Palm Sunday. The name we have given to the day Jesus entered Jerusalem for the last time.
As I read the Gospel accounts…
…I can easily picture the disciples descending down the dusty road from the Mount of Olives as a large crowd congregates and accompanies them.
…I can hear the cacophony of shouting. Calling Jesus blessed. Proclaiming him to be the King who comes in the name of the Lord!
…I can see the men, women and children laying their coats on the dirt so the colt carrying Jesus can trample on them.
…I can picture their faces filled with awe as they speak of the miracles they have witnessed or heard about.
…I imagine hearts filled with hope… the possibility that Jesus is the one for whom the Israelites had been praying for hundreds of years. Hoping that he is the promised Messiah – the mighty one who will smite the Romans and return the land to God’s people. Hosanna! God save us!
They didn’t know what was really going to happen. They had no idea.
I can forgive the ignorance of the crowd, but the disciples certainly should have known better.
Surely, they were aware of the fear both the religious and political leaders in Jerusalem had of Jesus. Weren’t they smart enough to figure out that there was very likely a plot to get rid of him? Didn’t they realize it was highly probable that the fickle populace of this city would turn on Jesus… that he might even be condemned to death by the hypocritical crowd that was now shouting Hosanna?
Shouldn’t they have been protecting Jesus rather than announcing his arrival so publicly? Didn’t they realize what they were doing? Didn’t they realize what was to happen?
No. Even though Jesus tried to tell them, they didn’t really comprehend what was going to happen that week. They had no idea.
And I think this is why I have a problem with Palm Sunday.
I know what happens during the next several days in Jerusalem. I know how Jesus is asked bogus questions by those who try to trick him. I know how he is viciously and violently tortured. I know how the crowd chooses life for Barabbas and death for Jesus. I know how he is murdered in the most agonizing and humiliating manner known at that time. So how can I possibly be joyful and join in the festivities of Jesus’ entry into a city full of those who will denounce, convict and kill him in just a few days?
I struggle with this every year. Wave a palm frond, plaster a smile on my face and sing joyfully? No. I don’t want to play the part of a person in the crowd because I know that same person probably screamed, “Crucify him!” several days later. I don’t want to be that person. I won’t be that person. I refuse to be that person!
…but the story is convicting… and, if I am honest with myself, I realize I am that person.
How often do I declare myself a follower of Jesus then – sometimes that same day – do or say something that practically crucifies the presence of Jesus in my life. I speak a word that is sharp and hurtful. I think I'm better than the next person. I neglect the needs of others. I place more importance on human-made things than on God’s creation.
So, today I’ll walk with the crowd. I’ll wave a palm frond, throw down my coat and shout Hosanna. I'll join the throng as we push our way through the Eastern Gate and enter Jerusalem. I’ll eat the Passover meal then fall asleep in the garden on Thursday. I’ll keep vigil then weep at the foot of the cross on Friday. I’ll feel perplexed and yet pray on Saturday. And next Sunday? Next Sunday... on Easter... I hope to be with the women who are first to arrive at the tomb before dawn. I want to experience the undeniable evidence of Jesus’ triumph over death. I look forward to joining my voice with others as together we lift shouts of hallelujah! And then… and then I intend
to leave the empty tomb behind… go out into the world… and live a life worthy of one who calls herself a follower of Jesus Christ.
