Oriented Towards Hope

A Sermon Inspired by Psalm 40:1-11

Part 1 of #DaysofHope Sermon Series 

(a worship series adapted with permission from 
HOPE: Living with Confident Expectation Creative Brief 

by The United Methodist Church of the Resurrection)

Image: Hoping Against Hope © Jan Richardson

“I put all my hope in the Lord. He leaned down to me. He listened to my cry for help.”

I knew bargaining with God wouldn’t work…not because what I was offering wasn’t enough. Not because I didn’t think God was able. But because I knew that requiring bargains for his favor, requiring a sacrifice for his grace, that’s just not who God is.

Still, as I sat, tears streaming down my face, tucked away in the corner of a hospital floor waiting for the call that my mom had made it through emergency surgery, I tried to strike a bargain with God of all the ways I would be more faithful, pray more, love more, if He would just let my mom be okay. Maybe it was because I was sitting next to a snack vending machine as I prayed…and I thought if I could just punch the right numbers with my prayer and deposit the right amount of currency with my promises, then God’s mercy would come tumbling like a package of chips or candy bar from above and life could return to normal. Maybe it was because, even though I had been offered a more abundant understanding of God’s grace my entire lifetime raised in the United Methodist Church, somewhere deep inside me this twisted theology that God sends bad stuff our way to teach us or to punish us had made an unholy home with its false teaching. Or maybe…it’s because, in the dark and miry pit I found myself in that day, I was desperately searching for a ray of hope wherever I could find it.

When, in your life, have you been desperately searching for hope? 

For all of us, at some point in our lives, we will find ourselves at the end of a road, when all the others paths have been exhausted, with no options left. When the doctor says there is nothing more we can do for you. When we lose our jobs and don’t have enough saved up to pay next month’s bills. When a child, a parent, a loved one has cancer. When our spouse or friend hurts us in a way we are not sure we can recover from. When we realize that no matter what happens, life is never going to be the same.

That’s exactly what the Psalmist means when he writes about his experience in sinking down in the muddy, filthy pit of death in Psalm 40. Walter Brueggemann, a renowned Biblical scholar, calls these instances in life, when we feel like we are at the end of our rope, seasons of disorientation, and he points out how they are reflected not only in Scripture, in the Psalms, but in the very lived experience of Israel as well.[1] Time after time, Israel found itself under attack from enemies, confused, and the people, often through the voice of the Psalmist or the Prophet, would cry out to God for deliverance.

Yet, Brueggemann observes, before Israel experienced a season of disorientation, there had to be a season of orientation. In a season of orientation, everything makes sense in our lives. Things are going well, we feel settled, our personal lives feel ordered, and the world feels mostly at peace. Seasons of orientation are when you can happily drink out of a coffee mug like this that says, “Life is good” without any sense of irony.

For me, the year leading up to the discovery of an aggressive, cancerous tumor compressing my mother’s spinal cord and her emergency, life-saving surgery was a season of orientation. Adam and I got married. He graduated with his master’s degree and got his first professional job as a social worker within a month. We adopted our dog Haddie. We didn’t worry too much about money. We enjoyed spending lazy Sunday afternoons with our friends, talking about our plans for the future. And two months before I would be crying in that hospital waiting room, I was joyfully celebrating as I walked across the front of Benton Chapel and received my Master of Divinity degree after three hard years of work at Vanderbilt.

Life was good…until it wasn’t.

But that’s how seasons work, right? No season of life lasts forever. There are times in our lives when everything is going right. Life isn’t perfect, because, let’s face it, life never is! But, we are healthy, and our loved ones are healthy, too. We have a roof over our heads and food on the table. Maybe, we even have enough extra income to enjoy a vacation every once in a while. In seasons of orientation, we can join in with the Psalmist and sing out, “Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name throughout the earth!” (Psalm 8:1). Many of us, we were living in a season of orientation until March 2020. I imagine, for most of us, even if we had the occasional complaint or something that we were worried about…life, for the most part, was good.

Until it wasn’t. First came the news reports from China, and then Italy. And, while we felt sorry for the people in those countries, we thought, “We’re safe here.” And then came the first reports from New York and Seattle, and maybe we were a little more concerned…but life went on as normal. And, then the reports that the virus was in Tennessee, maybe not where we live yet, but in our state. And, the people we knew who were undergoing medical treatments or who are living in remission from cancer got a little more careful, but we still went to work and the grocery store and to the Saw Meal to eat supper.

