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SERMON
In the hymn "Dear Lord and Father of Mankind" one verse reads:
"O Sabbath rest by Galilee, O calm of hills above." For those who
have seen those beautiful green hills the words ring true. Galilee is a
lovely and, for the most part, peaceful place today. But those "calm"
hills have seen a long and violent history. From the slopes of Mt. Tabor
Deborah swept down and annihilated the army of Sisera. A few miles away,
on Mt. Carmel, Elijah called down fire from heaven and then executed 450
prophets of Baal. On Mt. Gilboa King Saul and Jonathan were slain by the
Philistines. And across the valley, from a cliff just outside the town
of Nazareth, an angry mob tried to throw Jesus to his death.
The fact is that, in Jesus' day, Galilee was considered a hotbed of
Zealot activity. The historian Josephus wrote that the Galileans "were
inured to warfare from infancy." Those hills were, in fact, a refuge for
guerrilla fighters hiding from the Romans. Hundreds of those freedom
fighters died by crucifixion. And so, long before it became a Christian
symbol, the cross was a badge of Zealot defiance. Not until 73 A.D.
would the desert fortress of Massada fall to the Romans, bringing the
Zealots' rebellion to an end. And so, from before Jesus' birth until
forty years after his crucifixion, Israel was literally seething with
political violence and terrorism. I think it's important you to
understand that this was the setting into which God sent his only
Son. It was in this time and in this volatile region of
Galilee that Jesus grew to manhood.
Now, I don't know what picture comes to your mind when you think about
that first Palm Sunday. But it was in this violent political climate
that Jesus, a rabbi from Galilee, chose to ride triumphantly into
Jerusalem. He was non-violent, yet he was subjected to a most violent
death. It's one of the strange paradoxes in history that Jesus, who
stood against military insurrection, was crucified as an
insurrectionist.
It was springtime. Jesus and his disciples had come from Galilee, down
the Jordan River valley; then at Jericho they turned to follow the rocky
road that led up to the Holy City. Along the way they had been joined by
a growing band of pilgrims all on their way to Jerusalem for Passover.
When the crowd came near the top of the eastern slope of the Mount of
Olives, Jesus arranged for a donkey to ride those last two miles in full
view of the city. It was a deliberate, calculated reenactment of the
situation described in Psalm 118, in which we read these words: The
stone the builders rejected has become the capstone.
Those who laid out their cloaks and branches were quite sure they knew
exactly what Jesus was doing, and so they all recited the words of that
Psalm, shouting O Lord, save us! Blessed is he who comes in the name
of the Lord! For the Zealots it was an occasion to shout their
defiance at the Roman oppressors. But for Jesus it was an occasion to
weep over the city and to say to her wistfully, "If you had only
known on this day what would bring you peace – but now it is hidden from
your eyes."
Some of you may remember retracing with me the route that Jesus took
from the top of the Mount of Olives, down that rocky slope, past the
garden called Gethsemane, then up the opposite slope to the eastern wall
of that great city. The city was great because Israel's greatest king,
David, had made it his capitol. It was holy because there David brought
the Ark of the Covenant; and there David's son, Solomon, built the great
temple dedicated to the worship of God. There for nearly a thousand
years people had gathered to pray. And there prophets had come to
proclaim God's word. There, too, priests and kings had joined forces to
put to death those same prophets – God's "disturbers of the peace." And
so it was that on a Sunday long ago to this holy city the Son of God
came, riding on a donkey.
But Palm Sunday didn't end with a parade. That was how the day began.
Matthew says that Jesus and his followers immediately entered the
temple. He walked straight into the camp of the enemy. The temple was
controlled not like the synagogues by Pharisees and Scribes, but by the
powerful Sadducees. Jesus had probably encountered them more or less
casually in Galilee. But now in Jerusalem he came into close, chilling
contact with their leaders and their politics.
The Sadducees were a small select group of extremely powerful men. They
were the ones from whose ranks the High Priest was appointed. He, in
turn, was the national leader of the conquered people and also the
dominant figure of the Jewish council of Jerusalem. Other Sadducees,
directly under the High Priest, organized and directed the activities of
the temple. The Sadducees collaborated with the Roman occupying
authority, represented by the governor, Pontius Pilate. Pilate in turn
used the High Priest as his intermediary with the Jewish people. And
because of this mutually beneficial arrangement, the official policy of
the Sadducees was to not make waves; to not allow trouble to be
fomenting in the streets; to silence any opposition to the status quo.
Only a fool would challenge the power of the Sadducees.
But it was Jesus' single-minded commitment to his mission that led him
immediately into direct and provocative confrontation with that powerful
group. His challenge to the Sadducees' authority is commonly referred to
as "the cleansing of the temple." The confrontation that Sunday,
however, took place in the outer courtyard of the temple where merchants
had set up their places to change money into temple currency and sell
sacrificial animals to the Passover pilgrims. The Sadducees had given
this practice their blessing.
Remember now, Jesus was a rabbi who taught peace, who prayed for peace.
