Combining into one liturgy the “Hosanna!” of the triumphal palm procession and the “Crucify him!” of the passion drama—especially as filtered through Paul’s image of the “exalted” slave—invites a meditation on the mystery of Jesus’ sovereignty.
How can we Americans or Canadians grasp what it means to have or want a king when we reject the notion that bloodline conveys the right to rule? And yet, thanks to fairy tales, the Arthurian legends, and Shakespeare we have some inkling of the power, privilege, and even “divine rights” of royalty. We can use our imaginations to muster up a rousing “Ride on, King Jesus!” Then we can appreciate the incongruity: this king has to borrow a donkey, a room, and a tomb. Then, even more confounding, is that this king, “who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited” and even borrows our human likeness—including our death (Phil. 2:6).
Judas and Pilate are symbols of all humanity—including the church, to its shame—in their desire for a grand royal gesture: start a revolution, call in your army, dazzle us with eloquent testimony. Jesus resists every such temptation and embraces the mortal human scale of his limited earthly reign.
Jesus prophesied that when he was lifted up all the world would be drawn to him; Philippians proclaims that “every knee should bend” and “every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.” So, whose knee will bow at the name of Jesus? All those who, following Jesus and trusting the faithfulness of God, are drawn to attend fully to human life, need, and mortality.
In monarchy, leaders lead by virtue of divine sanction of a particular bloodline. Our fond hope is that leadership is bestowed on the basis of merit, hard work, and authentic charisma. Our cynical fear is that it is bestowed on the basis of money, influence, and cronyism. The witness of Passion Sunday is that Jesus’ credential is innocent blood shed in obedience to God for the sake of the broken.