[Note from Daniel: Yes, we are electing a president, and Jesus still reigns as King. This will be the theme in the weekly series beginning on Easter Sunday and continuing through Pentecost, as we focus on how Jesus reigns through the stories in the book of Acts. Robert Pelfrey and I will trade weeks writing the series, and I asked him to write this introduction for today, Palm Sunday.]
In this crazy political season there are three kinds of people showing up to the often out-of-control rallies. One person is absolutely sure this candidate is America’s only hope. This is my candidate who thinks just like I think, and therefore, this is God’s candidate. Another person is absolutely sure this same candidate is the worst thing that could ever happen to America. If this candidate is elected, all hope is lost. This candidate must be stopped! And the third person is at the rally because it’s a spectacle with TV cameras and celebrities. They’ll eventually move on to the next flavor of the month.
It’s funny how crowds don’t change. This also describes the people in the crowd on Palm Sunday—which, make no mistake, was very much a political rally.
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Abiding God,
The invitation to be with you is overwhelming yet resonates with my deepest and truest desires. I often don't pay enough attention to just how much I want to be with you. At the same time, I also resist going into solitude. I don't know what is there for us to do together. I am scared that I might find you to be boring or inaccessible. I am worried that the web of entanglements in which I live might unravel if I go away to be alone. I have parts of me that I like to hide––even from myself––and I am fearful that they might come to the surface if I am alone and quiet for long.
But you keep inviting me nonetheless. All of those fears eventually lose their energy as I sit in the quietness of your love. Your presence and your silence gently invite me to find my home in you and to discover that you are already dwelling in me. Here I find you, I find others, I find the world in which I live, and I find my own life hidden in yours.
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"...A few years after my dad died, my mom moved out of the house they had shared for more than forty years, and asked my brothers and me to go through the house and see if there were any of his things we wanted.
Only one really mattered to me: the desk. It’s where I sit as I type this now. It’s where I will turn around in a few minutes when my kids get home from school and hug them as they run into the room. It’s where the man who modeled God’s mercy for me taught me to hope in it, always."
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I love this story from James Bryan Smith about John of Kronstadt: “He was a nineteenth-century Russian Orthodox priest at a time when alcohol abuse was rampant. None of the priests ventured out of their churches to help the people. They waited for people to come to them. John, compelled by love, went out into the streets. People said he would lift the hungover, foul-smelling people from the gutter, cradle them in his arms and say to them, ‘This is beneath your dignity. You were meant to house the fullness of God.’”
That is incarnation.
- The Word became flesh in Jesus, in whom "all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell."
- Because of this, we are ones in whom Christ dwells. We are meant to “be filled with all the fullness of God."
- Therefore, as Christ’s body (the church), we do what John of Kronstadt did and carry the message to whatever part of the world in which we find ourselves: "You, too, were meant to house the fullness of God."
Jesus did not live in human flesh for his own sake. You are not one in whom Christ dwells for your own benefit. The church is not Christ’s body just so that we can have a good time together. Rather, we follow a Messiah who understood himself as sent from his Father in the heavens–he came in the flesh, lived, died, and rose again to show us what God is like and to give us the opportunity to "share the divine life of him who humbled himself to share our humanity."
The challenge of carrying a message like that into the world is the degree to which we must allow ourselves to be touched if the message is to go anywhere. It simply isn’t a message that can mean anything if shouted from a distance.
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