The entry music that wasn't: Jesus on Palm Sunday

            One of the things I would like most would be my own entrance music—you know that theme song that suddenly announces the entry of professional wrestlers, or batters in a baseball game, or even sometimes politicians. It’s a special person who earns himself his own theme music. Joe Mauer has music written for him specially as his theme when he walks up to the plate to hit. Who wouldn’t get pumped up by that? Every movie has that musical crescendo for the entrance of its main characters. Whether it’s The Hunger Games or Gladiator our experience of heroes is usually some particularly beautiful music overlaid on top of an already moving scene. Television does this, too.

            So, we can imagine Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem along these lines—palm branches, trumpets blaring; the soundtrack of Christ as victor, king over Jerusalem. But something isn’t quite right about that image. Jesus rode in like a king toward the temple. He did everything we would expect the king to do. Then, he looked around and left, leaving the people stunned in the streets. They were there for the party—a coronation—something like Mardi Gras in the Jerusalem streets. Jesus was coming to take his rightful place on the throne... and then he didn’t.

            Part of the thrill of entry music is that it tells us something of what is going to happen. Movie soundtracks build to a crescendo just when the time is right; just when the action is most critical, just as professional wrestling theme music introduces a fight. The intro music is only good when it is prelude to something. If the wrestlers came out to their music, shook hands and exited without a fight the fans would be rightly disappointed. If Joe Mauer walked out to his at-bat music, tipped his helmet and went back in the dugout we would all be pretty confused. The music builds what is coming; it is not itself anything of importance.

            That is the challenge with Palm Sunday. It is, I think, why many churches don’t have much of a Palm Sunday service at all, instead focusing on the entirety of the Passion—well, that and because they don’t expect people to come on Maundy Thursday or Good Friday, but that’s another story. We don’t know what to do with Palm Sunday. Jesus rides into Jerusalem, takes a look around, and thirty seconds later off he goes. The people in the streets have to be thinking, “Wait, what?”

           Jesus continually defies expectations. He is given the opportunity for political power, and he just doesn’t care. In the moment where it seems like he has the chance for the greatest influence instead of stepping into the light he backs into the shadows. The Philippians hymn talks about Jesus humbling himself to the point of death on the cross, and the important word here is humble. This is a hugely humbling moment. Where most of us would have sensed the time was right to step up to the throne with the people cheering our name, Jesus defers. This is no million man march; no Occupy movement; no grassroots campaign of any sort. This is Jesus showing the humility to demonstrate the ultimate futility of this kind of power. He could seize the throne, but it would be just a human illusion. He could take that power and start a revolution, but the kind of revolution he was going to start was altogether different.

            The world goes around because of principalities and powers that seek that stage. We celebrate those who do not shy away from the moment but embrace it head on. But Jesus’ example is one that’s hard to ignore. It compels us to ask the question: what does it mean to have a God and Savior of creation who does exactly what we would not?

            We should hardly be surprised that all the reasons why we would want that theme music playing are exactly the reasons why Jesus turns aside from the throne. If we were perfectly submissive, if we had that kind of humility; if each and every one of us practiced that kind of selflessness, then Jesus could have walked straight into that temple and taken his place on the throne. We wouldn’t need a Savior who took the harder path, but here we are. The very fact that Jesus could not take his place in power is evidence of our failure to live up to the expectations of God.

            We talk a lot about sin in church as if it is always some dramatic cancer in our lives that needs to be healed, but for the majority of our lives sin isn’t something we experience as dramatic at all. Instead, it is that little failing; that little worry, anxiety; that little need for self-preservation that is symptomatic of something else. We would take that throne—each and every one of us. If presented with the kind of power Jesus could have had, we would take it without even a second thought. And I know this because we do it all the time.

The power itself is not the problem; it’s the fact that we want it that betrays us.

True power has to be gifted; it only comes to those who understand how completely undeserving they are.

I know, because the only one who was deserving turned it down. So may we celebrate the gift to say ‘no;’ the gift to not have to take that throne; the gift that we have a Savior who took a harder road. The road of what awaits later this week; a cross.