Cybercolumn by Brett Younger: Staying for the whole parade
Posted: 3/23/07
CYBER COLUMN:
Staying for the whole parade
By Brett Younger
You come home one evening from a wonderful play that made you smile. You start to pitch the program in the trash, but then you sit down, read through it again and remember. You don’t want to forget the play or what it felt like to be there. You put the program on your dresser. Maybe you’ll throw the program away in a couple of days, or maybe you’ll keep it a little longer.
On Monday evening, people all over Jerusalem looked at the palm branches they had left on the dresser. They didn’t want to forget what happened the day before or what it felt like to be there. They started to pitch the palm branches into the trash, but then decided to keep them a little longer.
| Brett Younger |
Jerusalem was going to be Camelot, and Jesus was going to be King Arthur. The crowds had dreamed of trumpets, towers, tapestries, flowing robes and sparkling silver scepters. The disciples would be knights of the roundtable, shining in their armor, using might for right, battling to snuff out evil. It was going to be Camelot.
Five hundred years earlier, the prophet Zechariah had said that one day there would be a day like Palm Sunday. That ancient promise was etched indelibly in the mind of a glory-starved nation. For half a millennium, they kept an eye open watching for David’s successor to gallop into town and assume the throne. For five centuries, these people have been hoping, dreaming, wishing and waiting to line the road. For 500 years, every one who thought it was time for the big parade had been wrong, and yet they keep hoping, dreaming and wishing. The orchestra had been rehearsing, “Happy days are here again” for 500 years.
When Jesus decided it was finally time for the world’s most anticipated parade, they were ready. As he rode like a conquering king into his capital city, the people lined the street and waved and cheered wildly. The owner of the dry cleaners suggested that everyone lay their coats before Jesus’ donkey. The holdouts with expensive blazers found palm branches and spread them like a royal carpet. Vendors were hawking refreshments, bags of confetti and those obnoxious, long, skinny horns.
“Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the highest,” they cheered until they were hoarse. Trumpets sounded. Ticker tape flew. They laughed and cried and danced and sang. The disciples thought that it was the best day they had ever known, and they weren’t far from the truth.
The crowds who lined the parade route should be commended for their enthusiasm. They weren’t there because they loved a good parade. They were there because they so wanted to believe. If this crowd had seen the faintest glimmer on the horizon, they would have gone looking for the pot of gold. These are the kind of people who push on the back of the wardrobe just on the chance that Narnia may open up. This crowd would follow the yellow brick road because, who knows, Oz might be there.
Every Palm Sunday, I wonder if I would have missed the parade, because I don’t go to many parades. Most of us don’t often line the street, wave branches and shout our deepest wishes. We have work to do.
Besides, lots of parades are disappointing—a few Shriners in funny hats, a junior high band playing “Louie, Louie,” and Miss Junior Miss Azalea in a convertible. It’s too much like a pep rally for most of us. Busy people don’t have time for parades. We have so much to do. Parades can be dusty and noisy. It’s so much easier to stay with our routines. We have to hope that if we’d been in Jerusalem that day, we would have joined in the celebration, but we have so many responsibilities.
The crowd that lined the road was filled with people whose routines could be interrupted. There were old men who had been making this pilgrimage for the Passover for 50 years. They knew how unlikely it seemed that Jesus was the one they had been waiting for all of their lives, but it might be so. There were children who didn’t know exactly what was going on, but they smiled back at the kind man on the donkey. There were wives glad they came even though they couldn’t get their husbands out of the recliners, and young men happy to be there even though they couldn’t get a date. They believed at least enough to overlook the fact Jesus was an outlaw sought by the authorities. They believed enough for a lump in the throat, chill bumps and the wide eyes of wonder.
