Carrying Christ

It is not unusual, in the midst of a Palm Sunday church service, to discover we are having fun. The children wave their palms around; the music seems to play particularly loudly; we find ourselves grinning from ear to ear. Of course, we don’t do these things just for the sheer joy of them – although it’s my understanding that some churches have come down in favor of allowing joy during worship. Rather, we do these things in remembrance of the celebration that accompanied the triumphant entry of Jesus Christ into the holy city of Jerusalem.

All of that has its place, but I want to suggest that the apparently simple and celebratory story of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem is actually deeply complex and darkly suggestive. Perhaps more importantly, I’d like to propose that embedded in this story is a message that can inspire us and influence how we approach every single day of our lives. And, I believe, it is in this inspiration that we find an even greater cause for celebration.

To find these things, we have to look past the crying of “Hosanna” and the waving of palms. We need to take ourselves out of the crowd for a moment. And we need to ride into Jerusalem right beside Christ.

Imagine it. Jesus knows that his entry into Jerusalem will put into motion a series of events that will culminate in his crucifixion on Calvary. Jesus knows that in the coming days he will be betrayed and denied – by those who say they love him. Jesus knows that he will find himself alone before death, alone unto death, alone in death. And he knows all these things at the precise moment when the same crowds who will later flee Him cry praises and wave palms all around Him. William Stringfellow, in Free in Obedience, puts it this way: “The real witness of Palm Sunday is not the parade or what the disciples or the secular authorities saw; it is the encounter between Christ and the power of death.”

But Jesus must ride into Jerusalem. It is not that he must do so because it was foretold by Zechariah; it’s the other way around: Zechariah foretold it because Jesus would fulfill it. And Jesus will fulfill the prophecy and ride into Jerusalem precisely because it sets into motion all of the terrible events that make his sacrifice and his resurrection and our salvation possible.

Still, the ride into Jerusalem is not just the fulfillment of a prophecy or a critical incident in the unfolding tragedy and ultimate glory. The ride into Jerusalem is a theological statement. It is the testimony of Christ through action.

When Jesus rides into Jerusalem, he tells us that his love has no limitation. For he willingly endures – indeed, rides into – unspeakable things for us, all of us, each of us.

When Jesus rides into Jerusalem, he tells us that following God’s will can take us into some lonely and desolate places. But he shows us what we must do.

When Jesus rides into Jerusalem, he reminds us that the first will be last and the last will be first; he reminds us that the meek shall inherit the earth. For Jesus does not enter the city surrounded by armed guards brandishing spears in a dazzling display of power. He enters the city surrounded by celebrating crowds throwing down palms in a dazzling display of love.

And when Jesus rides into Jerusalem, he tells us that even the lowliest among us can carry him out into the world. For Jesus does not arrive on a tall and handsome stallion. He arrives on a beast of burden, a grunt, a donkey.

G. K. Chesterton wrote a wonderful poem – called “The Donkey” – that remembers this event and suggests what we might make of it:

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.
Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears
And palms before my feet.

We often pray for Christ to carry us. We pray for Christ to carry us through troubles and tribulations. We pray for Christ to carry us through sickness and sadness. We pray for Christ to carry us through this life. We pray for Christ to carry us into the next. And there are times when we know, we simply know, that Christ has taken us into his big carpenter’s arms and has lifted us up and is holding us close and is carrying us where we need to go.

But, as Palm Sunday reminds us, there are also times when we carry Christ. We carry Christ by what we believe and by how we live. We carry Christ by what we say and what we do. We carry Christ by who we are and by who we try to be.

And so all of us, even those of us who feel we are among the least in the world – perhaps particularly those of us who feel we are among the least in the world – carry Christ with us wherever we go. We carry Christ into our houses and into our workplaces. We carry Christ into hospital rooms and homeless shelters. We carry Christ into our back yards and onto the back roads. We carry Christ into all the places our lives lead us.

Palm Sunday reminds us – all of us “tattered outlaws of the earth” – that we too have our hour. We too have our time to carry Christ. In a sense, every hour is that hour; every day is that time.

So I invite you tomorrow – and all the tomorrows after it – to ask yourself one simple question when you wake up in the morning:

Where will I carry Christ?

Where will I carry Christ today?

Amen.