Mark 11:1-11 or John 12:12-16; Ps. 118:1-2, 19-29; Isa. 50:4-9a; Ps. 31:9-16; Phil. 2:5-11; Mark 14:1-15:47 or Mark 15:1-39 (40-47)

 

Fifteen years ago I traveled to Northern Ireland with youth from my church in Georgia to take part in an exchange with Protestant and Catholic kids from Craigavon, North Ireland. Our good will mission lasted ten days.  We visited Armaugh and the church founded by St. Patrick; Londonderry or Derry depending on your politics; Stormont, the home of the Irish Parliament; Dublin, and of course Belfast.  It was very strange in Belfast.  It was not uncommon to see store fronts with garage-like steel doors, iron gates that could be lowered across city streets at a moment’s notice, guard towers.

It was overcast the day we visited Belfast, a gray March day, cold and windy.  Our tour called for a stop at City Hall.  It was mid-morning. The tour was supposed start at the main gate to City Hall.  The kids had been given time to roam while the adults braced themselves with coffee.  Several of us were standing near the main entrance waiting for the tour to begin when all at once a motorcade arrived—a line of black Suburbans.  Men in gray suits, thick men with crew cuts and dark glasses, spilled out of the Suburbans. They were wearing earphones and appeared to be talking to some invisible watch posted above. They looked around; scanning the sidewalks and rooftops. Some drew automatic weapons concealed beneath long coats. It was like a scene from a movie only it wasn’t a movie.  And just then their guarded treasure stepped out of his chariot—none other than the Rev. Ian Paisley, a firebrand Protestant unionist of hatred and dissent.  A small crowd gathered to hear his protest. And just like that he was gone.  It was very odd.

I don’t know what made me think of Ian Paisley reading Mark, but reading Mark’s Palm Sunday story made me think back on that day.  I was struck by the contrast—Paisley with his entourage and bravado, the show of force, and Jesus—humble, riding a borrowed colt—pilgrims shouting, “Hosanna. Blessed be the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”

It makes you wonder what Jesus was up to.  Why this chosen path?  The pilgrims cried out for help. That’s the literal translation of hosanna. It’s a prayer really—help us. The pilgrims that Passover in Jerusalem called Jesus “King David’s ancestor.” Clearly, they expected his help.  But what kind of help does he offer?  How does his help save?  We say God rules and that Jesus rules in God’s name. But how does Jesus rule?  And how does his rule save?  How does his rule help?

 

The apostle Paul, a one time rabbi and former prosecutor of the early church, grappled with this central mystery of faith time and again and no where more elegantly than in his letter to the church at Philippi.  Paul, who is in prison, tells the church that his imprisonment authenticates his motives. He does not proclaim Christ “out of selfish ambition” or “rivalry.” He is motivated by “goodwill.” He proclaims Christ “out of love.” 

Though not specified, Paul perceives that the Philippians are under threat.  And the threat, it seems, is internal.  The community is threatened by ambition, by conceit:  “Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit,” Paul counters, “but in humility regard others as better than yourselves.  Let each of you look not to your own interests, but the interests of others.” 

Putting the interests of others before your own is sound advice.  It’s a good way of getting along and may even win friends and influence people.  But Paul’s aim is deeper than advice giving. His goal is theological.  In Paul’s view, how we treat others goes to the very heart of the universe.  How we treat others reflects or should reflect God’s nature. Our rule should conform to God’s rule. Here’s how Paul put it (and some think Paul has borrowed fragments from an early Christian hymn), he writes: “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave . . . And being found in human form he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross.”

Jesus did not exploit God’s power. Jesus did not use God’s power to his advantage. Jesus emptied himself of power taking the form of a slave which of course is not how kings behave.  Kings are supposed to be served.  Kings are supposed to give orders.  Kings get supposed to have their way.  And kings have their way by holding power over others.  Few political philosophers have understood this posture better than Machiavelli. “Nothing,” wrote Machiavelli, “causes a prince to be so much esteemed as great enterprises and giving proof of prowess.”  Machiavelli well understood that nothing projects prowess like a good war or grand public works.

Political power, as the world understands power, is power over others. Political power is the ability to make others do what we want.  Power is an end in itself. It serves no higher good.  It may pretend to serve some higher good and it may even borrow the language of sacrifice or honor or virtue to achieve its end, but power is always and foremost concerned with itself and whatever sustains it.  Power, as the world understands it, is like a Black Hole from which nothing, not even light, escapes.  That kind of muscle may be useful for bending light or keeping order, but it cannot produce genuine love. Love is always born of freedom.  We love God freely or not at all. God’s love in Christ creates freedom.  The help Jesus gives is freedom to love God. We love God freely or not at all.

