Palm Sunday
Matthew 21:1-11, Isaiah 50:4-9a
Those of you who have been reading Chris and Ann’s blog while they are in Cameroon may recall a posting from Chris from a few months ago, not too long after they got to Africa:
“Hi, friends,” he began. “So here’s a question for you, one that looms large for us here in Cameroon: What do we do with the massive disparity in wealth between us and the people we see around us every day?
“You can get an education here, but you can't get a job unless you know somebody. For those with a job, income seems to be about a tenth of what it is in the U.S. .. And while rent is about a tenth of what it is at home in San Francisco, food is just as expensive and gasoline is more than double… most people here do at least have family in the villages and enough to eat. I don't feel like I can change anything, other than perhaps myself. But is simply cultivating an awareness of other people's poverty, and living mindfully, really anything more than pious self-help? I wonder that about our choice to volunteer here.
“So what do you think? The question again is: ‘What do we do with the massive disparity in wealth between ourselves and the people we see everyday?’”
Well, what do you think? How do we eat breakfast, knowing somewhere that children aren’t? How do we rest between clean sheets, knowing somewhere that a family is sleeping on the streets?
So, friends, here’s another question for us: How do we live with the reality of the Iraq war, the unending human tragedy that our taxes have paid for and are paying for? In a recent interview, Joseph Stiglitz, a Nobel-winning economist, projected that the total costs of this war would exceed two trillion dollars. Let’s put that amount of money into perspective, he says. We have a major crisis with our Social Security system, right? For somewhere between a half and quarter of the cost of the war in Iraq, we could have fixed all the problems associated with Social Security for the next 75 years and still have had a lot left over. Or, to put it another way: We are now spending something like $120 billion a year on Iraq. The amount the entire world gives in foreign aid each year is about half that.
So, what do you think? The question again is: “How do we live with the reality of the Iraq war?”
OK. Wait a second. Enough with the questions. This is Palm Sunday. It’s a celebration. It’s happy. We’ve just got done waving palm branches for the ice cream man and singing a happy song: Jesus is coming! Pave the way with branches! Yes, and we also sang “release for the captives, pave the way with branches, “ “hope for the downtrodden, pave the way with branches,” “land for the landless, pave the way with branches.” We could also have sung, “food for the hungry, pave the way with branches,” for along that highway that Jesus took into Jerusalem, there would have undoubtedly been hungry children waving palm branches. He lived in a time when the disparity of wealth between people was stark; a few people had it all, and most people struggled to get by. Daily, like us, Jesus faced the question: “So what do you think? What do you do with the massive disparity in wealth?”
He also lived in a time of empire. The Roman empire of his day exerted total military and economic control over the nations it occupied. Tax money was collected from the poor to fuel the Roman war machine. Daily, like us, Jesus faced the question: “So how do we live in an empire that funds its military at the expense of its people?”
What do we do? What is our response?
Jesus answered that question on a spring day some 2,000 years ago by deciding to turn his face toward Jerusalem. His ministry, up to this point, had been focused around the Sea of Galilee, a rural area almost 70 miles away from Jerusalem. In that time of travel by foot, he is a long distance away from this the seat of Roman power and authority. He doesn’t have to go to Jerusalem. He can where he is, at a safe distance, and still do his good work of healing and teaching.
But Jerusalem is where the suffering he sees begins. It’s where the taxes are levied that deprive poor people of even more of their meager resources. It’s where the unjust laws that kick poor farmers off their land are enacted. And it’s where those religious leaders who collaborate with the Romans provide the necessary religious legitimation for the empire’s unjust policies.
And, so, he turns his face toward Jerusalem, the place where suffering and oppression must be confronted and engaged. Did Jesus know what he would face there? Some say he knew that he was going to his death, knew that this had to happen. Others say, no, he didn’t know for sure, he was human. But certainly would have known that confronting the powers in Jerusalem could have consequences. He knew what fate could befall prophets. And he knew, as the prophet Isaiah said centuries earlier, that he would not hide his face from insult and spitting, from the persecution sometimes meted out to those who dare dream a new dream, who prophesy a world where the poor and the powerless are not condemned to suffer.
And so we begin this Holy Week with Jesus, facing Jerusalem and entering it. Confronting the darkness of human evil. Engaging the source of suffering. We don’t have to do this, of course, right? We could easily have this next week be just like any other week: a week where our immediate cares predominate, where the urgent but not necessarily important takes up most of our time and mental space. Like Jesus, we have a choice as to whether or not we want to turn our face toward Jerusalem. Whether we want to enter into it.
If we do choose to enter into it, we need to do so intentionally. We may need to turn off the TV, the computer, the IPod. We may need to say no to some emails or phone calls that urgently call to us. If we can do this, if we can slow down and create the space, we may begin to hear those questions that tug at our conscience, that claw at our heart. If we can do this, we may begin to see the outlines of our own Jerusalem, that place where we must confront and engage suffering and oppression.
There are no easy answers here, on the way to Jerusalem. The people who commented to Chris’ question on his blog – including myself – offered up no easy way to solve a complex moral question. There’s no quick fix to suffering and oppression. But there is the willingness to let ourselves by disturbed and undone by these questions. To continue to allow them to irritate us, overwhelm us, change us. That’s what it means to face Jerusalem – to face the suffering and pain that makes us uncomfortable and be willing to stare it in the face, even while we long to look away.
If we choose to enter Jerusalem this week, we will need to experience a small portion of Jesus’ passion with him – remember, passion means suffering. We will need to experience some of Jesus’ suffering with him. Who wants to do that? That’s not happy. It’s not palm branches or the ice cream man. But it is: hope for the hopeless, release for the captive, food for the hungry. Amen.