Sunday, March 27, 2016

Resurrection Dust

March 27, 2016 - Easter Day

One of the alfombras in Antigua, Guatemala.


After the procession.
Luke 24:1-35
24 But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find the body. While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.” Then they remembered his words, and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. 10 Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. 11 But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. 12 But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened.

13 Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, 14 and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. 15 While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, 16 but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. 17 And he said to them, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?” They stood still, looking sad. 18 Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?” 19 He asked them, “What things?” They replied, “The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, 20 and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. 21 But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. 22 Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, 23 and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. 24 Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.” 25 Then he said to them, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! 26 Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?” 27 Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.

28 As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. 29 But they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” So he went in to stay with them. 30 When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. 31 Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. 32 They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?” 33 That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. 34 They were saying, “The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!” 35 Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.


Sermon:  “Resurrection Dust”

Easter is celebrated in some very curious ways throughout the world.

If you lived in Bermuda, you’d fly a colorful, cross-shaped kite to symbolize Jesus’ resurrection and ascension. 

If you lived in Hungary, you’d throw buckets of cold water on women to keep them “fresh.”  Hmm.

If you lived in Corfu, Greece, you’d smash pottery by flinging it from your windows onto the street below at exactly 11 a.m., symbolizing getting rid of old things in preparation for the new.  (A good incentive to be indoors in church at 11 a.m., so as not to get knocked out, I’d say!)

If you lived in Norway, you’d embrace the mystery and intrigue of Jesus’ sentencing, crucifixion and resurrection by reading a crime novel.

My favorite tradition I discovered comes from Antigua, Guatemala.

If you lived in that small town, surrounded by volcanoes, you would make intricately beautiful, mile-long carpets out of colored sawdust and local plants.

People in Antigua, Guatemala work tirelessly making these alfombras, covering the old cobblestoned streets with a solid layer of sawdust and then topping that with vibrant patterns of Mayan and Christian symbols.  Whole neighborhoods work together to make mile-long carpets, while families make smaller carpets.  The carpets are regularly sprayed with water to keep the colored sawdust from being swept away by the wind before the right moment.  That moment comes at 4 a.m. on Good Friday.

What has taken days and days of painstaking labor disappears in a matter of minutes, as a great procession tramples all over the makeshift carpets, leaving nothing but piles of sawdust in their wake.  Come Easter morning, all that remains are remnants of sawdust scattered between old cobblestones.  What was beautiful and brilliant was also fleeting and fragile.  Which is why this is my favorite Holy Week tradition I came across.

Because that’s what Easter – today – is, isn’t it?  Beautiful and brilliant resurrection in the midst of feeling and fragile life. 

We hear this in Luke, where the resurrection was a beautiful sight: with dazzling angels and bold words, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen.”  The women went to tell the disciples this amazing news, but it was as if they had trampled the beautiful carpets on their way: these men didn’t see for themselves, so they didn’t believe it.  Except Peter, who, ever the eager beaver, ran to check out that tomb himself.

We then encounter two disciples walking to Emmaus. They walk away from the place of the resurrection, but, as Gerhard Von Rad put it, “they are turning away from Jesus, but they are still talking about him.”  It seems the dust of the resurrection still clings to their sandals.  Jesus comes, and they are kept from recognizing him.  After all, there’s no leftover dazzle at this point in our story – it’s trampled away into folklore.  All that remains is a dusty travel companion, a stranger, in the Greek, an “alien.”  The dust of that resurrection scandal swirls around them as they tell the story to this stranger, not knowing it’s his story, saying they wish they could believe it. 

Jesus, irritated by their persistent doubt, weaves that resurrection story into the story of all of scripture, like crafting a beautiful alfombra.  Still, they don’t see him for who he is.  But they do a remarkable thing anyway: they ask him to stay, ‘because it is almost evening.’  You see, just a touch of that resurrection dust is a powerful thing.  It can make grieving, worried people invite a foreigner into their home.  It can make people who think evil has won defeat it with the simple act of welcoming a wanderer instead of leaving him alone in the dark. 

