Sun, Mar 28, 2021
Parody and power
Mark 11:1-11 by Craig de Vos
A story sermon for Palm Sunday
Series: Sermons

“Come on Joshua! Hurry up or we’ll miss it!”

“Hang on a minute”, I called out.

But my friend Zechariah was in no mood for waiting––

taking off across the lush green grass of our paddock…

and up the slope of the hill towards the highway…

with me in hot pursuit.

Passing my father and older brother, cutting hay with their sickles, I waved.

Dad called something out…

but I couldn’t hear.

I couldn’t stop.

Not now!

Zechariah had almost reached the olive groves next door.

 

The buds on the trees were beginning to open…

spurred on by the spring-time warmth.

It was a quiet time of year around here…

with not much to do.

The olives won’t be ready for months

so none of the frantic activity of harvest.

Nothing to pickle or press or bottle.

Now, there was just some hay to cut for our goat.

Dad often does a bit of carpentry this time of year to help pay the bills.

He’s started to teach my brother, Hosea, but I’m still a bit too young.

So I’ve got time to have fun with Zechariah.

Like now.

As we raced through the olive groves towards the highway…

going to watch the procession of pilgrims heading up to Jerusalem.

 

Emerging from the last row of olive trees, we ran headlong into a huge crowd.

Most of them were locals who’d come from their fields and houses to take a look.

But there were some I didn’t recognise.

They were all standing beside the road, cheering on the pilgrims.

Zechariah turned his head towards me… 

and shouted over his shoulder, “Come on, Joshua!”… 

before he dived between bodies.

Elbowing my way through behind him… 

I emerged from the pack…

and took up position alongside Zechariah at the road’s edge…

gawking at the people passing by.

There were people from all walks of life:

men and women, old and young;

simple peasants, in their tatty tunics, carrying very little;

artisans, covered in dust and grime; 

soldiers and shopkeepers;

and some well-dressed Pharisees, pompously posturing like peacocks.

All of them heading up to Jerusalem for the festival…

and singing Psalms as they walked.

We sat there for a while, watching.

Just as it was starting to get boring…

we heard some shouts over the top of the pilgrims’ singing:

“Hosanna!

Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! 

Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!

Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

It got louder and louder as they drew closer.

 

As they came up the rise in the road, I noticed they were an odd bunch…

in among the pilgrims…

a rag-tag collection of peasants and social riff-raff––

beggars, prostitutes, and foreigners.

Some were stooped or deformed…

teeth missing…

soiled hands and faces…

dressed in badly patched and threadbare tunics…

and worn-out sandals.

But they were jumping and dancing like they were possessed.

I’d swear some of them were drunk!

And they just kept shouting: 

“Hosanna!

Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! 

Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!

Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

As if they were acclaiming a king––

the king…

the One who we’ve all been waiting for.

 

Then, at last, he appeared.

But he was just another poor peasant… 

in an equally worn and threadbare tunic…

with a weathered face and a mop of black hair…

astride a smallish young donkey…

which was stopping and starting in fits and jumps…

kicking and bucking and braying… 

as it careered all over the road.

Clearly, it had never been ridden before.

And behind him there were more people, shouting:

“Hosanna!

Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! 

Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!

Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

Some of this rag-tag rabble threw their tattered cloaks on the road… 

in front of the out-of-control donkey…

along with branches that they’d cut from the olive trees…

as if it were some sort of red-carpet.

Some of them gathered old dried leaves from the roadside,

and scattered them as if they were rose-petals.

It was such a sight!

So tragically comical that I couldn’t help laughing:

a rag-tag crowd of social outcasts and misfits…

and a simple peasant in tatty clothes… 

on a cantankerous young donkey.

There was no army in gleaming armour…

no fiery black stallion…

not a purple robe or crown in sight.

Just a carnival of fools;

better than any travelling troupe of actors.

I was laughing so much that it hurt.

Zechariah, too, was hysterical.

But, rising to his feet, he started scattering leaves like rose-petals…

and sarcastically joined in their shouts of acclamation.

Uprooting a large weed, I began waving it as if it were a palm frond.

And some of the locals–– 

who’d come for a squiz–– 

joined in as well…

howling with laughter…

mockingly applauding this carnival king, as he rode off towards Jerusalem.

We watched as they drew near its gates…

waiting to see what would happen.

But the whole procession just… stopped.

The crowd dissipated.

And the one on the donkey calmly got off.

Then walked in alone.

 

Zechariah and I turned, and headed home.

Shaking our heads.

It really was a strange event.

My dad had told me that there had been others who had come this way before…

claiming to be the expected king…

but they’d all been rebels and revolutionaries––

fanatical leaders, supported by followers who were strong, organised, and armed;

and, apparently, the Romans had crushed each one of them…

ruthlessly.

I’m sure their processions would’ve looked much more impressive…

much more regal…

much more likely to succeed.

Surely, this was just a stunt?

Surely, it was a bit of biting political satire…

a send-up of kings and pretenders… 

by a rag-tag bunch of social misfits––

a chorus of losers…

a carnival of the absurd?

It was like… 

they had put on this performance just for us.

After all, they stopped before they got to Jerusalem.

I mean… 

if he really thought that he was going to be crowned king… 

then he would’ve kept going––

all the way into Jerusalem.

No!

It had to be a performance…

a satirical send-up…

a mockery of political pretenders.

I mean, if this were serious, then how does he expect to change anything?

He’s no great military leader…

and his followers sure aren’t an army.

How’s he going to bring freedom to the oppressed?

How’s he going to bring peace?

How’s he going to change the world?

He can’t even ride a donkey properly!

He’ll just end up getting killed.

No!

This fellow looks more like a circus clown than a king.

You’d have to be a fool to follow him!