 

Our grandson is now three months old.  His grandmother thinks he’s the best baby in the world, the cutest baby in the world. There’s no other baby like our grandbaby.  I’m waiting for the day Callum turns two.  My daughter’s an education major.  You know, the world runs according to research.  Outcomes can be planned.  I can’t wait for the day when Callum learns two wonderful words.  They’re perfectly good words. The first is mine. The second is No.  They are perfectly good words—mine and no.  There is no me or you without mine and no.  We spend our entire lives trying to figure out mine and no. 

Have you ever tried feeding green peas to a two-year-old?  Two-year-olds like applesauce.  They’ll down applesauce in a heart beat, but not green peas or mashed up carrots.  What is it about peas and carrots? I used to get so mad at Sean. I don’t know how he moved so fast. He’d be green all over by the time I was through.  Green peas in his hair, his ears.  None in his mouth. And he’d be so proud of himself.  “That’ll teach the big guy.  He’ll know soon enough what I like and what I don’t like—green peas and carrots, who are you kidding.”

Soon enough parent-child battles move to stronger stuff, things like curfews.  “Be home at 10.”

“But all of my friends stay out ’till 11.” 

“I don’t care what time they come home, you’re coming home at 10.”

And then there are friends, “Who are you going out with?”

“Some guys.”

“Don’t they have names?”

“You don’t know them, just some guys from school.”

There is no me or you without mine and no.  “They’re my friends. It’s my life.  And No you can’t make me eat green peas.”

As a parent, how do you know when you’ve been successful?  We want our children to be independent, to think for themselves, to be morally responsible, to stand on their own.  And they achieve that by knowing the meaning of mine and no.  But there is another measure of success which is without comparison.  I think you know you’ve been successful as a parent when out of the blue, for no particular reason, your 25 year old calls you up when you least expect it and says, “Hey, Dad, hey Mom, I just wanted you to know I love you.  I want you to know I love you.”

You can’t make a child love you.  Oh, you can make a child fear you.  And for a time you may even make a child obey you.  But you can’t make your child love you. As a matter of fact, if you try to make your child love you, they’ll see through you a million miles off.  Children know when they’re being bribed. Children know a con.  You can’t fake out children, not with gifts or permissiveness or whatever you think will make them love you. The only love worth having is love that comes freely. And that kind of love is costly.  Love that’s worth having is tested and sometimes it even breaks your heart.  Love that doesn’t break your heart is hardly love. If you’ve never hurt for your child or if your children never hurt you, what kind of parent are you?  And what wouldn’t you do to save your child? 

Is it so far a stretch to imagine that God’s love is something like a parent’s love for her child?  And is it so far to imagine that we love God not because we must or should or ought to love God, but because God’s love finally gets through to us and one day we wake up and realize that before we even knew our name we were loved by God?

 

Here’s the thing, God can have all the power in the world. In fact, let’s assume God has all the power in the world. It is after all God’s world.  God made it.  God was in the beginning before all things and God will be in the end after all things.  It’s God’s world.  Let’s grant that God has all the power in the world.  God can do anything, well, almost anything. God can not make us love him or if you want to split theological hairs, God chooses not to make us love him.  It is the great risk of creation.  And because the stakes are so high and because the alternative is so terrible, God assumes this risk. God gives up power over us.  God refuses to coerce us.  God chooses to rule us but only from a cross. 

Do not mistake the cross for weakness.  A parent who gives up her life for her child is not weak.  A parent who dies to save her child’s life is no coward, which is why Paul also says God “highly exalted” Jesus.  God has given Jesus “the name that is above every name.” Paul means by that that God has enthroned Jesus; God has declared that the true meaning of power is the kind of power that Jesus exhibits, power which creates the freedom to love.  The way of the cross is universal.  It is at the heart of the universe.  The world may count it as “foolishness,” but to those who believe “Christ is the power of God and the wisdom of God.” 

God rules the world from a cross.  And only that rule saves us. Only that rule helps us.

 

Earlier I said I wasn’t sure why I thought about Ian Paisley on this Palm Sunday and that cold, gray day back in Northern Ireland.  I think I now know.  Looking back I remember a group of teenagers talking and laughing and they rode together on a tour bus through the streets of Belfast—Protestant and Catholic kids who were supposed to be enemies, kids who were discovering together that there’s only one human race. And that that race is not about winning but winning together.

God’s love in Christ helps us win that race, which is the only race that finally matters.  We can’t win the race from above. We only win it from below just as Christ did when he “did not count equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself and . . . became human.”  God helps us when our lives are shaped by the cross.  We are saved by a cross-shaped life.  Amen.