I begin this sermon as sermons typically begin, by stating the following: I do not
care for the movie The Princess Bride. Mine is not a popular opinion. My father-
in-law routinely brings up my disdain for the film, and though he does so in a
joking, loving manner, I suspect he cannot reconcile his love for the movie with the
disgust I’ve expressed. He has—more than once—hinted that this opinion of mine
makes him question my sense of humor, and perhaps even my character.

I saw The Princess Bride too young. I simply could not make sense of the
contrasting energies swirling throughout the film and among those of us watching.
Was this a love story? A thriller? An adventure? A mystery? A tragedy? None?
All?I watched The Princess Bride through my youthful, literal lens and was
horrified…the Rodents of Unusual Size were truly terrifying…would I know how
to survive forest quicksand, or an energy-sucking machine…is true love actually
realized while rolling down a hillside together, in near-calamity?

It was not until my late thirties (yes) that I realized (or, rather, Josh told me) that
The Princess Bride is a satirical film, akin to Robin Hood, Men in Tights or Best in
Show. Though William Goldman, author of The Princess Bride book did not
necessarily intend to create a satire, his work and its subsequent film have been
received as such.

Understandably, this realization changed my entire life.

A film that lived in my memory as horrifying and strange became, with a small
shift in perspective, a ridiculously silly social commentary on unchecked political
power and mythologized love stories. It no longer seems absurd that the film
attracts the following that it does, because it satirizes works of fiction and aspects
of reality with humor: while on the surface it may be a non-sensical fairy tale, there
is more lying just below, more that bubbles upward following the laughter. If The
Princess Bride were a parable (perhaps it is), it one in which unexpected themes,
characters and energies are thrown alongside one another in ways that invite a
fresh and closer look and offer, perhaps, something new to consider.

How might we understand Palm Sunday, if we view the story of Jesus’ triumphal
entry as a parable, as satire? If we consider this text through a literal lens, Jesus
and his disciples process into Jerusalem in the midst of a welcoming crowd that
recognizes Jesus’ divinity. This is the lens through which I have engaged the text
throughout my life: in the days leading up to Jesus’ death, he is (finally!)
recognized as God-in-human-form.

I believe that there is more to this story than is immediately apparent. As with the
parables of recent weeks, in which unexpected elements are thrown alongside one
another, we are invited into curiosity, creativity and wonder. As Jesus rides into
Jerusalem on the back of a colt—a grown man on a baby donkey—What do we
notice? What might we have missed on other readings?

I wonder: have we missed the unfolding political resistance?

According to New Testament scholars Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan,*
the story of Jesus’ triumphal entry is not one of spontaneous worship, but one of
intentional, planned political refusal. The procession was staged, theatrical, meant
to make a contextual political statement that those in attendance would surely
understand. According to Borg and Crossan, Jesus’s eastern entry into the city
occurred as Pontius Pilate entered from the west, surrounded by royal fanfare. This
was a season of Jewish pilgrimage into Jerusalem, and so Rome put on their annual
governmental parade, making clear who and what held ultimate power: the Empire.

Borg and Crossan describe Pilate’s “triumphal entry” like this:
“‘”A visual panoply of imperial power: cavalry on horses, foot soldiers, leather
armor, helmets, weapons, banners, golden eagles mounted on poles, sun glinting on
metal and gold. Sounds: the marching of feet, the creaking of leather, the clinking
of bridles, the beating of drums. The swirling of dust. The eyes of the silent
onlookers, some curious, some awed, some resentful.’” 

Can you imagine it?

As Pilate makes his royal way into the city, Jesus enters opposite, as Pilate’s foil,
his antithesis. The simple absurdity of Jesus’ satirical procession points directly to
the absurdity of Roman Empire’s excess and violence. Theirs was a government
who ordered crucifixions often, sometimes by the thousands. Theirs was a
government operating on terror, establishing and perpetuating dominance through
widespread, fear-inducing violence.

Sound familiar?

This is the reality into which Jesus entered Jerusalem. Jesus, himself a refugee
among refugees. Jesus, targeted by both governmental and religious powers. Jesus,
preaching liberation from the social, political and economic oppression in which he
and the majority of people lived their lives under Roman rule. Jesus makes his way
into the city and the crowd joins in, the donkey joins in, co-creating an experience
of joyful resistance. They throw clothing, branches, palms onto the ground, using
whatever they had on hand to join in the defiant reverie. They shout, Hosanna! A
Hebrew prayer of salvation, save us!