And then churches suspended in-person worship services. Schools sent students home and cancelled prom. Restaurants closed dining rooms. Grocery stores and gas stations put up plexiglass shields. And, if we were lucky enough to be able to still work, the way we did our jobs day to day probably significantly changed.

In seasons of disorientation, we can commiserate with the one who cries out in Psalm 13, “How long will you forget me, Lord? Forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long will I be left to my own wits, agony filling my heart? Daily?” We know what Israel felt like when they were under attack, from enemies or famine or disease, when they didn’t understand, when they lamented to God in frustration and anger. At our most honest moments, we might wonder like they did, “Where are you, God? Are you really there?”

In the fall, our congregations spent time studying the Psalms, digging into these songs of faith at the center of the Bible, these words of Scripture that express the highest of highs and lowest of lows in human emotions and experiences. If you remember, when we looked at the Psalms, we studied Psalms of lament, these psalms that begin with confusion and chaos and cries of mourning. But…that’s not where these psalms end, remember?

Consider Psalm 13. It may begin with the question, “How long will you forget me, Lord?” but by the end the writer has turned back towards God saying, “BUT…I trust in your steadfast love. My heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord because he has been good to me.”

But. That is a word of hope. But.

When we find ourselves in seasons of disorientation, like the one we are all collectively experiencing right now, like the one I was in while my mom was in surgery, like the ones we have experienced when a loved one dies or our lives feel like they are falling apart, we all need hope. Hope is what keeps us going. Hope is what gets us up in the morning. Hope is what keeps us from giving up.

When Israel found itself in seasons of disorientation, it’s hope came from trusting in God. When their world fell apart, the Israelites would turn back to God, get serious about listening to God through the witness of Scripture and the witness of prayer. And Israel would find hope in God because they knew God has saved them before, and he would do it again.

Hope for them became a choice. Hope was the choice to believe, that despite the appearance of their present circumstances, the future would be better than the present because God would be faithful. Even after listing all the ways they felt abandoned or lost, hope was the choice to say, “But God….”

Walter Brueggemann reminds us that after the disorientation that interrupted their season of orientation, there always came a third season for the Israelites—a season of reorientation. God would redeem the Israelites, would bring good things our of their pain. In the words of Psalm 40, God would lift them out of the pit and set their feet on solid rock. New life happened. Deliverance came. And the Israelites would be changed.

Friends, I believe this sort of hope is being born in us right now. Not a hope that things will return to normal, that the life we had in January or February would come back in May or in June. Our world is being changed by this season of disorientation. Just like the Israelites as they emerged from disorientation to reorientation, we are being changed. There is no returning to normal.

But, if we choose hope, our lives can be changed for the better. What we learn from Scripture is that God redeems time periods like this, these seasons of disorientation. God brings us through them and sets our feet on solid ground. And we can trust this is true because of the hope we celebrate together in the miracle of Easter. Even in this season of disorientation, we have been proclaiming together the stories of our faith. That God put on skin and in Jesus came to live among us. That as Jesus performed miracles and preached, healed and prayed, he showed us the love of God and taught us how to experience relationship with him through faith. That he willing laid down his life, suffering and dying on the cross, and experienced his own season of disorientation as he cried out the words of Psalm 22, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”

BUT…thank you, God, for that word of hope…But, on the third day, the stone rolled away and Jesus walked out of the tomb alive.

The Easter story is our story in every season. When life is going great, when life is falling apart, when we are trying to put the pieces of our life back together again, there is always hope because Jesus lives!

God was faithful like he promised. God redeemed even Christ’s suffering and death and used it for the good of our salvation.

Because of Easter, you and I can live our lives oriented towards hope in every season. Because of Jesus, we put ALL of our hope in the Lord. Because of Jesus, we can sing a new song of praise. Because of Jesus, we can choose to believe and live in the truth that the future will be better than the present.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

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[1] Praying the Psalms by Walter Brueggemann (Cascade Book, 2007).

Peace in the Unknown

A Sermon inspired by John 20:19-31

The Incredulity of Saint Thomas by Caravaggio (1620)

 

Doubting Thomas.

