking about “mind” as we conceive it. But he’s not talking about thoughts or ideas. He’s not saying that we must think our way
into Christ. It’s not an intellectual
exercise. Paul urged the Philippian Christians to have the same “mind” that was
in Christ. We could also translate the phrase this way, “Let the same attitude,”
or even, “Let the same way,” be in you that was in Christ. There’s an active, dynamic quality to the
Greek here.[3] In other words allow his mind, his attitude,
his way unfold in you, flow in you and through you. And what is this way?
Though he was in the form of God,
did
not regard equality
with
God as something to be exploited (or grasped),
but
emptied himself,
taking
the form of a slave,
being
born in human likeness.
And
being found in human form,
he
humbled himself
and
became obedient
to
the point of death – even death on a cross (Phil. 2:6-8).
We see something of the same
"mind" or "way" on display when Jesus enters Jerusalem,
humble on a donkey. In obedience to his call he follows his way, “steadfast He to suffering
goes”,[4]
the way that leads through the crowd, the way of love,
ultimately deflecting all the projections of the crowd upon him, a crowd that
could not fathom the depths of such commitment, obedience, and love. In
obedience to his call he does whatever it takes to demonstrate the power of
God’s grace and love.
Where are we in this story? On the way with Jesus? Or lost in the crowd? Believing along with
everyone else, acting like everyone else, whether they’re right or wrong, believing
all kinds of things about Jesus and God and the Christian life, but just
basically going along with the crowd?
Probably a little of both – because it’s all happening, both ways, at
the same time in the text. They overlap. The story, though, urges us to proceed with
caution. Who’s way are we on? Are we on
the way of Christ or the way of the crowd? Are we on the difficult path, walking
the way that’s marked by humility and obedience to God’s call in our lives,
urged on by the power of God’s radical love?
Marked and sealed in our baptism and therefore ready to transform the
world? Or are we taking the easy way, walking en masse in the way of crowd, lost in untruth?
Like most things of importance in
life it’s not a question of either-or,
it’s not that simple. Like most things
in life that matter, truth is rarely a question of either-or, but often both-and. That’s what I’ve found to be true. Some have even said that’s what I’ll have
inscribed on my tombstone: “Both-And.”
The way of Christ. The way of the crowd. I know where I am and would
rather be. What about you?
Image: Jean-Hippolyte Flandrin (1809-1864), "Christ's Entry into Jerusalem" (c. 1842).
[1] I’m grateful to William Carter, pastor of the
First Presbyterian Church, Clarks Summit, PA, for this story, from which I
quote liberally. It’s taken from his
Palm Sunday sermon on this same text, “The Best Things Are Borrowed.” It can be found at the Day 1 website here http://day1.org/3714-the_best_things_are_borrowed. Day1 is the voice of mainline Protestant
churches, presenting outstanding preachers from the mainline Protestant
denominations. Day 1 began broadcasting in 1945 as “The Protestant Hour” and
has been on the air every week since, currently on more than 200 stations.
[2] Sören
Kierkegaard, “On the Dedication to ‘That Single Individual,’” in Upbuilding
Discourses in Various Spirits (Copenhagen, 1847).
[3] I’m thankful for
Cynthia Bourgeault’s reflections on the “mind of Christ” in The Wisdom Jesus: Transforming Heart and Mind – A New
Perspective on Christ and His Message (Boston: Shambhala, 2008), 171ff.
[4]From a poem by Samuel
Crossman (1624-1683/4), which became of the text of the hymn “My Song Is Love
Unknown.” The hymn tune (LOVE UNKNOWN)
was written by John Ireland (1879-1962) in 1918.
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