I Tell You, If These Were Silent
The Rev. Josh Shipman
I: Palm Sunday, II: Maundy Thursday, and III: Good Friday Year C, 2016
Luke 19:28-40; John 13:1-17; 31b-35; Isaiah 52:13-53:12
I: Palm Sunday
I tell you, if these were silent
the stones would shout out.
Do you think they could see them,
as they were coming down
the Mount of Olives?
There in the place called the Skull.
Perhaps hundreds of them,
some bloodied posts
poking the sky.
Most of the others, though,
with crossbeams attached,
and attached to those crossbeams
people whom the Roman powers
viewed as trash—
less than human:
slaves
pirates
enemies of the state[1]
But maybe they were just
numb to the sight,
indifferent to the cruelty
of their Roman overlords.
But Luke’s Gospel
paints the most jubilant scene
of all—
so they were most likely
swept up in the joy
of the moment.
It had been a long journey.
Luke’s “journey to Jerusalem”
takes up 40% of the Gospel—
or 10 chapters.
And, now, they are finally
arriving.
Lo, your king comes to you,
triumphant and victorious is he;
humble and riding on a donkey,
on a colt,
the foal of a donkey.
Luke doesn’t quote this
verse from Zechariah,
as Matthew does,
but the allusion is clear.
But what kind of Messiah
rides a donkey?
Not the one they were expecting.—
this is probably why Jesus
consciously appropriated these images—
to dispel the idea that he was
a Warrior King, and replace it
with one of a Suffering Servant.
Then hurriedly they all took
their cloaks and spread them for him…
and they blew the trumpet,
and proclaimed Jehu is king.
Again, Luke alludes to rather
than quotes this passage
from the Second Book of Kings.
In fact, the word King is
not even used until
the whole band of disciples cry out,
Blessed is the King
who comes in the name of the Lord![2]
At Jesus’ birth, angels,
in Luke’s telling,
proclaim—
Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace to those whom he favors!
But here, the disciples proclaim—
Peace in heaven
and glory in the highest heaven!
Despite the Christmas proclamation
peace has not been achieved on earth.
Not because of an inability
on God’s part to bring peace,
but because of an unwillingness
on the part of humans
to receive a message of peace.[3]
Jesus’ message has been received
with animosity, murderous threats,
and outrage.
Upon seeing Jerusalem,
Jesus will weep and say,
‘If you, even you,
had only recognized on this day
the things that make for peace!
But now they are hidden
from your eyes.
Indeed, the days will come upon you,
when your enemies will set up ramparts
around you
and surround you,
and hem you in on every side.
They will crush you to the ground,
you and your children within you,
and they will not leave within you
one stone upon another;
because you did not recognize
the time of your visitation from God.’
But right now,
in this moment,
joy,
at this misunderstood
Messiah King.
This is the story of Palm Sunday:
a story of triumph
turning into tragedy.
A merry band of disciples
coming down a mountain road,
but in the distance,
the crosses pierce the sky.
Perhaps the Pharisees
are the shrewd ones
in this case—
“Be quiet! Don’t you know
at this Holy time of year,
the Romans are particularly
sensitive to any disturbances
or rabble rousing!”
I tell you, if these were silent
the stones would shout out.
Meanwhile,
the crosses cast their silent shadow.
II: Maundy Thursday
Do you know what I have done to you?
I remember the first time
I attended a Maundy Thursday service.
I have to admit—
it reminded me of To Kill a Mockingbird
and all of the jabs
about “them footwashing Baptists.”
I somehow managed to be born
into a non-footwashing Baptist sect.
I was uncomfortable—
and truthfully a little worried
that my ticklish feet
would set off a humiliating
case of the giggles.
I didn’t go up
and participate in that part
of the service.
A few years later,
I was at a cathedral for the service—
the dean made an elaborate display
of taking his priest’s stole off,
and tying it like a deacon’s stole,
draped across his shoulder.
I didn’t participate that year, either.
When I joined Saint Thomas,
the church
that would sponsor me
for the priesthood, though,
things were different.
It was truly a community
of people who loved each other—
maybe imperfectly at times,
but nevertheless the love was clear and present.
I decided that my years
of fearing the footwashing
were over.
I went forward,
and it just happened
that I ended up washing
the feet of my priest’s son, John.
For years, I was the master—
teaching John and his brother George
how to make strawberry cakes from scratch,
or wowing them with other elaborate desserts,
or, in my last years in Denver,
cooking the entire Thanksgiving meal
for my beloved friends.
And there I was,
kneeling and washing John’s feet.
Out of the corner of my eye
I could see Ruth,
my priest and friend,
and John’s mother,
silently weeping.
(pause)
Love is patient;
love is kind;
love is not envious or boastful
or arrogantor rude.