Now, see, I already have trouble with the way tell Thomas’s story. He is forever remembered as Doubting Thomas. And, I feel like I need to defend Thomas, to take up for him and other people in the Bible who get a “bad rep” in the ways their stories are remembered and told.

To be honest, I’ve never really gotten the way that we interpret the story of Thomas in John 20 as the perpetual doubter. To me, the story is less about Thomas’ doubt and more about the beauty of the mystery of faith. It’s about the truth that in faith we will always have more questions than we do answers and, that even in the midst of the questions and doubts we have, the risen Jesus will show up and say, “Peace.”

Maybe we like to hate on Thomas because, honestly, it makes us feel better about ourselves. “See, Thomas,” we say. “You didn’t believe the others disciples about Jesus, that we was raised from the dead. You demanded to see him risen for yourself. But see, Thomas, I’ve only read the Bible, and I believe! And Jesus says that makes me blessed!”

And, then this next part Jesus doesn’t say, but I think we add it in our minds. “I’m blessed because I’ve not seen, yet I believe. And that makes me better than you, Thomas.”

Because, we do that all the time, don’t we? We divide the world up into categories to make ourselves feel better.

We divide ourselves into those of use who work hard and those who we think take advantage of charity or try to live off the government. Though, I haven’t heard of anyone of us calling Washington this past week to say we would like them to not send us a stimulus check because we are hard-working Americans.

We see a difference between those of us who have common sense and the people who we wonder how they get their shoes on the right feet each morning. Yet, I wonder how many of us have shared a post on social media or told someone about something we heard on a cable news channel without doing our own research to fully check out the facts for ourselves to make sure we weren’t spreading sensational stories that bend the truth?

We put the world into two categories—those of us who are most good people and those who are mostly bad people.

And, it’s this last category that really sneaks up on us. Sure, in church, we’ll say that we are all sinners saved by grace. But, we divide sins into categories all the time, deciding which ones are worse than others. And, usually, the sins that come our as not so bad in our minds, those are the ones we happen to be guilty of.

Really, when you are honest with yourself, haven’t you at some point looked at another person, someone who has made some bad choices that you don’t think you are capable of doing, and thought, “Wow! I am so glad that I am not like them!”

Jesus told a story about that in Luke 18:9-14.

Jesus tells this story about a Pharisee and a tax collector who come to pray at the temple. Now, when we hear the word Pharisee, we should read “religious person” or “righteous person.” The kind of person who is “right with God.” The kind of person who goes to church faithfully every Sunday. The kind of person who has been watching more than one sermon in this season of social distancing. This religious person comes into the temple and start praying OUT LOUD, “Dear God, thank you so much that I am not like this tax collector, like this sinner. I have studied your Word. I follow your rules. I give 10% of my income to the church. Thank you, so much God, that you did not make me like that person.”

The moral of the story, Jesus tells us, is that the Pharisee has missed the grace of God offered to him, the grace that the tax collector experiences. Because the Pharisee doesn’t understand that he is in need of mercy, too.

We all are in need of God’s grace, and when we begin to recognize that fact that is when we begin to in the kingdom of God. That is when we begin to understand that maybe we are more like Thomas than we care to admit. So, maybe the story that we read today is not a cautionary tale, a reminder to not be like Thomas, but, instead, is a story of grace and peace for the moment when we embrace who we are—people who have questions about faith and people who don’t always have the answers.

Jesus offers peace in the story he tells about the Pharisee and the tax collector, peace to those of us who are in desperate need of God’s love and grace. And in the story that we read today, Jesus offers peace to the disciples and to Thomas, too.

The peace Jesus gives is peace from the one who has faced death and is still alive, peace from the resurrected Christ. As Jesus speaks peace to his disciples, we are reminded of the words he shared with them at the Last Supper in John 14:27, “Peace I leave with you. My peace I give to you.” Now, in the upper room and behind locked doors, the disciples are reminded of that peace again. It’s a peace that abides despite all the hurt and harm and hate the world can throw their way. The world did its worst to the Messiah and, yet, God’s compassion and care embodied in Jesus is alive and well as he stands in their midst again.

Now, because Jesus is risen, peace is for every time in our lives! Peace is for when we feel like Thomas, when we feel like giving up, when we feel like our faith isn’t big enough to stand up to all the bad in the world. Peace is for when our illusions about this “basically good person” we think we are come crashing down around our heads. Like when we admit that we manipulated a situation to our advantage and called it good business sense. Like when confess that sometimes we say things when we are angry just to hurt someone else but then act like we are only telling the truth and it’s that person’s fault if they can’t handle it. Like when we hurt the people we love most in this world. The peace of the Christ who died for our sins and was raised to life again by God’s love…his peace is for moments like that, too.