And then the guest becomes the host, as Jesus takes bread, blesses it and breaks it, as he’s done with them so many times before.  For a beautiful, fleeting moment, they see him as he is.  Their risen Lord!  But just as quickly as that resurrection recognition comes, it is gone.  Jesus disappears.  Beautiful and brilliant resurrection in the midst of fleeting and fragile life. 

It turns out, just a taste of resurrection is all it took.  That Easter table became a sending table, and out they went, presumably right into the dark night, no longer fearing it, to tell the good news, “The Lord is risen indeed!”

Sometimes, we long for a resurrection that will last.  An Easter that will be burned into our hearts in such a way that we never fear darkness again.  But it seems Easter comes to us in less constant ways, like those beautiful alfombras in Antigua.  We are surprised with vibrantly-colored, radiant life and then, almost as soon as we’ve seen it, that life seems to disappear before our eyes.  So it has always been, from the very first Easter.  This is not because God is impatient or indifferent or inconstant. 

This is because Easter is such a powerful thing – the resurrection of Jesus to raise us all with him – is such a powerful thing, that even the tiniest taste of it can change a life.  Like the cracks between those weathered cobblestones in Antigua, our lives hold remnants of this resurrection, and often, we don’t even notice them.  Our eyes are kept from recognizing Jesus, just like those disciples.  Grief will do that.  Fear will do that.  Hatred will most definitely do that. 


And so, we do what those doubting disciples did: we come to a table, where bread is broken and shared, where all the strangers are welcomed in from the dark, and we find that our hearts have been burning within us all along (it’s just we’ve been too distracted and afraid to notice).  And then we go, into the fearful night, flinging resurrection dust all the way and proclaim that most wonderful of news: “the Lord is risen!  He is risen indeed!”  Alleluia!  Amen.  

Thursday, March 24, 2016

Maundy Thursday Meditation

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March 24, 2016
Luke 22:1-23
Now the festival of Unleavened Bread, which is called the Passover, was near. 2 The chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to put Jesus to death, for they were afraid of the people.
Then Satan entered into Judas called Iscariot, who was one of the twelve; he went away and conferred with the chief priests and officers of the temple police about how he might betray him to them. They were greatly pleased and agreed to give him money. So he consented and began to look for an opportunity to betray him to them when no crowd was present.

Then came the day of Unleavened Bread, on which the Passover lamb had to be sacrificed. So Jesus sent Peter and John, saying, “Go and prepare the Passover meal for us that we may eat it.”
They asked him, “Where do you want us to make preparations for it?” 10 “Listen,” he said to them, “when you have entered the city, a man carrying a jar of water will meet you; follow him into the house he enters 11 and say to the owner of the house, ‘The teacher asks you, “Where is the guest room, where I may eat the Passover with my disciples?”’ 12 He will show you a large room upstairs, already furnished. Make preparations for us there.”

13 So they went and found everything as he had told them; and they prepared the Passover meal.
14 When the hour came, Jesus took his place at the table, and the apostles with him. 15 He said to them, “I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer; 16 for I tell you, I will not eat it  until it is fulfilled in the kingdom of God.”

17 Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he said, “Take this and divide it among yourselves; 18 for I tell you that from now on I will not drink of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God comes.” 19 Then he took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” 20 And he did the same with the cup after supper, saying, “This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood. 21 But see, the one who betrays me is with me, and his hand is on the table. 22 For the Son of Man is going as it has been determined, but woe to that one by whom he is betrayed!” 23 Then they began to ask one another which one of them it could be who would do this.

