Entry into the City, by John August Swanson.
You can watch a video of this sermon here, at minute 52:50.
“I am as useless as a broken pot.”
“My strength fails me because of affliction.”
“Then all the disciples deserted him and fled.”
“Peter went out and wept bitterly.”
“Throwing down the pieces of silver in the temple, Judas departed; and he went and hanged himself.”
“It was out of jealousy that they handed Jesus over.”
“Pilate saw that he could do nothing.”
“They compelled Simon to carry the cross.”
“Many women were also there, looking on from a distance.”
Everybody is powerless. Jesus is powerless by choice. As Paul sings in his letter to the Philippians, probably quoting an ancient hymn, Christ Jesus “emptied himself” and “humbled himself.” But everyone else is flailing helplessly against their will. Overcome by fear, they run away. Punched in the gut by remorse, they stagger from the courtyard and weep. Defeated by despair, they die by suicide. Gripped with envy, they retaliate with bitter malice. Squeezed in the vise of a political dilemma, they fretfully wash their hands. Plucked from the crowd, they are forced to carry a heavy load. Exhausted by fear and grief, they can only look on as their friend’s body is lowered and prepared for burial.
“I am as useless as a broken pot,” cries the psalmist. “My strength fails me because of affliction.” Powerlessness is a spiritual condition, a human experience, something we all have felt, and likely feel right now.
Another shooting that slaughters children with weapons designed to obliterate human bodies, blasting God’s own image out of them. Another month of war in a wrongfully invaded nation. Another case of justice delayed and denied because either the victim or the accused is a person of color, or other than cisgender. The madness of our slow-motion, late-empire political collapse. Endless injustice along the border. Deadly pathogens. Roiling storms and rising seas.
“I am as useless as a broken pot.”
Many of us feel that way.
But are we? Do we proclaim today only a hopeless story of helpless defeat? No, when we look again at all the powerless people in the story, we see some nuances, and we begin to find our way to authentic hope.
“Then all the disciples deserted him and fled.” That’s … not impressive. Their helplessness is motivated entirely by fear, and – it’s fair to say – cowardice. But they come back. The risen Jesus finds them and brings them back. If you are afraid, and in your fear you have “turtled,” gone into hiding, withdrawn from your task, the risen Jesus is finding you even now, to restore and strengthen you, to bring you back.
“Peter went out and wept bitterly.” Well, he should have. In his denials he handed his friend over to death. But the risen Jesus brings Peter back, too, though not before a hard conversation that names his great wrongdoing, and moves Peter through the hard work of authentic amends. If you also have done something terrible, be encouraged – if also daunted – by the Good News that you can make an authentic repair.
“Throwing down the pieces of silver in the temple, Judas departed; and he went and hanged himself.” The New Testament – particularly in Matthew – closes the book firmly on Judas Iscariot, and if you like you could read about how he was “elected to reject,” how he is the eternal Sinner who hands Jesus over, representing for all time the shadow lurking inside every human being, the part of each one of us that rejects God, rejects the good. But – with profound reverence for the scriptural witness – I respectfully disagree, and believe that the New Testament offers more for Judas Iscariot, in spite of itself. The book on Judas is still open. Even now, the risen Jesus is working to bring him back. Nothing you can do puts you out of God’s reach. Nothing.
Next: “It was out of jealousy that they handed Jesus over.” Well now things are getting interesting, because the powerlessness of the religious leaders is happening even as they enjoy immense privilege: they have access to the levers of power and the means of production; they can do – and choose not to do – a lot. Are you a leader of this kind? If so, the risen Jesus is willing to stay up all night to help you overcome your resentments, your ignorance, and your fears. We met Nicodemus again this Lent, a faith leader with education privilege and wealth privilege, a person with undeniable agency. He stayed up all night talking to Jesus. Jealousy did not consume him.
And speaking of people with privilege, “Pilate saw that he could do nothing.” Really? Nothing? Pilate could do lots of things. His problem was simply that the right thing was hard to do. It could cost him his job, or even his life. But this whole story is about the essential importance of doing the right thing even, if necessary, unto death. There is hope here, but it is admittedly a hard teaching. If you have privilege – and if you can understand me right now in this language of empire, then you have at least one privilege – God will be with you as you set privilege aside and do costly works of justice and peace.
And finally there were some uncomplicated good guys who also experienced powerlessness. “They compelled Simon to carry the cross.” Compelled: he had no choice. But did he? He couldn’t have slipped into the crowd? Okay, maybe not. But he is remembered forever as the Crucifer, the cross-bearer, and his ministry is enacted in this room every week of every year, when one of our own Simons carries the cross. And of course this is just our way to ritualize how all of us are called into that powerless place: buckling under the weight of the cross, we are one with all who are compelled, all who are forced to bear up under the injustice that all too often benefits us at their expense. “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,” Paul sings, and he could easily sing “Let the same mind be in you that was in Simon of Cyrene,” who did as he was told, and made a terrible journey of an unjust victim a little more bearable, a little less lonely. Simon, like Judas, did his part in a journey that ultimately leads to resurrection.
And, at last, “Many women were also there, looking on from a distance.” Perhaps these women were the most powerful of all the powerless ones. They certainly kept the immense power of their own presence of mind, and the formidable power of their own hearts of steel. They did not need to stay. They did not need to look. Surely, in their staying and in their looking, surely they felt desperately powerless. But they stayed. They kept vigil with the victim.
And we can recognize them among us even now. In the film Dead Man Walking, we meet Helen Prejean, a faith leader who ministers to people on death row. (And I hope we all can agree that everyone on death row – innocent or guilty – is a powerless victim of injustice.) As the inmate is prepared for execution, Helen assures him that she will be there. Emptying herself of her privilege to look away, and humbling herself with the knowledge that she also has been a wrongdoer, Helen says to the condemned man, “I want the last face you see in this world to be the face of love, so you look at me when they do this thing. I'll be the face of love for you.”
This, in the end, is our calling, our purpose, our mission: We are to be the face of love for all who break beneath the weight of injustice. “You look at me when they do this thing,” we are to say. “You look at me when they do this thing. I’ll be the face of love for you.”
***
Preached on Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion, April 2, 2023, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington.
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Psalm 31:9-16
Philippians 2:5-11
Matthew 26:14-27:66