If this was the one they had been expecting for so many years, then the big takeover was about to begin. Jesus would bring down the Romans and establish the kingdom in all of its glory. It was almost too much to hope, and it didn’t quite add up. All the hosannas, palm branches and dirt-encrusted jackets couldn’t hide the fact that he wasn’t what they expected. A white stallion would have been better than this little donkey that left Jesus’ feet dragging the ground. There were no conqueror’s weapons attached to the saddle. There wasn’t even a saddle. Jesus didn’t fit the messianic profile. He was too poor and uneducated. He was from backwater Nazareth. He was like no king they’d seen before. What kind of king tells stories, walks to work, sleeps beneath the stars, lives among the poor and fills his calendar with people for whom kings have no time?
Whatever questions the crowd had were answered five days later, when the grand marshal of the parade was carried out of town in a casket. The people held an election, and Jesus lost. The parade turned out to be a death march. There would be no round table, no Camelot. The new monarch was crowned with thorns. The word “king” flew all around Jesus, but only as the punch line to a joke. The nameplate they nailed over his head was a cartoon caption: “King of the Jews.” The crowds now shouted, “You were supposed to be king. What happened?” The path Jesus chose was revealed not only on Palm Sunday, but on Good Friday as well. This king rules not with a cape and a scepter, but with the glory of a cross. This king’s followers aren’t following anymore. They had their answer. It’s clear what it means to follow Jesus. And it isn’t what They’ve been hoping for.
It’s still tempting to praise Jesus without following Jesus. Like the Palm Sunday crowd, we want to see what we want to see. We, too, would like a Messiah who makes our lives easier. I have in my mind the Messiah I think I’d most enjoy following. You do, too. But in order to really follow, we have to give up our ideas about the path Jesus should choose, and admit that his way leads to the cross.
Some try to live as Palm Sunday Christians, keeping a safe distance from the one they’re following. It’s simpler to set our own agenda and follow where our ambitions lead. That’s why our goals often reflect the popular ideas of what it means to be a religious success. The Christian community is tempted to skip the struggles, and become the home of convention, caution, prudence, discretion and reasonableness. The church is lured by comfort and security, tempted to line the road on Palm Sunday, but turn away when Jesus continues to the cross.
If we follow Christ, we’ll live against the grain. We’ll tell the truth in a world that lies, give in a world that takes, love in a world that lusts, make peace in a world that fights, serve in a world that waits to be served, worship in a world that wants to be entertained, carry a cross in a world that crucifies those who love.
The crowds in churches for Good Friday services will be smaller than the crowds on Palm Sunday. Most people don’t stay for the whole parade, because genuine belief in Christ has difficult consequences.
Christians are on a journey that goes all the way to the cross. Disciples take their place with Christ, give their lives away, go to hard places and do difficult things. Christ is forever asking, “Do you really believe that love is stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death? Do you really believe that love is superior to success, to comfort, to an easy path?
Holy Week is set aside for all of us to ask what carrying a cross means for us. Following Christ takes a variety of forms—spending time with people who seem to have nothing to offer us, standing with the people who are losing, caring for those who’ve made terrible mistakes, doing good that will receive no applause, sharing food with the hungry, becoming a better friend to someone with AIDS, emptying bedpans, holding hands stiffened by arthritis, taking other people’s children to the park, listening to a lonely person, treating discarded people as children of God, living with the freedom to be vulnerable, loving enough to give others power over us, praying not for an easier life but for strength, following Christ on the road less-traveled, discovering God’s grace.
For in following all the way to the cross, we’ll find that the journey offers only one guarantee: In the long run, we’ll gain far more than we lose. The cross changes all the definitions. Power, success and even happiness, as the world knows them, belong to those who take them for themselves; but peace, love and joy are gifts from God given to those who give themselves.
Palm Sunday, even with all the joy it represents, isn’t nearly enough. Leftover palms aren’t worth keeping. We need the cross. We need to lay down our tiny aspirations and take up the hope of following Jesus. Following Christ is hard, but if we share the cross, then by grace, at the end of the road, God will bring Easter.
Brett Younger is pastor of Broadway Baptist Church in Fort Worth and the author of Who Moved My Pulpit? A Hilarious Look at Ministerial Life, available from Smyth & Helwys (800) 747-3016. You can e-mail him at byounger@broadwaybc.org.