Meditation:

Once upon a time, there was a little boy.  He was the quiet one of his siblings.  His home was not a peaceful one.  Often the dinner table held weapons instead of food.  Whenever it got scary, he would creep out of bed in his pajamas, and wander out into the night alone.  No one would notice he was missing.  He would climb a favorite tree, and feeling safe above the world, would gaze at the stars, and talk to God.  Sometimes, God talked back in the winking of stars.  If someone saw him talking, seemingly to himself, he didn’t mind much.  He had the self-assured confidence of a child who is completely themselves, even in the face of violence. 

You see, this boy was born into the Jewish zealot sect known as Sicarii.  It’s for that reason you might recognize his last name: Iscariot.  Sicarii were not the farmers, or the teachers.  They were not the writers, or the thinkers.  They were the fighters.  Their name means assassins.  So you can understand why this boy liked to spend so much time alone, away from his family.

But as he became older, things changed, as they often do with little boys.  He became anxious about being seen to be talking to himself (or God), and frivolously climbing trees.  He became afraid other boys would beat him up, and when you’re in a village of Sicarii, that would be brutal indeed.  So he did the thing teenage boys do: he tried to blend in. 

He didn’t talk to God anymore.  He pretended that nothing phased him: not the weapons on the table, not the shouting in the hallway, not the makeshift hospital in the living room.  While on the inside, he might have been shrieking with fear and anger at what he saw, on the outside, he looked completely and utterly bored by it all.  This is when something began to break within our dear little boy.

A constant disconnect between what he felt on the inside and what he did on the outside grew and grew, until that innocent child who climbed trees and talked to God all but disappeared.  He didn’t talk to anyone anymore, not really.  He shouted when it was shouting time, cursed when it was cursing time, but was like a puppet saying the words others wanted or expected to hear.  He felt nothing, which for this teenager was better than facing the terror of his home.

The teenager grew into a man, as they do.  And, as they do, he stopped wanting to blend in, and instead wanted to stand out: to make a name for himself, to be taken seriously as a man.  What models for manhood did he have?  A loving father?  A patient husband?  A peaceful follower of Yahweh?  He had never seen any of these.  So, he thought being a man meant might.  And he joined up with other Sicarii young men doing terrible things.  They hurt.  They killed.  And the brokenness of this young man was complete.  Not only did his feelings inside not match his actions outside, he didn’t even allow himself the luxury of any feelings at all. 

Then he met someone.  His name was Jesus.  This man seemed to portray manhood and faithful Judaism in a way he had never seen before.  This Jesus was utterly and completely peaceful.  He wasn’t afraid to touch, to hug, to cry, to welcome the child and the outcast.  He seemed to nearly always be threatened, but he never kept weapons on the kitchen table.  The lonely little boy, who became a violent man, wanted to be like this Jesus.  So he followed him around.  He stopped fighting.  He rarely visited his family, knowing they would wake the sleeping criminal within him, and he did not want that.

Jesus seemed to look right through him, and could see the pain in his eyes, a pain this young man had hid for so long he forgot it was there.  Jesus saw it in how quickly his temper flared.  In racial slurs he would make about others.  In how the community of disciples was like an oasis in the desert of this man’s life, one who had never really known true, loving family. 

And slowly, the inside of this man, (who’s name you know by now surely – Judas) began to match the outside.  When he prayed for God’s will to be done, he meant it.  When he spent money from the common purse to feed the hungry, he actually cared for them.  When he listened to Jesus, he deeply believed him.  But remember, our boy Judas was broken.  And brokenness, when not faced and dealt with, will always leave unsteadiness in a person.  Luke says that the chief priests and scribes were looking for someone to betray Jesus. 

It was obvious who the choice should be.  The fisherman?  Nope.  The tax man?  Nope.  The man raised by assassins?  Oh, yes.  It was all too easy to pull at the strings of violence and betrayal so deeply woven into that poor child’s soul.  The text says Satan entered him.  Sure.  But this wasn’t some sneaky fellow with a red pointed tail.  This was the darkness that took root in this child when he learned to fall asleep to lullabies of violence in his home.  (And, I cannot stress this enough, it was not his fault that such darkness dwelled in him, and was sparked to life by those scribes and chief priests.  It was not his fault.)