Because his peace looks like undeserved mercy and amazing grace.

After speaking peace to his disciples, Jesus breathes the Holy Spirit over them. And in this breath, I’m reminded of how God breathes into us the breath of life in Genesis.[1] I imagine with the prophet Ezekiel how the breath of God can make the dry and weary bones in our body live again![2] Jesus breathes this same breath of God, of the Holy Spirit on the disciples as he commissions them to continue the loving, healing, peace-giving work that he started.

This won’t be the only time the disciples experience the gift of the Holy Spirit. At Pentecost, a Jewish celebration fifty days after the festival of Passover, as they are gathered together in Jerusalem and figuring out how to do this work that Jesus left them, the power of the Holy Spirit will rush upon them, breathing like tongues of fire, connecting and organizing these ordinary folks and followers into the apostolic church, a group of people who through the Spirit’s power will change the world forever.

The disciples who receive peace in that upper room today will live in expectant hope of the coming fullness of the Holy Spirit’s power for nearly fifty days.

What it we walked with that same expectant hope for the next 50 days?

Our celebration of Pentecost, the birthday of the church, is exactly 50 days from today. What if, for the next 50 days, we studied together what the Bible teaches about hope? What if we paid attention to how we feel right now, without judgement or without beating ourselves up, but as a way of asking “What am I learning about myself?” What if we trusted the Spirit to teach us about hope as we discover what the next 50 days hold for us?

Where might you discover hope? In our world? In your life? In your faith?

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

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[1] “The Lord God formed the human from the topsoil of the fertile land and blew life’s breath into his nostrils. The human came to life.” Genesis 2:7 (CEB).

[2] “He said to me, ‘Prophesy to the breath; prophesy, human one! Say to the breath, The Lord God proclaims: Come from the four winds, breath! Breathe into these dead bodies and let them live.’” Ezekiel 37:9 (CEB).

While It Was Still Dark

A Sermon inspired by John 20:1-18 for Easter Sunday 2020

While it was still dark. It’s always stood out to me that Mary Magdalene makes her way to the tomb under the cover of darkness. Yesterday morning right before dawn, I spent time outside in the crisp, cool spring air. I could still see the moon in the sky. I could hear the birds begin to sing in the trees around me. I could see in the distance the fog on the lake in my neighborhood. The earth, silent and still. Waiting for morning to come.

Yet for Mary, even if she had waited for the sun to rise, her sadness, her grief, her distress over the death of her close friend Jesus would have made the day like night for her. Her life had been continuous night, unending darkness since Jesus died two days ago. Indeed, even creation had joined in her weeping and wailing, covering itself in darkness, the sun refusing to shine, as Jesus hung on the cross, dying. For Mary Magdalene, for the other women, for Jesus’ closest friends, for his disciples, for those who had hoped Jesus would be the one to redeem Israel, the Messiah…that sun may have risen on that Sunday, but for them, the darkness had not ended.

One of the moments I cherish each Easter is watching the sunrise as I prepare to make my way to an early morning worship celebration of the resurrection. I’ve celebrated that Easter sunrise in many places. In the garden of home church, near a tree I planted with my Confirmation class as a sign of our faith in Jesus and our choice to spend our lives serving God. I’ve celebrated the Easter sunrise in a prison, gathered with women whose hope and joy are truly found in the Lord because, for some of them, faith in Jesus’ power over sin and death is the only thing have to hold on to. Last year, I celebrated the Easter sunrise with our community, with Christians from all over Adamsville and beyond, different denominations gathered together to proclaim the truth we all hold in common…He is risen! Hallelujah! Amen!

The Easter sunrise doesn’t feel like a celebration for me this year, though. I won’t see our sanctuary full with family and friends gathered together with bright smiles. I won’t hear your voices ringing out in song about Jesus’ victory. I won’t get to lay my hands on you, hold on to you, hug you as we celebrate the peace Christ brings into our lives this day. Even with the sun fully rising in the sky, there will still be this feeling of darkness covering the earth.

