Palm Sunday, April 13, 2025
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
Luke 19:28-40
After he had said this, he went on ahead, going up to Jerusalem. When he had come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, saying, “Go into the village ahead of you, and as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it.’” So those who were sent departed and found it as he had told them. As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, “Why are you untying the colt?” They said, “The Lord needs it.” Then they brought it to Jesus; and after throwing their cloaks on the colt, they set Jesus on it. As he rode along, people kept spreading their cloaks on the road. As he was now approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!” Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.” He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.”
Some people call it “the mistake on the lake.” Others love to tell the story about how in 1969, the Cuyahoga River actually caught on fire because of all the industrial waste that had been dumped into it. Of course, I’m talking about Cleveland, Ohio – the punchline of a hundred different jokes. But for me, Cleveland wasn’t a joke. It was my home. It was where I started my ministry. And it’s where I spent some of the very best years of my life.
The church and parsonage were located in an inner-ring suburb called Parma. And Parma is to Cleveland what Cleveland is to the rest of America. A punchline! Parma is the product of the post-war boom: a meat and potatoes kind of place, with well-kept, postage stamp yards and little brick houses.
Parma also had a culture shaped by the large post-war influx of immigrants, mostly Polish and Ukrainian. In fact, there were so many Polish people there, that on one of the main streets, all the business signage was in Polish first, with smaller English translations underneath.
Parma is where I learned to love pierogis. Parma is the first place I ever saw a polka competition. And Parma remains the only place I have ever seen a flamingo parade.
Of course, they weren’t real flamingos. They were the plastic kind that used to populate lawns all over America, maybe even in Cheshire, I suspect. But in Parma, those flamingos had taken on a life and an identity and a meaning all their own.
And those flamingos were a big reason why the rest of Cleveland made fun of Parma. But instead of feeling embarrassed or protesting the joke, the people of Parma just ran with it. Restaurants and other businesses would put flamingos on their signage or have plastic flamingos near the front door. And those postage stamp lawns didn’t just have one or two plastic flamingos, but sometimes whole flocks! And once a year, in one of the many parades that went down the broad avenue in front of the church, there was at least one float that featured a GIANT flamingo, surrounded by dozens of smaller ones. And whenever the people of Parma saw the Flamingo float coming, a roar would go up from the crowd. You see, we were in on the joke. And we understood the power of the underdog.
I’ve seen a lot of parades in my lifetime, in this country and abroad. Some were thrilling, some were charming, but nothing before or since has ever revealed the truth of Palm Sunday like the divine absurdity of a Flamingo Parade. And just like a flamingo parade, Palm Sunday was misunderstood then. It’s often misunderstood now.
It is so because we laden this day with all kinds of meanings to try to gussy it up to fit our own post-Easter worldview. We refer to it as “the Triumphal Entry.” And so, it was. It’s just that it was not the kind of triumph we so often think of. And we see Jesus as a king. And so, he was. But he was not anything like the rulers so often admired then or now. We see this as a day for children. And so, it is. But in its provocation of the powers that be, it was anything but childish. We see Palm Sunday as a celebration. And so, we should. But still the shadows of death gather. And a dark foreboding hangs in the air. As one Eastern Orthodox theologian has put it, this is a day filled with a “glittering sadness.[1]”
So, there was the Jesus parade on one side of town. But on the other, there was another kind of parade altogether.
Every year during Passover, Jerusalem’s population would quadruple – from 50,000 to 200,000, as pilgrims filled the city. And with that many people in one place, at one time, it was the perfect opportunity for one of two things to happen: 1) civil unrest, or 2) an opportunity for Rome to remind everyone of who the boss really was. So, sure, they allowed the people to gather for Passover, that annual celebration of their ancestors’ deliverance from slavery in Egypt. But deliverance from the slavery of Rome? The people better not get any ideas.
Each year during Passover, as a display of that Roman dominance, the Roman governor would travel to Jerusalem from his coastal residence in the west. And he would do so riding an impressive steed, in a great cohort of soldiers and musicians and banners and color. When he finally arrived and entered the gates, the people would cheer and shout, while the trumpets heralded his arrival. It would have been both thrilling and intimidating. Which was the point.
