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“Who is this?”, Rev. Melissa St. Clair, 4/13/14, Palm Sunday

“Who is this?”

A sermon preached at

Heart of the Rockies Christian Church (Disciples of Christ)

Fort Collins, CO

by the Rev. Melissa St. Clair

Matthew 21:1-10

April 13, 2014

Palm Sunday

This morning, we return to Matthew’s gospel, the first book of the New Testament.  The time of the Passover is now approaching, which means that Jerusalem is more crowded than usual.  As Jesus and his disciples prepare to enter the city, we remember that they were not entering into foreign territory.  Jesus was Jewish, and as such, he was entering into the city that symbolized his faith and the promise of his scriptures.  Jesus knew what we have found to be true as well – to confront one’s own faith and its traditions can sometimes be painful.[1]

READ MATTHEW 21:1-10

 Watch video: http://youtu.be/_vtkhpuk6ss

Who is this?

Are you asking the woman at the well, the man born blind, or Lazarus?

Have you been following Jesus around throughout his public ministry or do you just happen to be living in Jerusalem when he enters the city on that donkey?

Have you been healed by Jesus or are you responsible for making sure nothing happens on the Sabbath that is not supposed to per religious law – including healings?

Depending on whom you’re asking, this is the Messiah, the Living Water, the Light of the World, the Resurrection and the Life, the Son of David.

Depending on who you are, Jesus is someone who is controversial at best, threatening at worst.

It’s been said that there are as many sermons preached as there are hearers of the sermon.  Likewise, we could say that there are as many Jesuses as there are people who encounter Jesus.

That doesn’t mean we get to make Jesus into whomever we want him to be OR whoever it’s convenient to us for him to be; it just means that, like that first Palm Sunday crowd, we each bring our understandings and experiences of Jesus to the journey.

And, really, even the journey itself is many-layered.  Especially the week that lies ahead.

“It’s a week of whiplash,” Sara Miles says. “During Holy Week, we wave palms in the air and hail Jesus as king, the long-awaited messiah who’s going to save us from our oppressors, then we change our minds and scream that the oppressors should crucify him; we share a loving last supper with Jesus and he washes our feet, then we sneak out after dinner and betray him. Jesus begs us to stay with him, we promise we will, then we don’t. We abandon him, he’s arrested and beaten; he forgives us, then we run away. Then Jesus is killed; we lay him in the tomb and weep; we go back for him, then he’s gone, then he’s back, and then — wait! — he’s not dead at all.”[2]

So why do we do it?  Why do we order the palms and shout the hosannas and wash each others’ feet (not today; on Thursday) and break bread together and cover the sanctuary in black cloth and look toward the cross, when – once we’ve done it all before – we already know how the story is going to end?  Why don’t we just cut from the celebration, the triumphal, if humble, entry into Jerusalem to the elation of the empty tomb on Easter Sunday and call it good?  Our hearts wouldn’t be as heavy – and our necks wouldn’t be as sore.

But that’s not the world Jesus goes riding into.  While it might be a little fuzzy as to how Jesus managed to mount both that donkey and her colt, it’s pretty clear that Jesus went where suffering was sure to come.

Did it have to be that way?

Only because the world Jesus lived in was broken too.  Only because he lived his life within the heart of God, where violence and disease and depression and fighting and oppression and death ache as much, if not more, than they do in our own.

Jesus was not who or what the world expected. His words and actions were threatening as often as they were life-giving. So the scene in Jerusalem isn’t totally unexpected: the turmoil, the questions.  The murmur of, “Who is this?”

Some knew who Jesus was.  They followed him “into the city because he had brought them out of despair into hope.”  They found healing and wholeness through him in places the world had cracked open.

But that wasn’t the whole crowd.  There were others who were “scared to death of the rumors that preceded him into the city.” Rumors about what he had been teaching and whom he had been healing – and their responses to him, not the least of all this little parade.

“Blessed are the meek,” Jesus said, “for they shall inherit the earth.” No, said the crowds.  We know that the mighty inherit the earth.

“You have heard it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, ‘Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you,’’ Jesus said.  What sort of madness is this? said the crowds.  How does that protect us against the threat of terrorists?

“Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink,” Jesus said.  Who can actually live that way? said the crowds.

“For what will it profit you to gain the whole world but forfeit your life?” Jesus said.  What kind of economics is that? said the crowds.

Jesus knew that with a message like this, he would not escape suffering. He knew it, and he wasn’t shy about acknowledging it.  Much to his disciples dismay and confusion, he told them not one but three times that he was headed for Jerusalem, “where he would surely be arrested, condemned and crucified. Yet, still he rode into the city, drawn there by the heart of God. And he comes riding still.”][3]

He comes riding into my broken life and yours.

And that’s why we journey through Holy Week with him.

We enter into the sorrow and shame and service and suffering with him, knowing that he has done the same with us.

Maybe you can’t be here this week when we gather around tables on Maundy Thursday or as we sit in the shadows on Good Friday.

But wherever you are, when you eat a meal on Thursday, you might linger a bit longer to remember the new covenant Jesus made with disciples; you might chew for a little while on the grace and forgiveness Christ’s table offers to each of us.

And on Friday, when you hear the jingle of pocket change, you might hear the echo of the coins Judas threw back to the chief priests and elders, a bitter reminder of how he – and we – betray our teacher and friend.

And on Saturday, you might do something intentional to wait.  Maybe it’ll be serving others.  Maybe it will be making bread or cleaning out a closet.  Maybe it will be working in the garden or playing in the park.  Whatever it is, may it be filled with intentional anticipation.  Waiting.  Watching.  Hoping.

Knowing that with each Holy Week – no, with each passing day – we have the opportunity once more to witness, to receive, and even to be Christ.   To know that no matter where we are on life’s journey, we are not alone.  Never.  For Jesus – the Christ – “is ever drawing us nearer to each other, nearer to God, and nearer, always, to Easter.”[4]