Palm Sunday 2005

*Preached at Grace North Church by John R. Mabry on March 20, 2005.*

It was a happy day for Lord Shiva and his wife Parvati. She had longed for a child for some time, and Shiva had finally given in. Ganesha was everything his mother had hoped her child would be: healthy, strong, and possessed of the rugged beauty befitting the child of the Lord of Heaven.

News of the holy birth traveled far and wide, and soon gods of every station were making their way to Shiva and Parvati's hut to pay obeisance, to wish them well, and to honor the little godling with gifts.

The gifts were great-gold, cattle, who knows, there may have even been a bit of frankincense and myrrh in the mix. Parvati was overwhelmed by the outpouring of love from her subjects, and as the queen of heaven, very pleased indeed with the wealth that was accumulating in a heap near their hut as visitor after visitor bowed to worship the little babe and bestowed his or her offerings.

When the Earth herself arrived, a hush rippled throughout the gathered throng. For the earth was possessed of all known riches-and all waited in excited suspense to see what her gift would be.

The Earth bowed to Shiva and Parvati, then knelt by the cradle of the little god, adoring him. She then opened her satchel and brought forth her gift: a mouse. The crowd caught its breath-what could the Earth be thinking? The mouse was the lowliest of creatures, a pest, for there was no home that it did not pester.

Later, Shiva cut his son's head off, and when Parvati hit the roof, he cut off the head of an elephant and placed it on his son's shoulders, bringing the boy back to life, though burdened with a huge, weird head. But Ganesha was destined by the gift of the earth to be a stranger sight still, for when he was old enough to go forth into the world, everyone discovered what the mouse was for. Ganesha placed a saddle upon the little beast, and to the horror and amazement of everyone in sight, the elephant-headed god mounted the mouse, and forever after used him as his steed.

People tried not to laugh. Once, when a snake appeared out of nowhere, it caught the mouse by surprise, and Genesha toppled off, splitting open his tummy. Ganesha was disturbed to see his entrails on the road, and even more upset to see that all of the sweets he had just eaten were no longer inside him. So he stuffed it all back into his abdomen and used the snake as a belt to hold himself closed until he healed. The moon saw this whole sorry affair and had a hearty laugh at Ganesha's expense. Ganesha was so angry he broke off one of his tusks and threw it at the moon, denting it. He then climbed back on his mouse and continued on his way home.

Sometimes God rides a strange steed. The mouse is the humblest of creatures, yet the Son of the Lord of Heaven deigns to ride him. And even though people laugh at him, he is not deterred. Though it seems he has taken a lethal blow, to everyone's amazement, he rises once again to his feet, and has the last laugh.

Our reading from the Gospel of Matthew this morning contains an echo of this story. The Jews had long expected their Messiah. He was to be the Son of the Most High God, the anointed one, invested with power and righteousness. They told stories about him, wrote apocalyptic fantasies about him that presaged the LEFT BEHIND series, yet which, in their own day, were just as popular.

In the stories they told, the Messiah would enter Jerusalem mounted on a War Horse. He would rally the armies of Israel, and armed with righteousness, would lead the Jews to a miraculous victory over the Romans, liberating them from their pagan oppressors. He would then set up his throne in Jerusalem and rule all the nations with justice.

That's who they were expecting when Jesus approached the city gates that fateful Passover season. The Warrior King had arrived, the messiah was here, and people turned out in throngs to greet and hail him. Their cries of praise almost caught in their throats when he rode through the gatesseated on a baby donkey? What was up with that? It was not what they were expecting, it did not fit the myths, it was not a fit steed for the Son of Man. Yet there he was, the Son of the Lord of Heaven, seated inexplicably on a mount too humble to be believed.

Sometimes God rides a strange steed.

One of the things I find most endearing about Fr. Richard is the way he loves to shock people. He delights in telling people he's not the slightest bit religious. He is a card-carrying member of the UC Berkeley atheists club, and attends every meeting in his clerical collar, hoping, I am sure, that there will be some visitor he can confound. This, I believe, is Richard's own imitatio Christi, his imitation of Christ, for indeed, God seems to delight in nothing quite so much as shocking us, surprising us, dashing all of our expectations. Jesus certainly did this at his triumphal entry into Jerusalem, and when I imagine the scene I see the same impish gleam in his eye that I see in Richard's.

This prediliction of divinity is not an artifact of mythology or ancient history, however. These stories survive, as all stories do, only because the tell us something that is true for us in the here and now, in our daily lives.

Allow me to tell you about my friend Matt. Matt and I worked together several times in our lives. We worked at a pizza place together in high school, and later at a magazine office. Although Matt was bright and one of the funniest people I have ever known, he was also a champion partier and a master of self-destructive behavior. Weekends at his apartment invariably turned into hedonistic binges that often taxed even my endurance.

But life for Matt was not all celebration. These excesses were interrupted by long periods of depression in which he would withdraw and speak to no one for weeks on end. In truth, the man desperately needed psychiatric care and probably medication, as his moodswings between manic hedonism and reclusive depression were taking a terrible toll on him.

A girlfriend proved good for him, but even such a stabilizing influence was not enough to tame him, or to move him to seek help. And then something amazing and unexpected happened. Matt's girlfriend got pregnant, and Matt had to face the horrifying prospect of fatherhood.

It will probably not come as a surprise to anyone here that his life was transformed. As the pregnancy progressed, the parties stopped. Matt found that with his wife depending on him, he no longer had the liberty of indulging his self-obsession and depression. There were other things, and other people, who needed him. He went to a doctor, he got help. His alcohol consumption went from a six pack a night to a six pack a week. And when the baby arrived, he wept, for it was not one, but two people being born. He witnessed his own salvation in the eyes of the most humble of persons.

Sometimes God rides a strange steed.

God comes to all of us in this way, sometimes in the form of humans, sometimes in the form of animals. The mouse upon which Ganesha rides is symbolic of the ego, and in this image we see ourselves. Ganesha is consciousness itself, the glory of the godhead, perched precariously upon the tiny vehicle of the ego. And we are each of us the Body of Christ, perched precariously upon fragile egos. And like idiots, who do we identify with? In our self-delusion and blindness we think we are the mouse, completely ignoring the elephant in the room. Yet what a privilege it is, what an honor, what an undeserved grace, that the Lord of Heaven should seek to take up residence in us, should choose us for his mount, would deign to make his home in these modest and fragile hearts.

Yet God loves to shock us. God delights in riding strange steeds. And though one day we praise him and the next day we mock him, God is unmoved and willing to mount up whenever we allow it. For God does not abhor the humble, and the lowly mount God does not eschew. Blessed be the name of God. Let us pray.

Holy One, we are not rich,
we are not powerful,
we are not highly esteemed in the eyes of the world,
we are not famous,
we have not the ear of the prince nor his governors,
we are not strong,
we are not holy or even particularly religious.
No matter. You come to our door, you knock
And when we let you in, you enter and dine with us
And when we invite you, you move in and dwell with us
Modest though our dwellings may be.
For you do not esteem money, nor power, nor piety,
You desire only to embrace and to be embraced.
Help us, O God, to have a lapse of memory
To forget all the reasons we tell ourselves
We are not fit to host Thee.
For you delight in riding strange steeds.
And it honors us to bear Thee. Amen.