The symbols of Palm Sunday evoke a mixed experience in a pandemic-influenced holy day. They also remind us of the art of framing the story.
Palm Sunday and the desire for victory
Palm Sunday B | Mark 11:1-11
A Prelude
We have arrived! The long journey that began with Jesus’s baptism, ran through much of the region, and spread a gospel of love to thousands of people has come to the capital, the place of its natural conclusion.
It was always going to come here, wasn’t it? Jerusalem is the great, holy city. The Second Temple. Built after Solomon’s Temple was destroyed. Where his father, David, united the two nations, Israel and Judah and the twelve tribes; children of Jacob.
Jerusalem, the ancient symbol of unity, was more often a symbol of power instead.
This is where Jesus was going when he turned his face toward it. The shadow of its power, of Rome’s power over it, looming from its highest point and casting shade along the path.
Jesus turned toward it knowing what he would most certainly find there. And what he’d lose by looking for it.
Old
We approach this day with strained, conflicted hearts. Like the followers singing Hosanna! We celebrate this arrival with triumph! The king is here to ascend to the throne.
An image, perhaps muddled by our own confusion or potentially mocking Rome’s royal pomp. It’s hard to say which is more present. Or devastating.
The feeling today is always conflicted. Like I’m sure it was then. Happy and sad. Confused; torn between the two. We aren’t naive. We know this day is happy and yet the shadow looms large. A menace we can’t escape. We look and it is everywhere. Its dark shapes cover the walls, its lines stretch out before us. Even as we try not to look.
But the shadow is unmistakable: the cross, like a small t, stretching before us and behind us, no matter which way we turn. We can’t unsee it. It remains. It’s threat a kind of torture. Eternal. Deadly.
New
When they arrive, Jesus sends two ahead to make a strange preparation. He says that they’ll find a colt tied up. They’re to borrow it, assuring its owner that it will be returned. Then they’ll bring it with them so Jesus can ride it into town. Like borrowing the car to use as an Uber.
It’s a strange moment. Jesus looks both prescient and up to something. It’s hard to say what. The scholars Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan liken it to political street theater. It seems to mockingly match the way Roman officials arrive. Like Pontius Pilate might soon enough.
I’m drawn to the borrowed colt—a colt is a term shared by both young donkeys and ponies. Jesus could be riding either one. Perhaps the identity of this four-legged character is itself a beautiful opportunity for speculation. But either way, the colt is borrowed.
I am most fascinated by this improbable aspect. Perhaps, most especially because it seems unimportant.
It is not a gift, nor something stolen. A beast of burden offered on loan.
Perhaps we imagine the borrowed bowl of sugar. The neighbor’s hedge trimmers. Or the bride’s claim to something borrowed and something blue.
Borrowed
This week, I landed on this moment because it speaks so loudly when we’re not ready to hear it. It is a startling revelation when we’re engaged in other topics.
We have not only been away from one another, from our patterns, or from our church’s building. We have been on a journey that feels like it isn’t ours. We’re following Jesus and wondering when we’re supposed to regain our place. Our power. Our stuff again. We’re tired. We want to sleep in our own beds. And eat some home cooking. Maybe a potluck.
But this place that Jesus has brought the disciples to isn’t “home”. It’s Jerusalem. It’s the capital. And the next day, Jesus will enter the Temple and call it his father’s house. Not his. Or theirs or ours.
So this day, Jesus sends them to borrow a colt. Not claim it. They are not seizing it. This isn’t civil asset forfeiture. The ownership doesn’t change hands. They ask to borrow it. With the promise that it will be returned.
Seizing is a display of power. The cops can claim it. Take it. Keep it. Even profit from it.
Instead, they are to do something different.
There is an asking and an offering and a sharing and a returning. The colt will serve a purpose in providing Jesus with a ride. But that is only part of what is happening. This is a moment of connection, participation, and expansion of the mission. It brings new people in. These strangers are joining the movement by lending their colt to a stranger.
Outsiders become members.
Blue
Palm Sunday is most notable for this detail from the story. These long, green leaves, we hold in our hands. A detail that has become iconic in much the same way the image of the blue-eyed Jesus has become an icon of sorts.
In truth, it is branches and cloaks that are placed in the road as a symbol of honor. The palm, a more regionally appropriate tree to Jesus’s location than ours. If we were at the center of the story, might we put sycamore branches down? Or hawthorns?
But these symbols reveal this distance nonetheless. That Jesus comes as a victorious king without a crown or an army. Whose victory will be cut short by the cross, yet revealed in the resurrection. All in a matter of days.
This is what we honor and remember today. A celebration full of framed expectation. And we are left with much to think about.
Postlude
After Jesus came into the city, he went straight to the Temple. Everybody is singing and dancing: celebrating. He doesn’t join in. His goal is the Temple.
He walks in, surveying the place. No doubt seeing how it’s being used. The influence of Rome on leadership. And the zealots moving in to drive Rome out. The threat of nationalism everywhere.
Jesus has big plans for Monday. Not now. It’s late. They head out of the city they just entered. This is where they go; not where they stay. They stay in the neighboring town of Bethany. And this week will be full of teaching.