As Borg and Crossan assert, “‘What we often call the triumphal entry was actually
an anti-imperial, anti-triumphal one, a deliberate lampoon of the conquering
emperor entering a city on horseback through gates opened in abject submission.’”

Can you imagine it?

Can you imagine a 21st century version, one in which the president parades into
Columbus from the north, along High Street? Can you picture him on top of a
Tesla Cyber Truck, an American flag in one hand, an assault rife in the other and a
cross around his neck? Can you imagine him flanked by army tanks and military
officers? Can you hear the sounds of a marching band, its brassy belting of God
Bless America? Can you feel the heated agitation as the crowd moves in, horrified
and awed by this blatant display of insatiable power?

Meanwhile, can you imagine Jesus, as Galen M brilliantly suggested to me
this week, riding from the South on High Street, atop a child’s tricycle? Can you
picture his knees in his armpits, handlebar streamers blowing in the breeze, the toot
of a rubber bike horn squeaking out every few blocks? Can you imagine his friends
ahead and alongside him in full clown makeup, handing out balloons, throwing
candy and flowers toward the crowd? Can you imagine the peoples’ delight, as
they recognize the parody unfolding before them? Can you hear the song that
swells among those gathered: full, deep, laughter-filled?

The intentional absurdity and delightful silliness of the tricycled northbound
procession points to the unintentional absurdity of Empire’s power and rule, all the
more ridiculous in its extravagant, violence-threatening display.

Can you imagine it?

If you’ve attended or participated in a Doo Dah Parade, perhaps you can. Doo
Dah-ers costume themselves in attire both meaning-laden and ridiculous. At a
recent parade, one Doo Dah banner read, “Save the Earth so we have Someplace to
Boogie.” The unexpectedness of the statement may at first seem non-sensical, but
with a moment’s pause the message becomes profound: if Earth is not ok, neither
are we. The creativity and humor of the statement is precisely what makes it so
powerful.

Can you imagine it?

I am reminded of a photograph that went viral during the protests of 2016,
following the death-by-police of 37-year-old Black man Alton Sterling in Baton
Rouge, Louisiana. In the image, a young Black woman stands alone in stoic, steady
silence in front of innumerable, activated law enforcement officers in full riot gear.
The woman wears a floor-length evening gown. She peacefully offers her wrists
for handcuffing. Her luminous, serene beauty among a sea of militarized officers
draws our attention to the absurd irony of the situation: who poses the danger?
From whom and for whom is protection actually needed?

Can you imagine it?

In unexpected juxtapositions, we may find clarity. In humor, we may find wisdom.
In satire, we may find deep truths.

I am heartened to imagine the Jesus of the triumphal entry as a Jesus of creative
resistance, staged satire, peaceful yet profound confrontation. This is a Jesus who
is one with the poor, the marginalized, those rejected by institutional powers, those
dismissed by society. Because these are his experiences, too.
With whom does Jesus identify today?
In which faces and places now can we see Christ, in his suffering and in his
resistance?
I am heartened by the creative resistance in the Triumphal Entry, by the creative
resistance happening throughout the planet, the United States, the city of
Columbus.
I am heartened by the creative resistance within and around us today.
When we host those who have been denied hospitality because of their identities,
experiences, perspectives, ideas, or when we ourselves are the recipients of
hospitality…
When we join together, and with others, to lament and protest injustice…
When we provide Know Your Rights cards in many languages…
When we feed neighbors and one another, and when we ourselves are fed…
When we commit our finances, our time, our energy to this community and
beyond, and when we receive these gifts from others…
When we quilt, when we cook, when we sing, when we pray…
When we grieve, when we celebrate, when we sit in silence…

When we care for those we love, and when we extend care to those with whom we
disagree, those with whom we feel frustration, disappointment, even disdain, and
when those who disagree with us extend care our way…
When we despair, when we hope, when we are present, when we feel…
These acts and more—public and private, large and small—these acts respond to
the suffering of human and Earth siblings. These acts matter. They creatively,
faithfully connect us, they creatively, faithfully sustain us, they creatively,
faithfully resist the violence of Empire.
May we be heartened by the grown man parading into town on a baby donkey.
May we be inspired by those in his midst, collaborating in celebratory resistance.
Holy resistance in this Holy Week.
“A different kind of world is possible.”**
Hosanna, save us!
As you wish, Buttercup.
Amen.

*I am deeply grateful for the work of Debie Thomas, whose blog post I stumbled
upon while preparing for this sermon. Her work, and the work of Borg and Crossan
which she cites, informed and inspired the direction of this sermon. You can read
more about Thomas here .

**As Mark Rupp expressed during Children’s Time