Yet, because this Easter will be different for all of us, because it will be unlike any other Easter we have ever experienced, we are getting a firsthand glimpse into what Mary Magdalene and the other disciples were feeling on that very first Easter morning. Jesus’ followers are scattered, grieving, living in fear. The disciples, well at least ten of the twelve, are locked away behind closed doors, afraid, petrified really, that the Roman authorities will be knocking down the door of their hiding hole at any moment now, deciding that Jesus’ death was just the beginning, and that to squash the insurrection they believe he was leading, they need to take out the next major threat—his followers.  And Mary is walking, alone, in the dark, towards death.

Even though John’s Gospel has told us twice that Jesus’ body has been prepared for burial, once when Mary of Bethany, Lazarus’s sister, anointed Jesus’ feet with expensive perfume, and again when Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus buried his body in seventy-five pounds of myrrh, aloe, and spices, wrapping him in linen cloths…still, Mary makes her way, alone, to the tomb to care for Jesus’ body, to anoint him again…because maybe she doesn’t what else to do. And it is still dark.

Perhaps, more than ever, we know how Mary is feeling in the garden that day. When death has become not only your intimate friend, but a visitor to your whole world, what else can you do? When your friend, your rabbi, your teacher, your hope has died, where else do you go, but to the place where his body has been laid, to the tomb, to the graveside, to check on the work that death has done?

For over a month in our own nation, and for more than three months across the world, we have been in the business of checking on the work that death has done. The death toll from this virus rises daily. We all know of someone, by now, someone who we can name who has passed away because of COVID-19 complications.

We may not know them personally. Maybe they are a family member of an acquaintance or a friend of a friend. For me, I have two friends who have had a family member or close friend pass away. A third friend has an uncle in ICU right now. This past week, we mourned as a nation the death of legendary folk singer/songwriter John Prine.

And, of course, deaths unrelated to this pandemic continue to come. Jack Coffman, a beloved, life-long member of Adamsville FUMC, and G.W. Turnbow from Mt. Vinson, a friend and supporter from afar, have both gone on to glory.

And the ways that we would normally process these losses, how we would gather to celebrate their lives, worship God, and comfort the families and one another have been significantly altered, doubling our collective grief.

Usually, I can run with joy towards the Easter sunrise, because I know there is more joy waiting on the other side. Yet when Mary runs away from the empty tomb the first time, she is not running towards the sunrise with joy.

Jesus’ body is gone! Grave robbers have taken him, or worse, soldiers have stolen his lifeless body to desecrate even further. How much more pain and grief and humiliation can Mary take?!

Peter and the beloved Disciple come and confirm what Mary has seen. Jesus’ body is indeed gone. They leave, having believed what Mary told them this time. But Mary…Mary, she stays. Full of grief and terror, she stays. She stays to be a witness to this tragedy like she stayed near the cross. Weeping and fully present to this moment, she stays.

And though, when the angels show up and Jesus comes to find her, they ask her why she is weeping, they don’t tell her to dry her tears. They don’t rebuke her grief. They join her and stay with her in her grief until she is able to recognize her risen Savior.

So, on this Easter Sunday, dear ones, you have full permission to feel both sadness and joy, anger and happiness, fear and relief. The Jesus who wept at the tomb of Lazarus doesn’t begrudge Mary her own tears and emotions as she now weeps by his grave. You don’t have to pretend that everything is okay, just because it is Easter. You don’t have to put on a brave face. You don’t have to grin and bear it. You can weep.

Weep for the empty sanctuary. 

Weep for the graduating seniors missing out on their last days and memories and celebrations. 

Weep for the loved ones lonely in nursing homes that we can’t visit. Weep for the healthcare teams and essential workers risking their lives. Weep for those who have died and for their families. 

Weep because you are angry. 

Weep because you are exhausted. 

Weep because you are bored. 

You can weep.

And the good news, the gospel promise, is that in your weeping Jesus will meet you and call out your name. Like he did for Mary, Jesus will come find you in your little corner of the world, and, beloved, HE WILL CALL OUT YOUR NAME!

With her name, in one word, Jesus not only surprises Mary with the powerful work of God defeating death…he makes it personal for her! For Mary, for you, for me…Jesus went to hell and back. God battled Death and won! Jesus paid it all for our sins, but his love was too strong for the grave to hold him down. And so, even in our weeping, we sing because CHRIST IS RISEN! HE IS RISEN, INDEED! ALLELUIA!

