Sermon for April 6, 2025 - The Sunday of the Passion

Since the earliest days of the church, Christians have been shaped by a simple ritual. A worship leader proclaims the blessing, “The peace of the Lord be always with you.” Everybody else is invited to respond, “And also with you.” This is the echo that we still create every Sunday. Somebody says it to us, and we say it right back. According to Luke’s version of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, this dates back at least as far as that first Palm Sunday.

Luke’s Palm Sunday account echoes his Christmas story. When Jesus was born, the Gospel writer tells us that angels appeared to shepherds and sang, “Peace on earth.” Now, as Jesus rides his colt towards Jerusalem, the people look to the sky and sing, “Peace in heaven.” As we the church gather this day, we too find ourselves in the midst of blessings.

For Luke, this is more than a slick literary detail. It is the announcement of what God makes possible in the death and resurrection of Jesus. We hear the story of Jesus approaching Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives, from the spot where tradition held that the Messiah would appear. A gathering of his followers surrounds him, praising God with exuberant voices. They sing Psalm 118 as their song of deliverance, affirming that God will rescue God’s chosen people.

Like many peace sings, the psalm provokes anxiety. Some Pharisees want the crowd to hush. We do not know the reasons. Perhaps they think the moment is too political and the empire will retaliate. Let us not forget that as Jesus entered the city, so too did Pilate at the head of his own procession, not of exuberant followers, but a procession of heavily armed soldiers ready to “keep the peace” during the Passover Festival. Or they may disagree with the inference that Jesus is the Messiah. We cannot say for sure. However, the Pharisees cannot retrain the crowd. On a day like this, that would be like requesting church congregations to not sing All Glory, Laud and Honour.

As Jesus descends the Mount of Olives and comes around a bend in the road, something changes. He’s seeing the whole city spread out before him. It makes him weep, and we hear him say, “Jerusalem! If only today you knew the things that make for peace, but you do not know them. They are hidden from your eyes.”

His words interrupt the echo. Peace on earth, peace in heaven - yet in between, Jesus says there is no peace. His words offer a chilling premonition of what will happen in the events of Good Friday.

For all its joyful hosannas, Palm Sunday is a day of contrasts. We hear it in the hymns, pivoting as they do between happy triumph and the agony of the inevitable crucifixion. We see it in Jesus, as the ruler of the universe chooses to ride a borrowed colt. The contrast is also clear in the destination, as the city that welcomes him will later scream for his blood. For now, at least, the greatest hopes for peace are hidden from those who wish for it.

We have our own contradictions, of course. We often hear that the best way to create peace is by preparing for war. The “strong” are strengthened by holding off and bullying the weak as vulnerable populations face increased anxiety and fear for their very safety. Suburban American parents confront fear by buying a handgun for the dresser drawer where a child is most likely to accidentally shoot themselves or someone else, rather than an intruder. Schools encourage competition over cooperation. Governments and businesses seek to win at all costs, even if it bankrupts them, morally and financially. Jesus rides his lowly farm animal through all of it, clearing a pathway for us to follow.

Dominus Flevit

In the midst of all the chaos and confusion of the recent global disruption we must ask ourselves, what are the things that make for peace? What are the things “hidden from our eyes?”

By asking and reflecting upon this question, we recognize that we do not know the answer. In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus indicts again from the cross, saying, “Forgive them, Father, for they do not know what they are doing.” There is a kind of ignorance, not of the intellect, but of the heart. It is possible to think through a problem without committing to a solution. We can reason our way through a conflict as if it is a game of chess and totally miss the victims. If we think ourselves superior, we will even miss it ourselves.

Jesus rides no high horse, just a lowly colt. He chooses to enter a deadly situation without force or protection. He gives himself freely and without reservation. This is a prophetic act, a sign of God’s vulnerable love, which risks everything and promises to gain all. This is the means by which God creates peace. As fellow companions on the Way of Christ, we are called to enter into that struggle; to be agents of love and peace. It may seem overwhelming and it may even be easier to just tune out, turn inwardly and focus only on ourselves, but we would only be hiding ourselves from the reality of our broken world. And if we hide, who will take a stand? Who will fill the void? Who will be the hands and feet of Jesus when God’s light and love are needed most?

Halfway down the Mount of Olives is one of my favourite churches for both its architectural style and for its photogenic view of the Old City across the valley. It is not a big church, and is more of a chapel than anything else, but it is in the shape of a tear drop. It is called Dominus Flevit, Latin for “the Lord weeps.” It is the traditional location where Jesus wept over the city. Pilgrims, like I have on several occasions, gather there to share the eucharist as they follow in the footsteps of Jesus towards Jerusalem. As we gaze upon a city still divided, with people of different faiths struggling over the same real estate, we pass the bread to the words, “This is my body, broken for you.” Then we share the cup of wine, saying, “This is my blood, shed for thee.” It is a deep moment to recall the great cost of reconciliation, as God sent Jesus into the world to bring all back to God’s powerful love. And to further reinforce this imagery, if you stand in just the right place within the chapel, the altar cross lines up with an iron wrought window with the Eucharistic host and chalice and they are set against a backdrop of the Temple Mount in the distance. It is a powerful reminder of the sacrifice Jesus offered to bring us back to God and how much work still needs be done for peace to become a reality.

Today we once again begin our sacred journey through this holy week. We begin with the dizzying heights of joy and expectancy, before plunging into the dark depths of our cruel inhumanity, only for our grief and sorrow to be turned into joy again. As we walk this let us not forget Jesus words, “[My] Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.” “I will be with you always.”