Mark 11:1-11
When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives, he sent two of his disciples and said to them, “Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden; untie it and bring it. If anyone says to you, ‘Why are you doing this?’ just say this: ‘The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.’ ” They went away and found a colt tied near a door, outside in the street. As they were untying it, some of the bystanders said to them, “What are you doing, untying the colt?” They told them what Jesus had said, and they allowed them to take it. Then they brought the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it, and he sat on it. Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches that they had cut in the fields. Then those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting,
“Hosanna!
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!”
Then he entered Jerusalem and went into the temple, and when he had looked around at everything, as it was already late, he went out to Bethany with the twelve.
Palm Sunday would be such an odd day in the life of the church if we were not so used to it. Think about it. We give green leafy branches to everyone, starting with the youngest children, parade around, singing a word in a foreign language that actually means save us. And we do not mean save us from getting poked in the eye by a distracted worshipper, or save us from our sibling who wants to knight us with the palm branch or even save us from that tree that fell outside … too early to look like we went all out for Palm Sunday and too late to look spiffy for Easter.
It always seemed normal to me until a visitor once said, “Thank you for the lovely service. One question, why was everyone waving sticks?” We had not explained it. Why had we not explained it? I think mostly because many people knew this tradition cold. And, I wonder if perhaps its power had grown a bit cold within us.
So, I am going to attempt to explain it. Why we wave these sticks. Why we act out this story year after year. And why this parade marches on.
You see, Palm Sunday is not just a parade we remember. It is a way we choose. Every day, two processions pass by. The question is which one we are walking in.
Here is the story again, taking liberties with fresh language.
It was the beginning of a tense week in a capital city already on edge. During Passover in Jerusalem, the air was full of stories of liberation. Chains broken. Empires defied. The city filled up. The streets swelled with memory, hope, and volatility. And so, as always, the authorities prepared.
From the west side of the city, the governor Pilate was coming to town. To make sure no one got any ideas. The motorcade came in. Black SUVs. Sirens cutting the air. Tactical units on corners and rooftops. Helicopters overhead. The kind of presence meant to say we are in control. And on the other side of the city, far from the cameras, another procession started. No permits. No police escort. Just a group gathering at the edge of town.
Word spread. “He’s coming. Meet us on the east road.” Code words were used to set up this transportation. “The Lord needs it.” Perhaps met with a knowing nod.
And they gathered. The overlooked and over-scrutinized. Service workers finishing a shift. Parents with children on their hips. Teenagers who recognized courage sooner than their exhausted parents.
They grabbed whatever they could. Branches. Jackets. Signs. Someone started chanting. And then he appeared. Not elevated or insulated. He was dangerously exposed. Riding something so ordinary it almost felt like a joke. A borrowed, clumsy little animal. And that was the point.
On one side of the city, power arrived with spectacle, force, and control. On the other
side, a man refused all of that. No armor. No security detail. Not even a selfie stick. Just the echo
of an old promise, copied and pasted right out of the Book of Zechariah.
And as he moved down that road, the crowd found its voice. “Hosanna.” Not a churchy word. A desperate one, from the Psalm of lament. Save us. From oppression, from hunger, from grief, from the quiet lie that this is just how things are forever and ever.
And the whole thing looked almost absurd. A street theater version of power.
In that one city, there were two ways of being in the world. One built on control, fear, and domination. The other built on humility and courage and a dangerous kind of love.
For a moment, it felt like the second one was winning. But we know what happened next. Jesus went straight to the center of it all. The Temple. Where religion and money and control had become tangled together. He turned the tables. He named what everyone else ignored. And that sealed his fate.
Brutal regimes can tolerate inspiration. They can tolerate religion. They can even tolerate compassion, as long as it stays quiet. But they cannot tolerate disruption or a God who cannot be bought or sold. And by the end of the week, the one who entered with “Hosanna” would die alone under a sign meant to mock him. “King.” But little did they know that humor and playfulness and fearless joy are the tools of the Jesus parade.
And still, every year, we tell this story again. We wave our branches. The kids go first. Because this parade is, at its heart, our prayer for them. That they might learn to walk in the way of Jesus before the world teaches them another way.
Because every day, two processions pass by. Power still arrives with noise and certainty, deadly serious.
And somewhere, quieter, so does Jesus. Still choosing humility. Still choosing joy. Still moving toward the overlooked. Still hearing the cries. Hosanna. Save us. Cries from the Middle East. From Ukraine. From Malawi. From Kibwezi. From Minneapolis. From hearts that are so tired. From people who are afraid or lonely.
The question is not whether Jesus comes. The question is whether we recognize him. And whether we have the courage to step off the sidewalk and join him.
Because we do not just admire this procession, we are invited to enter it. To act as if this way of love is the real power in the world. To act as if mercy matters more than domination. To act as if humility is stronger than fear. To act as if resurrection is already breaking in, even while it is still dark.
And sometimes it looks very ordinary. It looks like not firing off the text you have already typed three times in your head. It looks like saying, “I’m sorry,” without adding anything after it. It looks like telling the truth in your family or at work when it would be easier to stay quiet. It looks like learning the name of the person who bags your groceries and using it. It looks inviting laughter and dancing to march around your soul.
I think of the women in Kenya who practice table banking, microlending outside of Kibwezi in the program Walking with Africans. In village after village, we were greeted by singing and dancing women in bright cloths, acting together. One person’s faith inspiring another, lifting entire communities this way.
I think of Stephen Ministers who filled up an entire row at David Taylor’s funeral, and marched their way through the receiving line to embrace Kay Taylor. This was a Janet Jackson level choreography of care.
Jesus knows that we do not live this faith on our own. We get tired. We lose our nerve somewhere between Sunday and Friday. Sometimes we turn on each other. So we need the Palm Sunday parade and we need the table it passes on its way to Good Friday. A table where Jesus does not ask if we were brave enough. A table where he does not check if we stayed in the right procession all week. A table where he simply feeds us.
Feeds our hope when it has run thin. Gives us bread as strength for the road and the cup of mercy for all that we did not earn.
This table calls us to remember where this procession is headed. To break-taking, death- overtaking joy. To love poured out forever. To life given freely and life finally free of all that could harm or divide us. To Easter so close we can almost taste it.
So come. Come hungry. Come weary. Come unsure. And take, and eat, and drink. So that when you leave this place, you have more than enough strength to keep walking.
May it be so!