Never Mind the Palms, Where’s the Peace? (Luke 19:28-40)
Well, here we are again. Palm Sunday. Normally,
you would be spared a sermon from me on this day, because, over the last 10
years, it has been our custom (along with many traditional churches) to read
the Passion narrative, during the sermon slot.
But this year, I wanted to try something different. You see, it occurred to me that in the 10
years we have celebrated Palm Sunday together, we have not once stopped to
think about what it may mean. And, most
especially, what Luke’s account of the Entry into Jerusalem might mean.
This is the day when we witness the annual miracle of dried vegetation being
folded into shapes vaguely resembling crosses. Palms were an ancient symbol of
monarchy and power. In much the same way
that today’s crowds will hang bunting, and wave little Union Flags when the
King passes by, ancient peoples waved palm branches.
But today, my friends, we are in the Year of Luke in our lectionary cycle.
And I want to suggest that if we only read Luke’s account of this day,
we might need to seriously rethink our Palm Sunday routines. We might discover Luke paints a picture far
stranger, more challenging, and ultimately, more profoundly relevant than the
generic, flag-waving parade we often settle for.
We tend to create a sort of ‘Greatest Hits’
version of Bible stories in our heads. Palm Sunday? Ah yes, Jesus rides into
Jerusalem on a donkey, happy crowds wave palm branches, everyone shouts
‘Hosanna!’. Simple enough. Except… when you actually sit down and read Luke’s
account… something’s missing. Actually, two rather significant things
are missing or noticeably altered.
First – and brace yourselves, all who cherish
those palm crosses – according to Luke, there
are no palms! Not a single frond is mentioned.
Matthew has them. Mark mentions leafy branches. John is very specific
about palm branches from date trees. But Luke? Nothing. Zilch. Nada.
Why? Why does meticulous Luke omit the very
symbol that gives this Sunday its name? Did the Jerusalem council ban palm
trees for health and safety reasons that year? Unlikely. Scholars like Clare
Amos, whose thoughtful article informed this sermon, suggest Luke has a
specific agenda. Luke, it seems, wants none of the conventional association
with nationalism and monarchy. His king
is arriving, make no mistake, but not that kind of king. Not the
conquering hero many longed for. Luke deliberately sidesteps the nationalist
symbol. So, maybe next year, instead of palm crosses, we attempt cloak origami?
Could be interesting.
But the second, and perhaps even more startling
difference, is what the crowd shouts. In Matthew, Mark, and John, the
cry is clear: "Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!
Hosanna in the highest!" And ‘Hosanna’ is absolutely crucial. It’s not
just first-century liturgical filler. It literally means "Save us,
now!". It's a plea for deliverance
– the kind of salvation many expected the Messiah to bring: political liberation,
national restoration, freedom from Roman boots.
Now look closely at Luke. What do his disciples
shout? Verse 38: "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace
in heaven and glory in the highest!"
Hold on… what? Peace… in heaven? Not ‘Hosanna!’ Not even, significantly, the
angels’ song at Jesus’ birth which proclaimed "Peace on earth,
goodwill among people". No, suddenly, the peace is relocated upstairs, to
heaven.
What on earth – or indeed, in heaven – are we
to make of that? It sounds…
well, a bit weak, doesn't it? A bit disconnected from the simmering political
tension, the real suffering under occupation. "Peace in heaven!"
Thanks for that. Very useful down here.
But maybe, just maybe, Luke is doing something incredibly clever, deeply
subversive. By replacing the desperate cry of "Save us now!" with "Peace
in heaven," Luke fundamentally reframes who this king is and what
kind of peace he brings.
This king, Luke insists, brings a peace that
has its origin and its foundation in heaven, in God's
ultimate reality. It’s a peace operating by different rules. It’s the peace
Jesus himself will speak of: "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to
you. I do not give to you as the world gives." (John 14:27).
And crucially, just a few verses later in
Luke’s narrative (verses 41-44), Jesus weeps – weeps! – over Jerusalem. Why?
Precisely because it did not recognise "the things that make for
peace" in that very moment of his arrival. The city was looking
for Hosannas, for earthly salvation, for a political strongman, and it
completely missed the arrival of heaven's peace. They wanted peace on their
terms, not God's. And the result, Jesus laments, will be devastation.
So, what does this Lukan Palm Sunday, stripped
of its familiar palms and its expected Hosannas, say to us, here in Havant, in
2025? Well, it challenges us profoundly.
First, it demands we ask: What kind of
king are we truly looking for? Are we still secretly hoping for a
Messiah who fits our political mould? One who will simply make us
comfortable, secure our interests, vanquish our enemies, and
deliver ‘salvation’ tailored to our desires?
Second, What kind of peace are we praying, and working, for?
Is it just the absence of conflict in our own lives, a quiet life? Is it a
peace maintained by economic walls or military might? Or are we seeking that
deeper, harder "peace from heaven" – a peace rooted in God's
justice, demanding reconciliation, requiring forgiveness, lived out in
alignment with God's will, even when it’s unpopular or costly? Can we
recognise, as Jerusalem tragically failed to do, the "things that make for
peace" in our own complex time – tackling poverty, pursuing racial
justice, welcoming the refugee, caring for our wounded planet, speaking truth
to power – even if it doesn't look like a victory parade?
Third, Are we missing the point of the
procession? We rightly enjoy the communal celebration of Palm Sunday.
But Luke reminds us it’s not just a street party. It’s the arrival of a king
whose reign leads inexorably to the Cross – in much the same way as our palms
are woven into crosses. The cloaks spread enthusiastically on the road will
soon be replaced by the soldiers gambling callously for Jesus’ seamless robe.
The shouts of praise will curdle into cries of "Crucify him!" Luke’s
Palm Sunday isn’t simple triumph; it’s triumph shot through with
impending tragedy, precisely because the peace being offered is about to be
brutally rejected. Are we guilty of celebrating the entry while conveniently
ignoring the profound cost of the peace Jesus actually embodies and offers?
Luke’s Palm Sunday isn't meant to be entirely
comfortable. It deliberately pulls the rug out from under our easy assumptions.
It presents us with a king and a kingdom that don't quite fit our neat
categories, challenging us. So when
Jesus rides into our lives, our town, our world today, what are we shouting?
Are we demanding ‘Hosanna! Save us!’ on our own terms? Or are we ready, truly
ready, heart and soul, to welcome the challenging, transformative,
world-altering reality of ‘Peace from Heaven’?
May we, unlike that beloved, tragic city, recognise
the things that make for peace, in this our day. Amen
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