Preaching from the Palm Sunday story
Palm Sunday suffers from the curse of the familiar. No preacher, myself included, will be able to surprise anyone this Sunday with a story they know so well. Do we see what it means though? I have been thinking about that as I return to my narrative roots…
_________
From that whole day, there is ONE sound I will always remember – just one.
Not the shouting of the crowd – as fickle and meaningless as a branch in the wind knocking on a door pretending to be a visitor. It would be as soon gone as come – and those who shouted themselves hoarse one day, would jeer themselves silly the next. Like dogs barking at a passer-by, whether friend or foe – they would cheer for heroes, villains and everything in between. No – it was not the sound of the crowd
It was not the rasping disapproval of the grey-bearded men either. Goodness knows, I had heard it often enough. Their lips hidden by their beards and their hearts hidden by their robes they would disapprove of anyone and anything if it suited them. Their plea to the “teacher” to make it stop cut no ice with me…nor him , for that matter.
It was not the sound of the donkey’s hooves either – poor humble beast bearing just another burden. They fell softer than a horse, daintier somehow – and all but drowned out by the crowd.
No, it was not the hoof beats of the beast, nor the shouting of the crowd, nor the sneering disapproval of the greybeards that I remember.
It was the tears of a king.
I was just there, you see – just at the crest of the hill as Jerusalem spread out before him and his speech caught with a sob.
How could he be a king, and yet unable to sort things out?
How could he so vulnerable…yet welcomed like a king?
We know this story so well, and yet its meaning eludes us. The contrasts are like a hall of mirrors – never allowing us to see the full picture except in snatches.
