PALM SUNDAY 2008 | Luke 19:28-40

In the Evangelical church of my childhood, I remember singing, “Lord, I Want to be More Like Jesus,” by which, I was pretty sure most of us did not mean that we wanted God to impart to us first-century carpentry skills or stereotypically robust Semitic schnozes. Instead, even as a young boy, I understood that we were asking God to help us to embody Jesus’ character, his virtues, and his values.

This memory came back to me this week as I pondered the Palm Sunday reading for today, and it came in the context of a very stressful week. As many of you know, I have been struggling for the past several years with a maddening medical condition that evidences itself as an increasing sensitivity to all medications. Simple Aspirin will leave me with a 5-day hangover nowadays, and even medicinal herbs from my acupuncturist has the same effect. This has become very troublesome indeed, since I suffer from acid reflux and can no longer take the medication that controls it. My GP has done every test under the sun and insists he can find no cause for the condition. I have tried several Chinese practitioners, and they have been no more successful.

In desperation, I went this week to a naturopath, who sat with me for an hour and a half, listening to every twist and turn of my medical odyssey, and also grilling me about my family of origin, work, and relationships. At the end of the interview, she informed me that my liver was severely compromised, and that it was partly due to the fact that, for most of my life, I have allowed myself to be bullied by a good number of people, but instead of standing up for myself, or fighting back, I have simply taken it, and instead of expressing the anger and rage that they have provoked, I have turned it inside. “Anger is stored in the liver,” she said, “and it is toxic.”

Now I’m as skeptical of such new-age approaches to things as the next guy, but honestly, I’m getting pretty desperate with my health situation, and although I can’t speak to the liver-anger connection, everything she said rang true. I DO let people walk all over me. I am afraid of my own shadow. I am one of those people whom nature seems to have hung a permanent “kick me” sign on my back. And yes, I’m fairly sick of it—a statement which may, in fact, sum up my entire health crisis in a major body-metaphor kind of way.

I know I cannot continue to live in this way. But old training dies hard. Fear is a tough monkey to shake. My mother was a bully, and bullies seem to have this built-in radar that can identify potential victims within a several-mile radius. But just being aware of this, I know is a sign of hope. One of my closest friends has advised me to “grow a spine,” and as painful as that sounds, I am resolved to do so.

And that’s why I want to be a lot more like Jesus—which might seem counter-intuitive. After all, he’s the ultimate victim, isn’t he? But when I look at the Gospel readings leading up to Easter, that isn’t what I see at all. What I see is a man who was true to his convictions, regardless of what his betters said, regardless of what his family said, regardless of what the priests and authority figures said. I see a man with the courage to go against the grain, to speak for those who had no voice, to help those who had no hope—no matter who it might upset to do so.  

And when it was clear those he had angered would stop at nothing to shut him down, when he and his friends feared for his very life, he did not flee. It was suicide to go to Jerusalem for that final Passover. But Jesus would not be bullied. Instead, he set his face towards the Holy City, and remaining true to his call, he walked unflinchingly, step by step, into the mouth of danger.

And not only did he do it bravely, he did it with his humor and humanity intact. His choice of a donkey for his Triumphal entry into Jerusalem has been variously interpreted throughout the centuries as symbolic, as ironic, as subversive. And I think all of these are fruitful perspectives. But what spoke to me this year was what a great joke it was. You want a warrior? How’s this for a warrior? You want a king? How’s this for a king? You want a savior? What savior worth his salt would arrive this way? It was more than whistling in the dark. Jesus was mocking it.

Like so much about Jesus, I find this deeply inspiring. I know I am not alone in my health crisis. Many of us have such crises—many so much worse than mine, frustrating though it may be. Many of us have family tragedies that threaten to overwhelm us. Many of us have suffered abuse that we fear we will never heal from and that haunts us every hour of every day. Our lives are full of stress, striving, and suffering.

But God has not abandoned us. Even though we may be tempted to cry, like Jesus on the cross, “my God, my God, why have you abandoned me?” we are not, ultimately, abandoned or alone. The cross is always eclipsed by the empty tomb. The resurrection is the promise that no crucifixion is permanent, that no matter how dark the tunnel, faith can lead us to the light at its end.

That sounds easy, but it isn’t. Having faith is an act of courage, of irrationality, of wanton hope that is foolishness in the eyes of the dog-eat-dog world out there. Following Jesus means not only having the courage to face the things that scare us, but also having the courage to believe that all will be well, in the end. Barack Obama talks about the “audacity of hope” and I think he’s on to something, there. Faith and hope are not things that come easily or cheaply. The are hard-won, and fly in the face of conventional wisdom. But it is only by exercising our atrophied faith and hope muscles that we can gain the strength to “be more like Jesus,” to confront the evils and suffering in the world, and the bullies that cause them.

I am not there yet. Standing up and staring down evil the way Jesus did scares the willies out of me. And yet, I surprised myself last week as I was taking my dog Judy for her evening walk. We were a couple of blocks from home, when I heard a snarl from behind us. I turned to discover an enormous black dog racing towards us, growling, snarling, and snapping his teeth. In an instant I took in that this dog was not just full of bluster. He was much bigger than Judy, and would make mincemeat out of her in a matter of mere seconds. Without thinking, I jumped over Judy, placing myself between her and our viscous attacker. I assumed a linebacker stance, and staring the dog straight in the eye, I ROARED. Every bit of adrenaline I had went into it. Honestly, I could not believe the sound that was coming out of my throat. And apparently, neither could the attacking dog. He stopped in his tracks, cocked his head at me uncertainly, uttered a mild whimper, turned tail and fled.

Afterwards, I was relieved, shaken, and amazed at myself. Apparently, I DO have it in me somewhere. Maybe I just think about it too much, and I get paralyzed by my own fear. Anyway, it’s good to know that when the heat is on, and when I need to be, I can be scarier than the average dog. Bullies, you are on notice. Let us pray…

Jesus, you are not some faraway God,
removed from human suffering or concerns.
What we love about you is that you know just how hard it is,
How scary it can be, how much it hurts, to be human.
Thank you for showing us, time and again,
How you met your trials and fears
With dignity, with courage, with humor, and with humanity.
Give us the faith, the courage, and the hope,
To meet our own suffering and trials
In the same way.
Help us, Jesus, to be more like you. Amen.