Jesus knew Judas was easy prey.  And at that dinner table – a table Judas came to love because instead of weapons it bore bread and wine – Jesus said one of them would betray him.  Judas put to practice once more that skill he had to learn as a teenager.  He felt guilt and fear inside, but showed absolutely nothing outside.  He ate the blessed bread.  He drank the holy wine.  And his heart broke with every bite, and every sip, knowing this was the last time he’d ever gather at such a table.

We know, of course, the rest of the story.  It is a tragic ending to a tragic life.  If only Judas could have remained the little boy who found joy in climbing trees and talking to God.  But the world he knew, the family he was born into, would not have allowed that. 

Was he guilty of betraying Jesus?  Oh, goodness, yes.  Did he ever really have any other option, given the life he lived?  Perhaps not. 

I tell you this story because we often think of this betrayer as so very different from ourselves:  He was a terrorist, born and bred.  He prized money more than his savior’s life.  He did not survive making that choice.    

But, I ask, what if we became our worst possible selves?  What if we never heard we were loved or valued until we were adults?  What if people knew exactly how to press our buttons and manipulate us?  What would we be capable of doing?

I tell you this story, because we need to see that the line between good and evil, between love and hate, between peace and violence, is rather thin.  You might say it’s as thin as a table, and we tip one way or another based on what we see on that table. 

So let us come to this table, and bring all of our histories here: the times we were lonely children, the times we had to confront violence we did not understand, the times one we loved brought us suffering or suffered themselves, the times we chose the path of selfishness.  Let us come to this table, and, by the grace of God, have our insides and outsides match.  Let us face all that we have endured, especially as children, and bring that to the One who welcomed all the children to him. 

Here, we are fed –  all of us – even Judas.  Here, the painful things are not ignored (this was where Jesus chose to reveal his betrayal).  And here, we can become better, but only if we do it together.  Only if we work through our own history with a trusted friend, a pastor, or a therapist.  Only if we carefully lay down our crosses in vulnerability, knowing that we are fed by One who took all our pain, all our pasts, all our hurt and sin to the cross with him. 


Come to this table, to discover the line between good and evil, love and hate, peace and violence, and allow the grace of God to tip our weary hearts in the right direction: towards the God who shelters us in safe trees, winking back in the starry night as we pray for a better life, not just for us, but for all who live in fear and violence in the world below.  Amen.

Sunday, March 20, 2016

An Overturned Table

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March 20, 2016 - Palm Sunday
Matthew 21:1-17

21 When they had come near Jerusalem and had reached Bethphage, at the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two disciples, saying to them, “Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately you will find a donkey tied, and a colt with her; untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, just say this, ‘The Lord needs them.’ And he will send them immediately.” This took place to fulfill what had been spoken through the prophet, saying,
“Tell the daughter of Zion,
Look, your king is coming to you,
    humble, and mounted on a donkey,
        and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.”
The disciples went and did as Jesus had directed them; they brought the donkey and the colt, and put their cloaks on them, and he sat on them. A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting,
“Hosanna to the Son of David!
    Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!”
10 When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, “Who is this?”
11 The crowds were saying,
“This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.”
12 Then Jesus entered the temple and drove out all who were selling and buying in the temple, and he overturned the tables of the money changers and the seats of those who sold doves. 13 He said to them,
“It is written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer’;
    but you are making it a den of robbers.”
14 The blind and the lame came to him in the temple, and he cured them. 15 But when the chief priests and the scribes saw the amazing things that he did, and heard the children crying out in the temple,
“Hosanna to the Son of David,”
they became angry 16 and said to him,
“Do you hear what these are saying?”
Jesus said to them, “Yes; have you never read,
‘Out of the mouths of infants and nursing babies
    you have prepared praise for yourself’?”
17 He left them, went out of the city to Bethany, and spent the night there.