But he was also an orthodox Jew who loved God, who loved the temple, and
who was repulsed by what he saw being done there in God's name. And so,
in God's name, he took a whip and drove them out. Ironic, isn't it? It
was his passion for God and for true worship that prompted that final
act by which Jesus forfeited any sympathy from the religious leaders.
Was the cleansing of the temple a political act? No. Although I suspect
any Zealots in the temple that day would have been delighted. What Jesus
did there was not an act of nationalist rebellion. It wasn't even an
attempt at reform. After all, Jesus certainly knew that those
moneychangers would be back the next day, doing business as usual. No,
what Jesus did was to act out a parable, to graphically tell the story
of how the entire priestly establishment had betrayed its high office.
"It is written," he said to them, ‘My house will be called a
house of prayer.' But you (pointing at the priests and Sadducees)
you are making it a ‘den of robbers!'"
I'm quite sure Jesus knew that in that act he had signed his own death
warrant. Here was a case of blatant insubordination; and now the charge
against Jesus could be shifted from religious heresy to political
subversion. "He's stirring up the people," they said. "He's a menace
to public safety! If he isn't stopped, the next thing you know he'll be
setting himself up as King of the Jews!" And that, brothers and
sisters, is how the Lamb of God came to be executed as a political
offender.
Tragically, the people deserted him. Within the week, those who had
shouted, "Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,"
realized this rabbi from Galilee was calling for a spiritual revolution
based on love, not hate; not political insurrection. The more Jesus
spoke during the next few days in the temple, the clearer it became.
People were savvy enough to realize that this spiritual revolution of
which Jesus spoke would take more time and energy and patience than they
were willing to give. So once again the people fell back on their
simplistic answer of violence being the expedient solution. And so it
was that the people abandoned Jesus to the way of violence.
To me the wonder of it is that Jesus didn't run away from the violence.
In fact he absorbed it, he embraced it, and in so doing he
redeemed it. And this is how it happened. Late that week, toward
evening, the final act of the drama opened with a supper in which Jesus
broke the Passover bread, handed it to his disciples and said these hard
words: "This is my body broken for you." Then he gave them the
cup and said: "This is my blood shed for the sins of many."
Late that night they left the upper room and descended through the city
streets to the Fountain Gate and then down into the Kidron Valley. There
they turned to ascend the path that took them to Gethsemane. At the
garden Jesus invited Peter, James and John to come watch and pray with
him. He confided in them that his soul was overwhelmed with sorrow.
Then, going on alone, Jesus the man peered into the looming darkness and
begged: "Father, can't there be another way? Is there no alternative
to this cup of violence?"
Did Jesus know the answer to that question before he asked it? Did his
human heart hope that his heavenly Father had found another way? We
don't know. What we do know is that he asked to escape the violence. We
do know he begged for an exit. We do know there was a time when, if he
could have, he would have turned his back on the whole horrible mess.
But he couldn't. Do you know why? He couldn't because he saw you.
He saw you right in the middle of a world that isn't fair, that
sometimes does violence to the good. He saw you cast into a life you
didn't request. He saw you betrayed by those you love. He saw you with a
body that gets sick and a heart that grows weak. He saw you in your own
garden of gnarled trees and sleeping friends. He saw you staring into
the pit of your own failures and the mouth of your own grave. He saw you
in your own Garden of Gethsemane – and he didn't want you to be alone.
He wanted you to know that he's been there, too. He knows what it's like
to be plotted against. He knows what it's like to be confounded. He
knows what it's like to be torn between two desires. He knows what it's
like to smell the stench of Satan. Perhaps most of all, he knows what
it's like to beg God to change his mind and to hear God say gently, but
firmly, "No."
There in the garden, Jesus said to his Father, "Nevertheless, not my
will, but your will be done." At some point that night Jesus came to
terms with God's way of dealing with violence. From that point on the
anguish was gone from his eyes, his fists would clench no more, his
heart would fight no more. He was at peace. The battle with violence was
won.
You may have thought the battle was won on Golgotha, because that was
where the sacrifice was made that sealed the victory. You may have
thought that the battle was won at the garden tomb because the empty
tomb was living proof that sin and death had been defeated. No, the
battle was waged and won in the Garden of Gethsemane where Jesus made
his decision. He would rather go to hell for you than go to heaven
without you.
Early Friday morning Jesus was arrested in the garden and taken to the
house of Caiaphas the high priest and the Sadducees; then to Herod; and
finally to the Roman governor, Pilate who, after washing his hands of
the whole sordid matter, ordered Jesus to be crucified that morning
outside the city wall.
By noon a darkness covered the countryside and Jesus prayed, "Father,
into your hands I commit my spirit." The light of the sun failed.
But the women and the disciples and Jesus' friends probably didn't
notice the sky was dark. For them another light was out. This great life
that had lit the fires in so many hearts had been snuffed out. That so
large a soul, that a man so full of life could be taken away from them
as one cry faded into silence – that was what shattered them. All this
had made for such loneliness in the hearts of those who knew him that
they could hardly breathe. Jesus was gone.
And so the scene was set for the greatest miracle of all – when, on
the first day of the week, very early in the morning… Be here next
Sunday. Easter is coming.
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