Palm Sunday at Redeemer Episcopal Church

One of the faith practices I encourage with my students is to put themselves into a story when we read it together. It doesn’t matter if it’s a news story or a Bible story, I think it helps us practice empathy and reflect on where we are in the social construct. 

We heard a lot of scripture this morning. More than we hear in almost any other Sunday morning. So I’ll give you a minute to look back at your bulletin and reflect on who you might be in this story. 

My friend Shea reflected on it in this way: 

Of all the characters present in the story of Jesus’ final week in Jerusalem, there is only one that I would willingly choose to be. 

It certainly wouldn’t be Jesus. Because while he enters the city as a hero, surrounded by crowds shouting, begging for their salvation with Hosannas and spreading their cloaks along the ground in front of him. But that’s not how his week ends. 

No, if I could be any character in Jesus’ story, I’d choose to be the colt. The colt had one simple task. Carry Jesus to the place he wanted to go. And the colt did it. For the colt, serving Jesus was simple. Easy. Painless. It had a certain beginning and a certain end. He didn’t have to worry about what happened after his job was done. 

But am not the colt. 

The role I’d play in Jesus’ last week in Jerusalem is much more tragic. 

I am the disciple whose feet have been washed by the Son of God who, hours later, fell asleep when I should have watched and prayed with my Lord. 

I am the disciple who took bread and wine from Jesus’ own hands and then left the table, was paid my 30 pieces of silver, and led the soldiers into the garden and greeted the Prince of Peace with a kiss of betrayal. 

I am the religious leader in the crowd who tells Jesus to make his followers stop shouting, stop making a scene, stop drawing too much attention to himself as he enters into the holy city. 

I am a part of the assembly of elders who handed Jesus over to Pilate and falsely accused him of all sorts of things that threatened my own way of life. 

I am Pilate, eager to wash my hands of this whole affair and let someone else handle the problem, even if it leads to an unjust sentence. 

I am Herod, asking Jesus to do some sign, waiting for him to help me put a more secure hold on my own power. 

I am Peter, denying Jesus over and over and over again. 

I am in the crowd who, days before shouted Hosanna, now screams “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

I am the soldier mocking the King. Dividing his clothes for a souvenir of this celebration of horror. 

I am the soldier with the nail and the hammer.

I am the one with the spear.

I am casting lots for his clothing and standing by, watching. 

And after witnessing this horror. Reveling in this death. Hearing the gasping breath tearing into the lungs of Jesus who says “Forgive them, Father, for they don’t know what they’re doing.” After hearing that God will have mercy on even the criminals hanging next to him, even the ones who are below mocking him. Even the ones who nailed him to that cross. Only after all that do I say, “Certainly this man was innocent.” Only then do I wail and beat by breast at this spectacle that has taken place. 

Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy. Amen.