Beyond the Crowds

Duke Chapel Sermons

Palm Sunday is a time of festal gathering—palm branches, bright music, and exuberance, spilling out of aisles and into the streets. In most years, it is a large day of celebration for churches all around the world, a celebration built on the scriptural witness of crowds gathering to cheer on Christ’s entrance into Jerusalem. The grand celebration of this scripture sets it apart as a liturgical tradition. After all, most of our liturgical stories come from small, intimate moments in the bible. The birth of Jesus happens between a handful of villagers on a hillside. The resurrection of Jesus is discovered when three women have an earth-shaking encounter in an empty tomb. Palm Sunday and Pentecost are different. Both of these liturgical days have always been about the whole family of Jesus followers coming together with shouts and celebration. Here in the text we are told that a “very large crowd” gathers together. People spread cloaks on the ground. They shout. They wave branches. They definitely do not keep at least six feet from each other. No matter how often we have heard this story before, this text probably sounds different to our socially distanced ears today. We might feel a little uneasy about this visual of teeming crowds in the busy streets. This story might sound a little more dangerous than usual. Our unease is not inaccurate. As one scholar writes, such a gathering in Jerusalem at such a time would have been “full of danger and denseness.” In the first century CE, Jerusalem was central to cultural, political, and religious life in the region. During Passover the city streets would have swelled with pilgrims, vendors, and soldiers. Authorities would have been on high alert. The occupying Roman army would have been ready to swiftly deal with any disturbance. Temple power players would have been worried that any bit of trouble might topple a tentative status quo. When Jesus enters the city in this story, he is inviting more than a little bit of trouble. He chooses to ride a donkey and colt, a direct reenactment of Zechariah’s prophecy about the arrival of a king. He enters during Passover, when the city is at its busiest, when soldiers are at their greatest strengths. People shout “Hosanna! Save us!” which is a cry of hope interlaced with despair. When Jesus rides into this city in this way, at this time, accompanied by these cheers, he is striking a match right next to an emotional, religious, and political powder keg. This large crowd that we celebrate on Palm Sunday is not a cheerful party. This gathering is not the beginning of Christ’s public celebrations. It is the end of them. Palm Sunday is the last time large crowds will show up expecting Jesus, this healer from Galilee, to entertain them with some good teachings. After today, things are going to start to change. This Jesus will refuse to keep up the spectacle. He will cease to keep us entertained. His words and acts will not distract us from the abiding oppressions of the world, but rather plunge us deeper into them. We who shout “Hosanna!” will soon find our calls curdling into a different cry, a cry for conviction and crucifixion. Jesus is not going to stay as the leader of our rally for very long. No matter how much we want to wave palms and cheer with abandon, no matter how much we want to put aside all the pains of the world just for today, no matter how much we want to lose ourselves in a celebration, Jesus will not let us. Jesus will not let us get too comfortable in that crowd. Jesus keeps leading us onward. This week is the start of Holy Week. This week, Jesus leads us beyond the crowds. He takes us past the cheers. This week Jesus will take us to places we would rather not see—then and now. We who are singing “Hosanna!” will soon be led into some dark corners and hellish hallways, forced to face every bloody gash in the fabric of our faith and world. This year, we are being more prepared than usual to