I was asked to reintroduce myself to you, since I’m not in front of the congregation as often as I once was.

I came to Cincinnati to accept a parish call in this Presbytery 21 years ago. Twenty years ago I was ordained here.  And two years after my installation, I was removed, virtually under the darkness of night, because of questions and (in my opinion) hysteria about my sexual orientation.

While trying to put my life back together, I went to a meeting at the PC(USA) offices, which were then in New York City.  I was early for my appointment, so I walked across the street to tremble and pray in the sanctuary of Riverside Church.

To my amazement, there in the pew rack, was a leaflet.  I was stunned when I read its title:  “Statement of Openness, Inclusion and Affirmation of Gay/Lesbian Persons.”  I had no idea that any Christian Church could be so affirming. 

It was 1985, and the statement was adopted just before my visit. Returning home, I bought books and sermons of William Sloan Coffin, the well-known pastor of Riverside at the time.  I read his works, learned about his prophetic social justice ministry, and called him to request a meeting. 

It was a gray, cold Saturday afternoon when Rev. Coffin took an hour out of preparing for Sunday’s sermon to talk with me there in his study.  He reminded me that, just as it took Whites marching and suffering in the civil rights for Blacks movement of the ‘60s, it would take non-gay/lesbian persons to help gays and lesbians win equality. He also cautioned that this was going to be a long, hard fight. 

Rev. Coffin has recently been diagnosed with a terminal disease, and is allegedly in the last months of his life.  I doubt that he would even recall our meeting, but he will never know how much that hour, two decades ago, meant to me or what an influence it has had on my life.

Some time later, back in Cincinnati, I was told to visit Mt. Auburn Presbyterian; that it was a liberal congregation and I’d probably feel at home here.  I met initially with then-pastor Hal Porter, to tell him my story and learn more about the congregation.  It didn’t take us long to get into a discussion (a somewhat heated one, as I recall) about whether gays and lesbians would feel welcome here.  He said of course they would.  I said the burden of proof was on the congregation; most would naturally assume they were not, since that is the prevailing sentiment among Christian churches. 

Discussions with Session and other groups ensued, and finally Mt. Auburn took its historic place in the march for justice on this issue. 

I know that this path has been at great cost to the congregation, and I am sorry for that.  But I also want to say that you’ll probably never know how much your prophetic and courageous  stand has meant to me and, I’m sure, others in our community, across the nation, and perhaps globally. 

And so I say again that I am always honored to be part of such a vibrant and grace-filled place.

Something else has happened to me during these years. Although I can’t pinpoint exactly when, I am quite certain I entered middle age.  There are all kinds of signs, none of them especially attractive.  I’m coming to grips with the fact that I will never again fit into many of the clothes in my closet.  I obviously did not find the perfect partner by age 30 or 40; now I’m worrying about age 50.  Even more disturbing, I’m no longer the most liberal or outspoken person in my circle on lots of issues.  Also troubling:  I can remember things that happened decades ago clearer than what I did yesterday.  And so it goes…

I first remember hearing the story in today’s Scripture—the “Triumphal Entry” of what we now call Palm Sunday—in my third grade Sunday School class.  In a few minutes, I’ll come back to that memory.

The passage is well known and well loved.  It’s also somewhat baffling. 

All four Gospels include the account, though with variations. Matthew makes a point to say that the event was foretold in the Old Testament.  Luke, writing for mostly non-Jewish readers, omits “Hosanna” but adds Jesus’ reference to the stones crying out if the people were silenced.  There are also inconsistencies with chronology. For example, in Matthew and John the woman “of ill repute” (Mary) pours costly ointment on Jesus’ feet and wipes them with her hair after his triumphal entry into Jerusalem.  Luke and John say that she performed this intimate act before he entered the city. 

But overall, here’s the gist of the story.

Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem to celebrate Passover.  Jerusalem is mobbed for the event.  Like religious holidays today, Passover has become a carnival, a shopping event, a huge, holy fair.  Because of the crowds, Jesus decides to first rest a day or so just outside the city, in the suburb of Bethphage.  It’s quiet there and he can relax with some of his closest friends over the Sabbath. 

Bethphage is just a mile or two outside Jerusalem—maybe the distance from Mt. Auburn to O’Brienville or Hyde Park. So it’s perfectly easy for him to get up in the morning, rested, and walk the last stretch into Jerusalem.  But then he does an odd thing.  Rather than walking—as he’s done countless times before—he instructs two of his disciples to fetch a donkey for him to ride on. 

They bring the donkey to him, and, lacking a saddle, put a garment on its back; up goes Jesus, and they proceed the short distance to Jerusalem.

Now, if you’ve ever seen pictures of Jerusalem or, better yet, been there, you know that the old city sits on the top of a hill, Mt. Zion. That’s why, no matter from what compass point you approach the city—east, west, north or south—you’re said to “go up to” Jerusalem.  As you draw near, those massive Herodian stone walls loom in front of you. It’s really quite imposing, even today.  And on top of the visual impact is the belief that this isn’t just a city.  This is the Holy City, given by Jehovah God to his Chosen People.

And so, here is Jesus walking into this magnificent setting.  There’s already a charge in the air, given Passover and the tension between the Jews and Romans. And the crowds start to stir and cheer when they see the Nazarene—the same guy, it’s said, that has just raised Lazarus from the dead—riding on, of all things, a donkey.