In our rejoicing, we like Mary want to hug Jesus around the neck, to hang onto our Savior, our Hope, our Joy, our reason to sing through the tears. I imagine Jesus gently taking Mary’s hands, detangling her arms from around his frame, looking in her eyes as he says, “Mary, you can’t hold on to me. You have a job to do. You have a story to tell. You have hope to share. I am risen. I was dead, but now I am alive. Mary, go tell the world.”

And now, Mary runs from the tomb with joy that cannot be contained, with hope bursting at the seams, with purpose as a disciple restored. The empty tomb that caused her weeping now brings to her eyes what my mama calls happy tears.

Mary becomes the first preacher to preach the good news of the resurrection. Her sermon to her fellow disciples, “I have seen the Lord!”

And that is our good news to share, too, today. We have seen the stone rolled away. We have seen the tomb is empty. We have heard Jesus call our name. Just as Mary could not, neither can we remain in the garden, clinging to Jesus. We have a job to do. A story to tell. Yes, it will be difficult. Our world, filled to the brim with darkness and death in this moment, may not be ready to hear, to believe that there can be, that there will be life after death. The disciples didn’t believe Mary at first either. But, still, she went, and she was faithful to share the message the risen Jesus gave her.

So, share the good news, friends! 

Christ is RISEN FROM THE DEAD! 

Preach the gospel with your lives, because through the resurrection we know that the worst things that can happen to us—disappointment, disease, death—they will never be the last thing!

Christ’s victory is our story, now!

His love is our song!

Tell someone!

And, the world may not understand, they may not have the ears to hear the message we bring…but, take heart, friends, the sun is about to rise.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Palm Parade

A Sermon Inspired by Matthew 21:1-11

"Palm Sunday" by Evans Yegon

On a spring day in the year 30 AD, two parades made their way into Jerusalem. You and I—we are most familiar with one Palm Sunday parade, the one with Jesus, riding into Jerusalem on a donkey with Hosanna singing and palm branch waving. We hear the story every year as we begin the most holy week of the Christian calendar, the final stretch of Lent, the end of our journey with Jesus to the cross. But, in their book entitled The Last Week: What the Gospels Really Teach about Jesus’ Final Days in Jerusalem, biblical scholars Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan propose that Jesus’ palm parade wasn’t the only show in town that day.[1]

On the other side of town, Pontius Pilate entered the holy city of Jerusalem from the west, riding on a warhorse. Pilate, the Roman governor of Judea, was in town because it was the beginning of the Jewish festival of Passover. Passover is for our Jewish siblings one of the most holy weeks of the year as they remember God’s deliverance of the Hebrew people from slavery in Egypt. As the people of Jesus’ day gathered to celebrate this religious holiday of liberation in Jerusalem, insurrection would have been in the air. They knew what it was like to live under Pharaoh…his name was Caesar now. They knew what it was like to fear Egyptian slave drivers…they walked in fear of Roman soldiers who could legally steal the coat off their backs or force them to carry armor for a mile. They knew what it was like to live in a place where they had no power…they may have been in the Promised Land and not Egypt, but Rome was in control. 

And, just in case they forgot it, just in case the rituals of Passover with its rich symbolism made them dream of a modern-day Moses who would overthrow the emperor, just in case…Pontius Pilate had a Passover parade, complete with the gaudy glory of imperial power – mighty horses, shiny chariots, gleaming armor, and a full display of the man power of the Roman army in tow to remind the Jewish people as they entered Jerusalem on their Passover Pilgrimage…you are not in control here! Rome is.

There is a whole lot of stuff in my world right now that I do not feel like I’m in control of. While I can wash my hands and limit my contact with others, I do not feel like I can control whether I or the people I love will get sick with coronavirus. While I can work as hard as I can from home and be creative to show that the job can still get done, even if it’s in a different way, I cannot control if other workplaces adapt to help people keep their jobs. While I can only buy the groceries I need and give away any extra to those who I find out are in need, I do not feel like I can control if there are people who go hungry because they don’t know where to turn for help. While I can pray for a miracle and stay positive, I cannot control when this will end, when we will be able to gather again for worship, and what kind of spiritual and financial shape our church will be in after all of this.

