Just Like Them

Mark 11:1-11

March 25, 2018/Palm Sunday

            The pomp was the circumstance on that triumphant day. The scene so carefully set; disciples dispatched to retrieve a colt who had never known a rider. Words given to them in case they were questioned,

“The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.”

The Lord needs it.

            Permission granted, they returned with the animal. Cloaks spread across its back, he sat on it and they made their way. People saw them coming. Some spread their own wraps and coats, mantles and shawls on the road before him. Others took branches, leafy fronds, freshly cut from the fields and laid those down where the pony’s feet would trod.

            Pomp was the circumstance that day. As he rode into the city, the people shouted and waved, crying out,

“Hosanna!

Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!

Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!

Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

They hurled their hosannas, their cries of “save us,” at him, hoping that he would catch them and do what they asked; hoping he was the one they had waited for, longed for. They shouted their “hosannas,” hoping and praying that he was the one to finally, completely, utterly save them.

Pomp was the circumstance that day, and surely he staged it. Surely he set that particular scene, but not for manipulation or managements’ sake. That scene, that moment, that majesty was full of imagery from their prophets; a reminder of where they had come from and where God promised they would go. His pomp was the recollection of their circumstance, and the promises of their God that the present reality was not the full story. God promised a savior, a messiah and that messiah had come. He was there, the first rider of a colt, sitting on coats and walking on branches, ears ringing with pleading hosannas:

“Save us. Save us. Save us.”

But how quickly those lovely “hosannas” would twist into ugly shouts of “crucify him.” How quickly would the day’s pomp be ground under the circumstance of their oppression at the hands of a cruel Empire. It would not take long for disappointment to overwhelm delight. They believed the pomp would transform their circumstance, but they did not understand. They could not see. After all that time, they still could not see.

So the triumphant entry was forgotten. Jesus and the disciples would leave the city on the same day they came. The tides would turn on the next day when they returned. But that second entry was not hailed with hosannas or softened with cloaks and branches. How soon the people forgot and moved on. How fast did their hosannas, their pleas for salvation turn to accusation.

Jesus was not what they expected, and in the end he was not what they wanted. His coming laid bare their hearts and their desires. They wanted their circumstances to be fixed and corrected, but they did not want to change. They did not want to see the truth about themselves that he made clear. They wanted their circumstances to be made whole, but their hearts could be left broken.

Aren’t we just like them? We celebrate this day as though we were merely remembering a parade, a joyful celebration, a majestic march. But Jesus knew how dark the coming days would be. Jesus knew that this was not just pomp and circumstance. Jesus knew what waited after the pomp was gone, after the branches were cleared away and the cloaks were retrieved. Jesus knew what lay ahead.

And we do too, but aren’t we still just like those crowds, just like those people who shouted, “Hosanna?” Don’t we want our circumstances fixed, but leave our hearts and minds alone? Don’t we desire change without transformation?

But Jesus did not come to merely alter circumstance. Jesus’ coming into the world revealed the hearts of the people around him. Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, his unrelenting march toward the cross laid bare the hearts of the world. It exposed how far the world had moved from its Maker.

I don’t think that it is excitement we feel this day. I think it is nervous anxiety, knots in our stomachs, because we know that the world was changed and is changed and will be changed again. The events of this coming week, the darkness, the death, were and are cataclysmic. We cannot avoid the darkness ahead. The very universe will grieve before finally the heavens will once more tell of the glory of God.

That glory is what we both celebrate and anticipate, and even fear. Glory is not just a happy glow. Glory is a God who loved those crowds enough to become like them. Glory is a power we cannot begin to fully comprehend or understand. Glory is a sacrifice that is more than we can bear. Glory is a love that transcends our mortal understanding. The glory of God is awesome and awful. It is both comfort and crisis. It is indictment and it is forgiveness. God’s glory took on human frame and became just like them, just like us.

If we remember anything on this day it is that we are just like them, just like those crowds, those fickle throngs. We are just like them, so quick to cry for salvation, and so easily disappointed when it does not look as we expect.

We are just like them. We claim to want change, until we realize that we must be changed in the process. We make God in our own image, and are confounded when God refuses to stay in the categories we assign.

We are just like them, surrounded by darkness but believing that it is light. We are just like them, even knowing the rest of the story, but still unable to grasp its full consequences. We are just like them. But God’s good news is that God became just like us. God became like us in Jesus, and Jesus walked into the darkness willingly, obediently, determinedly. Jesus was just like us, so that we could learn to become more and more like him.

Amen and amen.