Sermon: An Overturned Table

We know the story, or at least we think we do. Here’s how we usually think Jesus’ triumphal entry happened: he borrowed a donkey (or two, depending on the gospel), rode into Jerusalem and was greeted by a parade of palm-waving city folk, shouting “Hosanna!” A week later, those same people in Jerusalem shouted something much worse: “Crucify him.”

You know the story, don’t you?

What if I told you that might not have been what happened?  You see, we only tend to focus on the middle of the story, when in fact the beginning and the end of the passage tell us what that event was all about.

Let’s start with the beginning: not the entry into Jerusalem, before that.  Jesus borrowed a donkey or two from a village.  Bethany and Bethphage are mentioned in the gospels. These were places entirely unlike Jerusalem.  According to very early writings, they were likely places for the sick to go, which is why Lazarus was there.  Bethany especially was for the outcasts, the poor, and the caregivers.  This was, of course, to keep them separate from all the healthy, important folk in Jerusalem, geographically close-by, but socially miles apart. 

It matters that Jesus started that Easter journey with donkeys borrowed from Bethany or Bethphage.  It matters that the first to publicly shout, “Hosanna!,” the first to cry, “Save us!” knew what they needed saving from.  They needed to be saved from illness.  They needed to be saved from poverty.  But mostly they needed to be saved from invisibility, from being forgotten.   And if you think this is the same crowd as those who shouted, “Crucify him!” a week later, think again.  (I had to!)  These were mostly sick, poor, small town folk.  The crowd in Jerusalem at Jesus’ sentencing were certainly not that. 

No, these faithful don’t deserve to be thought of as so changeable and violent.  They shouted hosanna.  What did the city folk in Jerusalem shout?  Well, the text tells us: they didn’t say “Save us!” or “Messiah.”  They asked, “Who is this?”  Now that suspicious question sounds a lot more like the crucify crowd to me.  The best they could do was call him a prophet.

So, that’s how the story we think we know so well most likely began: with a crowd of poor, outcast, sick folks and their tireless (and exhausted) caregivers.  Note how many children there were present, and how vocal they were, and remember that children in that society were the lowest of the low status-wise, barely above that borrowed donkey, or the slave who watered it. 

And what happened next?  Did Jesus take his triumphal moment and enjoy a nice big celebration with his friends?  Did he hold a press conference to tout his awesomeness?  No.  He went straight into that temple, perhaps even still riding the donkey!  And he got to work.

Ann Weems captures it as only she can:
Our church school teacher tried to dilute the story
but I had a picture of Jesus with the whip in his hand.
The whip was snapping…I could almost hear it…
The moneychangers cowered against the whip’s threat;
Tables were overturned.
Some of the men were up and running.
The cows and sheep were scattering.
Doves were scrambling in their cages.
Coins were rolling and flying through the air.
The face of Jesus showed fury!
Cows and sheep and doves sold for sacrifices,
Roman money changed into the Tyrian shekels
required for the annual head tax
that went into the temple treasury.
In other words, it was church business.
But Jesus thought otherwise:
God’s house was being desecrated.
He drove the moneychangers out of the temple.

So Jesus started in a place for the poor and the sick.  And then he went through the privileged crowd of Jerusalem, to the place where the poor and sick should always come first: the temple.  When he saw that there, too, they were being taken advantage of, he lost it. 
“My house shall be called a house of prayer;
but you are making it a den of robbers.” he shouted. 
And in response, those wealthy, religious folk came one step closer to shouting, “Crucify!”