But as I begin to worry about all the things I cannot control, I remember that there were two parades in Jerusalem that day so long ago. From the east, came another procession, more humble in nature than the parade of Pontius Pilate. No warhorses and weaponry followed by military troops marching in battle armor. Just Jesus, Zechariah’s prophesied king of peace, wearing an ordinary robe, with humble transportation – a borrowed donkey – surrounded not by warriors but by peasants shouting, “Hosanna! Save us!”

That is my prayer today. Hosanna, King Jesus! That is the cry of my heart – Hosanna in the highest! Hosanna literally means “Save us!” or “Rescue us!” And so I pray…King Jesus, save us from these days of discord, distance, death, and disease. 

King Jesus, save us from the fear in our hearts. 

King Jesus, save us from ignoring the facts offered to us by medical experts. 
King Jesus, save us from the crashing stock market that threatens the financial future of many. 

King Jesus, save us from the slow down of the economy causing people to lose their jobs now and worry about how to make it through today, much less tomorrow. 

King Jesus, save us from our boredom at being cooped up in our houses. 
King Jesus, save us from the stress of trying to be perfect as we help our children learn from home. 

King Jesus, save us from the pressure of being productive out of a desire to prove our worth to others. 
King Jesus, save us from coronavirus. 

King Jesus, save us from trying to control the things that are out of our control.

Because, as I put myself in the story of Scripture, and I walk from the west side of Jerusalem to the east, as I join the palm parade welcoming the Messiah King into the holy city, I find that the difference in Jesus’ parade and Pilate’s parade is NOT that Jesus tells me I am now in control. No, both of these parades make clear that I am not the master of my own destiny. Jesus’ parade gives me no special power. Instead, I am reminded the triumph of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem is that GOD IS IN CONTROL!

And, as it so often is, the reminder that God is in control is a reminder that I am not. And, even when it doesn’t feel like it, that is good news! Because God’s ways are greater than my ways. What God can do is greater than what I can imagine. Where I would settle for a king who promises temporary safety and who rules with power and might, God sends a servant king to establish everlasting peace and to rule with justice, mercy, and love.

When it feels like the earth is shaking and the ground beneath my feet falls away, the solid ground on which I can stand is not the kind of king I would settle for. Our leaders, as wonderful or as worrisome as they might be, they are only human. They amount to sinking sand. Only Jesus Christ is rock solid. Jesus – the king NOT of the mighty but the king of fisherman and tax collectors. Jesus – the king NOT of the powerful but the king of Samaritans and prostitutes. Jesus – the king NOT of the wealthy and the well-connected but the king of people who were separated from their community, by blindness, by paralysis, by disease.

And because Jesus is that kind of king, his parade keeps on going even after the coats of onlookers are picked back up, the palm branches dry out, and the songs of hosanna fade away. Jesus chooses to enter a deadly situation without force or protection, a reminder that God put on skin and became vulnerable to show us the depths of his love. Because of love for you and me, God risked it all…just to get closer to us! Because of love, Jesus will keep walking his parade path all the way to the Golgotha, all the way to the cross, all the way to death. And when he dies on a Roman cross, a symbol of the empire’s power over human life, the earth will shake and the rocks will split open. It will look like death has won. But that’s not the end of the story.

And we can trust, that the shaky ground we find ourselves on now, as we celebrate Holy Week separated from one another, will not be the end of the story either.

So, today…will you join in Jesus’ palm parade? 

Will you follow the King who comes in the name of the Lord? 

Will you give up trying to control the future and trust in the One who is in control? 

Will you cast down your cloaks in worship before the Messiah? 

Will you wave palm branches high and sing “Hosanna! Save me, Jesus! Save me, even from myself.”? 

Will you walk with Jesus down the long road that leads to the cross? 

Will you be faithful and remain with him, even as he takes his last breath, and trust that death will not be the end of his story? 

It won’t be the end of our story either, friends. But, for now, we wait, we watch, and we stay close to Jesus, even in the face of suffering, of pain, of death.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

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[1] “The Roman procession is Borg’s and Crossan’s imaginary historical reconstruction based on non-biblical sources. However, it serves well, as they intended, the purpose of accentuating the political dimensions of…the ‘pre-arranged counter procession’ of Jesus and his followers.” From John Rollefson’s “Homiletical Perspective” article on Matthew 21:1-11” in Feasting on the Word: Year A, Volume 2 (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010).