But that year, back on the other side of town, there was a silly display going on. Instead of a Roman governor entering the city, there was a dusty rabbi. Instead of riding in on a steed, the rabbi rode on a donkey so small that his feet dragged the ground. Instead of imperial banners, the people took off their sweat-stained cloaks and laid them down for Jesus. And instead of trumpets, there was the plaintive cry of human voices, shouting: “Save now!” which is the literal translation of the word “Hosanna.”
So, what did they need to be saved from then? And what do we need to be saved from now?
The answer to that question is found, at least in part, by the way we interpret this day. Because I think that most folks still approach this day with the expectations and preconceptions of Empire. It’s as if we have confused the parades.
We continue to seek power and control. We accumulate wealth and influence. But here comes Jesus, on a donkey, feet dragging the ground, covered in the dust of humanity, and followed by a bunch of ragtag dreamers, and desperate seekers, and outsiders of every stripe.
We sometimes think of Palm Sunday as a kind of respite before the rest of Holy Week. But was it? Or was it just as foolish as everything that was about to follow: a celebratory Passover Meal that would become a Last Supper of body and blood; a Roman execution that no king would have had to suffer; and three days later, the unbelievable, naive tale about the power of love over the death-dealing power of Empire.
This rabbi who would be king, not of empires, but of our hearts, calls us to live the kind of life that is a joke to the strong and powerful. The rulers of this world think it foolishness to choose love over domination, and humility over proud ambition, and service over self-aggrandizement. And so, it is. Just as St. Paul wrote in his first letter to the church at Corinth: “the gospel is foolishness to those who are perishing[2]” And he wrote, “… God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, (the) things that are not, to reduce to nothing (the) things that are…[3]”.
And so, on this Palm Sunday, we must choose our parade. And that choice could not be more urgent. Will we march with the empire? Will we parade with our wealth and our privilege and our might, and slap a Christian label on it, as if that makes it so? Or will we join the flamingo parade, and follow the one whose humble life of service to the least, the last, and the lost is no joke at all. It is, instead, the only thing that can save us.
So, save us, Lord! Save the church! Save us now! Hosanna!
[1] Miles, Sarah: https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/3637-20100322JJ, accessed 4/7/2025
[2] I Corinthians 1:18
[3] I Corinthians 1:27-28
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
Luke 19:28-40
After he had said this, he went on ahead, going up to Jerusalem. When he had come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, saying, “Go into the village ahead of you, and as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it.’” So those who were sent departed and found it as he had told them. As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, “Why are you untying the colt?” They said, “The Lord needs it.” Then they brought it to Jesus; and after throwing their cloaks on the colt, they set Jesus on it. As he rode along, people kept spreading their cloaks on the road. As he was now approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!” Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.” He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.”
Some people call it “the mistake on the lake.” Others love to tell the story about how in 1969, the Cuyahoga River actually caught on fire because of all the industrial waste that had been dumped into it. Of course, I’m talking about Cleveland, Ohio – the punchline of a hundred different jokes. But for me, Cleveland wasn’t a joke. It was my home. It was where I started my ministry. And it’s where I spent some of the very best years of my life.
The church and parsonage were located in an inner-ring suburb called Parma. And Parma is to Cleveland what Cleveland is to the rest of America. A punchline! Parma is the product of the post-war boom: a meat and potatoes kind of place, with well-kept, postage stamp yards and little brick houses.
Parma also had a culture shaped by the large post-war influx of immigrants, mostly Polish and Ukrainian. In fact, there were so many Polish people there, that on one of the main streets, all the business signage was in Polish first, with smaller English translations underneath.
Parma is where I learned to love pierogis. Parma is the first place I ever saw a polka competition. And Parma remains the only place I have ever seen a flamingo parade.
Of course, they weren’t real flamingos. They were the plastic kind that used to populate lawns all over America, maybe even in Cheshire, I suspect. But in Parma, those flamingos had taken on a life and an identity and a meaning all their own.
And those flamingos were a big reason why the rest of Cleveland made fun of Parma. But instead of feeling embarrassed or protesting the joke, the people of Parma just ran with it. Restaurants and other businesses would put flamingos on their signage or have plastic flamingos near the front door. And those postage stamp lawns didn’t just have one or two plastic flamingos, but sometimes whole flocks! And once a year, in one of the many parades that went down the broad avenue in front of the church, there was at least one float that featured a GIANT flamingo, surrounded by dozens of smaller ones. And whenever the people of Parma saw the Flamingo float coming, a roar would go up from the crowd. You see, we were in on the joke. And we understood the power of the underdog.