So they start taking off their garments and throwing them on the rocky, ancient road so that even the donkey he rides in on won’t have to walk on the dirt.  Then they begin waving their palm branches and begin chanting “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”

We can relate to this scene. We have similar phenomena after our team has just won the World Series or the Super Bowl.  

But there is something out of place in this picture: What’s up with the donkey?

And that’s exactly what I asked Mrs. Strasser, my third grace Sunday School teacher.  If God is going to ride into town, couldn’t he do better than a donkey? It’s like saying that if he were going to drive into town today, he’d arrive in a Ford Pinto rather than a limo.  I didn’t understand it; I thought it was silly, and I said so. Mrs. Strasser and my mother were not amused, and I understood that message quite clearly, when I got home.  

Well, daft as I was, it turns out that I was on to something. 

The donkey is a crucial part of the story; it stands out like a sore thumb, an object lesson.  It’s so important that, even though they vary on several other details, all four Gospels make a big point about the donkey. And, it’s exaggerated even more as a counterpoint to the other important element of the story, the exclamation we now associate with Palm Sunday:  “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.”

That phrase was full of meaning to the Jews of Jesus’ day.  The name of God was sacred; so sacred that in many ancient texts and scriptures, it is never written down or, if it is, it’s abbreviated.  

And by chanting that Jesus has come in the name of the Lord, the crowds are expressing their hopes and expectations, even their demands, of Jesus.  He is their nominee, sent by God as their new King, to lead them out of their miserable situation.  He’s the One to bring salvation—and not salvation in the sweet bye-and-bye; salvation here and now.   In this city.  At this Passover.  And when he says Yes to this, by God he’s gonna give our oppressors their comeuppance and maybe even do a few more miracles on the side—some water into wine here, curing a blind man or a leper there.  

Jesus knows that his fame has spread and that the multitudes are ready for him—are desperate for him—to come to their rescue, to take the throne.  He knows that a number of dramatic events are ready to unfold, but not the events the crowds are expecting.  These will be events the world will never forget.  So today, this last time, he accepts their praises and cheers as he enters the city.

This account, then, is really about tension:  a tension between two starkly different sets of expectations, two world views.  In retrospect, it’s a tension that was central to Jesus’ entire life and message.  And now it was coming to a dramatic and shocking conclusion, one that would impact much of human history. 

And the innocent donkey, it turns out, is drafted to make the point.  The donkey is the punch line.   To demonstrate, once again, the real character of his message, he shows up not on a stallion, not surround by legions of power, but on this lowly beast of burden.

Who is this Jesus? And what is his message?

They long for a kingdom; he proclaims that his kingdom is not of this world. 

They yearn for him to crush their enemies; he proclaims, “love your enemies; bless those who persecute you.”

He enters the Holy City not as the Victor of conquest, but as the Prince of Peace.

He brings no military, no weapons of mass destruction. His weapons are love and reconciliation.

 “Blessed is he who comes in the Name of the Lord.”  I reflect often on that phrase, what it has meant throughout history, and what it means to those who use it even today.

In the name of God, the many names of God (Jehovah, Allah, Apollo, Christ):

…Whole nations and cultures have been obliterated, the blood of men, women and children mingling with that of dogs;

…Humans have been subjected to slavery, brutality, oppression, based on their skin color, their culture, gender, sexual orientation; 

…Truth has been subjugated to superstition, ignorance, bigotry;

…Leaders declare who is evil, what relationships are or are not sacred, who should be dominated by whom.   

I believe that the heart of Jesus of Nazareth is broken by such acts “in the name of God.”

One of the abiding lessons I learned while pursuing my counseling degree (at a conservative, evangelical theological seminary, of all places) was this:  One’s psychology precedes one’s theology. 

The conscious and subconscious components of our psyche and our personality profoundly influence our view of the world and even our theology: what we believe about God, good and evil, the entire scheme of things.  And this dynamic works not only at the individual level, but also in the shared personality of groups or systems—organizations, corporations, governments, religious bodies.

How else can we explain polar opposites among adherents of every religion? On the one hand are those who use their religion to justify hatred and hostility and destruction; and on the other, those who find—in the same religion—calls to love, wholeness, reconciliation?

I think there is something deeply disturbed and disturbing in the solace that some derive from declaring that they’re part of God’s family—but you are not, because you’re outside the proscribed circle.

In an interview about his movie The Passion of the Christ,  Mel Gibson lamented that, even though his wife, a devout Episcopalian, is a far more loving and better person than he, she is damned because she is outside Christ’s “one true church.”  I am sure that his statement says far more about Mr. Gibson than it does about his wife or Episcopalians!

Unlike Mr. Gibson, Jesus’ entire being was about gathering us, all of us, into—not excluding us from—God’s eternal love.

Only days after that last joyous entry into Jerusalem, Jesus’ life would take a bitter turn.   Adulation would turn into anger and mockery. Spitting on him, they would beg that the Nazarene, the Prince of Peace, be crucified.

And even then, even there—tortured, barely recognizable and stretched out to die on Calvary’s cross—he gathers us again into God’s love with this last gasping prayer, “Father, forgive them.”

Could we with ink the oceans fill
And were the skies of parchment made;
Were every stalk on earth a quill
And everyone a scribe by trade; 
To write the love of God above
Would drain the oceans dry;
Nor could the scroll contain the whole
Tho’ stretched from sky to sky!                       

                                                            (F. M. Lehman)

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

The Rev. William J. Hardy

 Mount Auburn Presbyterian Church

Passion/Palm Sunday 2004

April 4, 2004