It does not insist on its own way;
it is not irritable or resentful;
it does not rejoice in wrongdoing,
but rejoices in the truth.
It bears all things,
believes all things,
hopes all things,
endures all things.
If I were to add an addendum
to Saint Paul’s letter,
it might say
love is clichéd.
How many times have
you heard these lines from Corinthians
read at weddings or in other places?
It could be that they’ve
just become beautiful words
that make us feel good,
but from overuse
have lost their original power.
This may be how it is
with the commandment
that Jesus gives us in our Gospel selection.
We read it year after year,
I give you a new commandment,
that you love one another.
Oh, that sounds nice.
And it sounds easy enough,
doesn’t it?
Everyone wants to be loving, right?
Except, maybe for Oscar the Grouch.
Some forms of love come easier than others.
Let’s say you have Person A:
someone who wants to appear loving.
And along comes Person B:
someone who appears to be in need.
A match made in heaven?
Person A gets something
out of the relationship.
Person B gets something
out of the relationship.
But that’s more co-dependency
than it is love.[4]
This is the problem with
words that lose their power
after years of overuse.
John’s community
was a very insular one—
which is why it often seems
that the Gospel paints an
“us against the world”
picture.
And who knows what all
they were up against?
The division between
the early Christians
and the early Rabbinic Schools of Judaism
had grown much sharper
after the destruction of the Temple.
Love for one another
might have been the only thing
this group could manage—
it might have been
the only thing that bound them together
in trying times,
in times of great external and internal turmoil.[5]
Our rituals, our words—
they have no meaning
unless we are transformed by them.
Do you know what I have done to you?
Jesus says to his disciples.
But the more troubling question may be:
Lord, do we know what we’ve
done to you?
III: Good Friday
He was despised
and rejected by others;
a man of suffering
and acquainted with infirmity.
Or in the words of my favorite
piece of music, Handel’s Messiah:
He was despised
and rejected of men,
a man of sorrows
and acquainted with grief
He gave his back to the smiters
and his cheeks to them
that plucked off the hair:
he hid not his face
from shame and spitting.
Actually, moreso than Christmas,
Holy Week
is when I think
of Handel’s Messiah the most:
Surely he hath borne our griefs
and carried our sorrows!
He was wounded
for our transgressions,
he was bruised for our iniquities;
the chastisement of our peace
was upon him.
Thy rebuke hath broken his heart:
He looked for some
to have pity on him,
but there was no man,
neither found he any
to comfort him.
Like Handel,
the early Christians
turned to familiar books
of the Hebrew Scriptures
when they began to shape
their narratives about Jesus.
How could the Messiah,
the one who was to
overthrow the kingdoms
of the world,
die a shameful death—
an execution reserved
for non-Roman citizens,
and people stripped
of their citizenship.
The New Testament writers
pored over
the Hebrew Scriptures
and found the image
of the Suffering Servant.
Most likely, originally,
a symbol of Israel—
the Gospel writers saw
the parallels:
Exalted and lifted up.
An appearance that was marred.
Despised.
Rejected.
Like a lamb, led to slaughter.
His grave with the wicked.[6]
Unfortunately,
for centuries the Church
used these powerful images
of suffering
as an excuse to persecute Jews,
a grave perversion of Scripture
that has led to unspeakable
crimes against humanity.
A gentle reminder
that Jesus and all of the early Christians
were Jewish.
So how do we move forward,
without getting caught up
in perverted anti-Semitism
or dreadful Atonement theologies?
Perhaps by thinking
about other people we know
who could be described
as rejected,
people of sorrows,
acquainted with grief—
people who wear oppression
like a lead vest every day
of their lives.
Do you know of anybody
who has suffered
a perversion of justice?
Do you know anybody
crushed with pain?
When we begin to see the
sufferings of Christ
in other people,
we are less likely
to perpetuate the evil systems
that yoke and destroy them.
But there is more.
What about your own suffering?
The early Church grew, in part,
I imagine,
because the gathered people
could see in Christ
their own sufferings,
their own persecutions—
as the Body of Christ corporately,
but also as individual members of it.
We see reflected in Jesus’ face
all of our joys
and all of our sorrows.
On this day
in the Church year,
we stand at the foot of the Cross.
The stones that were shouting out, before,
may well be splashed in His blood.
We understand better, now,
what he has done to us.
He was despised
and rejected by others;
a man of suffering
and acquainted with infirmity.
A bare tree will gladden the sky.
1
[1]Wikipedia contributors, "Crucifixion,"Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, March 19, 2016).
[2]
[3]
[4]
[5]Mays, James L., and Joseph Blenkinsopp.The HarperCollins Bible commentary. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2000.
[6]