He who, as a child, unrolled the scroll to Isaiah and astounded the religious elite in the temple with his wisdom, found a less enthused audience as he did it again.  The fuller passage from Isaiah chapter 56 is this:

the foreigners who join themselves to the Lord,    
 to minister to him, to love the name of the Lord,
    and to be his servants,
all who keep the sabbath, and do not profane it,
    and hold fast my covenant—
these I will bring to my holy mountain,
    and make them joyful in my house of prayer;
their burnt offerings and their sacrifices
    will be accepted on my altar;
for my house shall be called a house of prayer
    for all peoples.
Thus says the Lord God,
    who gathers the outcasts of Israel,
I will gather others to them
    besides those already gathered.

The Lord, who gathers the outcasts into a house of prayer for all peoples.  Isn’t that why Jesus started in Bethany or Bethphage, the colony of outcasts?  Wasn’t he just trying to put flesh onto the bones of his Isaiah sermons? 

And, ultimately, wasn’t that why he was such a threat to those in power, those who had the influence to stir a crowd into a frenzy until they became violent?

Jesus shows us in this story – as it really happened -- something very significant about what it means to follow him.  Let’s put it into a handy 3-point plan, shall we? (Trinitarian to boot!)

1.   Go to Bethany or Bethphage, where the outcasts are, the people who the rest of society prefers to keep at arm’s length: the homeless, the sick (mentally and physically), the grieving, the foreigner, the children.  Our Bethany might be a street corner.  It might be a hospital waiting room, or the Moore Free Clinic.  It might be a kindergarten classroom with low-income kids struggling to learn a second language, when they barely know the first. Go and find Jesus there.  He’s never left.  He’s never forgotten them.

2.   Once you have gone there, go through the places of power: the main roads, the places valued by society.  Be prepared for people to respond with, “Who are you?”  Don’t adopt the ways of that place and those people, but go with humility, riding on a proverbial donkey as Jesus did.  Don’t be afraid to make a scene and stand out.  (Just remember it’s about Jesus, not you.)

3.   Finally, go to the church, that place where people of our same faith gather.  That place is certainly here on Wednesday nights with choir and chimes, and Sunday mornings.  It’s also in yoga on Mondays, a coffee shop on Thursdays and Sunday afternoons, in living rooms on random Tuesdays and even on the golf course on Saturdays.  Go to where other Christians gather, and pay attention to what’s happening there.  Who’s being worshipped?  Who’s not?  Who’s being served?  Who’s not? Are there idols?  Building?  Money?  The preacher, even?  Turn over those tables (well, be gentle with your preacher, please).  Make God’s house a house of prayer for all peoples.

4.   (Okay, so there’s a fourth step!)  Now, go home.  Notice how things seem different.  Notice who would be comfortable there: is it more like Bethany – a place for the sick and overlooked –
or Jerusalem – a place for the wealthy and powerful? (Note that Jesus chose to leave Jerusalem at the end of our story, and spend the night back in humble Bethany.) Notice whether that home mirrors the faith you profess: do you have more than you need, tables of greed that should be overturned?  Do people speak with love and compassion there, or shout in anger?  Does that place even have its own Bethany within it, where you keep someone you live with at arm’s length?  Do you see Jesus there?  He is there, too, you know.

I’ll leave you with a few more words, what turns into a prayer for us on this Palm Sunday, from Ann Weems, about the fateful day Jesus borrowed a donkey from deserted people and marched it right into the place of power.

“O Jesus, you showed us God
when you showed yourself,
but we didn’t see, we didn’t see.
The word of God walked across our lives,
but we didn’t hear, we didn’t hear.
We didn’t allow your footsteps
to crunch into our souls.
We stuck to business as usual,
even church business,
even on Sunday.
And our tables are up for overturning.
Give us a sign.
Give us a sign.
And we who have the rainbow
and all the stars in the sky ask God for further ID.
As though there were no ten commandments,
as though we were never told
that God will not stand for idolatry.
As though we never heard of being the people of God.
As though we never heard of living in covenant.
There will be no other gods before me.
No other gods.
As though Jesus never said
“You should love the Lord your God
with all your heart, and soul and mind,
and you should love your neighbor as yourself
as yourself
as yourself.”   

Amen.