I’ve seen a lot of parades in my lifetime, in this country and abroad. Some were thrilling, some were charming, but nothing before or since has ever revealed the truth of Palm Sunday like the divine absurdity of a Flamingo Parade. And just like a flamingo parade, Palm Sunday was misunderstood then. It’s often misunderstood now.
It is so because we laden this day with all kinds of meanings to try to gussy it up to fit our own post-Easter worldview. We refer to it as “the Triumphal Entry.” And so, it was. It’s just that it was not the kind of triumph we so often think of. And we see Jesus as a king. And so, he was. But he was not anything like the rulers so often admired then or now. We see this as a day for children. And so, it is. But in its provocation of the powers that be, it was anything but childish. We see Palm Sunday as a celebration. And so, we should. But still the shadows of death gather. And a dark foreboding hangs in the air. As one Eastern Orthodox theologian has put it, this is a day filled with a “glittering sadness.[1]”
So, there was the Jesus parade on one side of town. But on the other, there was another kind of parade altogether.
Every year during Passover, Jerusalem’s population would quadruple – from 50,000 to 200,000, as pilgrims filled the city. And with that many people in one place, at one time, it was the perfect opportunity for one of two things to happen: 1) civil unrest, or 2) an opportunity for Rome to remind everyone of who the boss really was. So, sure, they allowed the people to gather for Passover, that annual celebration of their ancestors’ deliverance from slavery in Egypt. But deliverance from the slavery of Rome? The people better not get any ideas.
Each year during Passover, as a display of that Roman dominance, the Roman governor would travel to Jerusalem from his coastal residence in the west. And he would do so riding an impressive steed, in a great cohort of soldiers and musicians and banners and color. When he finally arrived and entered the gates, the people would cheer and shout, while the trumpets heralded his arrival. It would have been both thrilling and intimidating. Which was the point.
But that year, back on the other side of town, there was a silly display going on. Instead of a Roman governor entering the city, there was a dusty rabbi. Instead of riding in on a steed, the rabbi rode on a donkey so small that his feet dragged the ground. Instead of imperial banners, the people took off their sweat-stained cloaks and laid them down for Jesus. And instead of trumpets, there was the plaintive cry of human voices, shouting: “Save now!” which is the literal translation of the word “Hosanna.”
So, what did they need to be saved from then? And what do we need to be saved from now?
The answer to that question is found, at least in part, by the way we interpret this day. Because I think that most folks still approach this day with the expectations and preconceptions of Empire. It’s as if we have confused the parades.
We continue to seek power and control. We accumulate wealth and influence. But here comes Jesus, on a donkey, feet dragging the ground, covered in the dust of humanity, and followed by a bunch of ragtag dreamers, and desperate seekers, and outsiders of every stripe.
We sometimes think of Palm Sunday as a kind of respite before the rest of Holy Week. But was it? Or was it just as foolish as everything that was about to follow: a celebratory Passover Meal that would become a Last Supper of body and blood; a Roman execution that no king would have had to suffer; and three days later, the unbelievable, naive tale about the power of love over the death-dealing power of Empire.
This rabbi who would be king, not of empires, but of our hearts, calls us to live the kind of life that is a joke to the strong and powerful. The rulers of this world think it foolishness to choose love over domination, and humility over proud ambition, and service over self-aggrandizement. And so, it is. Just as St. Paul wrote in his first letter to the church at Corinth: “the gospel is foolishness to those who are perishing[2]” And he wrote, “… God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, (the) things that are not, to reduce to nothing (the) things that are…[3]”.
And so, on this Palm Sunday, we must choose our parade. And that choice could not be more urgent. Will we march with the empire? Will we parade with our wealth and our privilege and our might, and slap a Christian label on it, as if that makes it so? Or will we join the flamingo parade, and follow the one whose humble life of service to the least, the last, and the lost is no joke at all. It is, instead, the only thing that can save us.
So, save us, Lord! Save the church! Save us now! Hosanna!
[1] Miles, Sarah: https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/3637-20100322JJ, accessed 4/7/2025
[2] I Corinthians 1:18
[3] I Corinthians 1:27-28
RSS Feed