Abstract
Some years ago, I went on a silent retreat during Holy Week within an Anglican monastic community. Talking was discouraged from Palm Sunday onwards, the only words on our lips being those of the Offices and the Liturgies. As I settled (gratefully) into the unaccustomed quiet of the place, the sounds of the enacted Passion narrative became ever more acute as the week progressed: the gentle slopping of water poured over feet in the Maundy Thursday liturgy, the percussive noise of hammer blows in that on Good Friday, the crackle of flame and the exuberant ringing of handbells in the glorious culmination of the week, the Easter Vigil.
This aural acuteness heightened the experience of the week for me as never before, and led me to try to listen hard to the story every year. To listen hard, yes, to the sounds of the Passion, but also to the peculiarities of each author’s retelling, with their particular nuances, omissions and intentions. What then do we hear in Luke’s account of the entry into Jerusalem?
Well, on first hearing, nothing much. This is a far more muted version of the triumphal entry than that of the other Gospel writers; a quiet version, an unbusy version. Here is no fickle crowd, no hurrahing of hosannas, no cruel cries of ‘crucify him’, no waving of palms or branches cut from trees, the emblems of parades and festivals. Just the acclamation of the disciples, the spreading of a few cloaks on the road, the intervention of the Pharisees and a response from Jesus.
Here is no celebratory greeting typical of the time. The parousia of emperors, Hellenistic kings and other distinguished figures featured a splendid welcome in which nearly all segments of society participated: citizens, merchants, traders, the religious, social and political elite. The visitor would be met by officials outwith the city gates, escorted inside and fêted there by a large body of citizens in ornamental clothing. Speeches would follow, lauding the dignitary and expressing a sense of privilege at the visitation.
This king receives no such welcome—and king he indeed is in Luke’s telling. The use of a colt, and one not ridden before, depict him as such. The repeated requisition formula—‘The Lord needs it’ (vv. 31, 34)—and Luke’s omission of the pledge to return the animal, likewise underline the royal aspect of the account. The details of the disciples placing Jesus on the colt and heaping their garments on its back also reinforce the royal imagery. And most tellingly Luke adds into the disciples’ welcome cry, that citation from Psalm 118, the words ό βασιλεύς, a clear demonstration of his intention to draw the readers’ attention to the fact that Jesus is a king.
The welcome in Luke’s account is paltry, unworthy of a king. He is not met by ‘the many’ who gathered branches from the fields to pave his way, nor are there shouted greetings. The crowd that welcomes Jesus is confined to the band of disciples, an inconsequential number in view of the thousands of pilgrims making their way to Jerusalem for the Passover. A number whose praises would largely go unheard amidst the throng.
Had we but this account of the so-called ‘triumphal entry’ we would not be processing round the church and beyond later on in our service. We would not be waving palms. We would not be singing loud hosannas. Luke’s account is at first hearing muted and unostentatious, a-triumphal, devoid of the theatre of the other gospel narratives. Dull, you may say.
But listen harder, listen with the ear of the heart, and you’ll hear two things. You’ll hear the song of the angels and the music of the spheres. You’ll hear the earthshattering cosmic import of this day and of this week. Listen hard.
As Jesus was now approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying, ‘Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!’
Luke’s Palm Sunday account echoes his Christmas story. Echoes the cry that went up from the multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those who he favours’. Heaven has indeed drawn near in the person of Jesus, in the birth and ministry of this king, this ruler of an alternative Kingdom based on justice, mercy and the love of God, whose reign challenges the kingdoms of this world. Like the disciples, we have seen deeds of power, and we believe. Luke bids us then to hold fast to that assurance through the darkness of this week, to remember the message of the angels, and to fear not.
As Luke recalls us to the promise of the Kingdom, so he reminds us of the cosmic nature of that reign. ‘Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.” He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.”’ For Luke the agency of crying stones reflects divine mastery over nature: trees can be uprooted and planted into the sea by a faithful word (17:5–6), stormy seas stilled (8:22–25) and stones recognise the divine visitation even when humans fail to do so. Here is faith in the sure triumph of God. Injustice will not prevail. Death will not have the last word. God will provide a witness though every mouth be stopped. In the final reign of God ‘the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God’ (Rom 8:21).
Luke’s triumphal entry may seem muted at first, lacking the noisy immanence of the other gospel writers. But if we join his festal procession we will find ourselves addressed by a more transcendent timbre, one which resonates with the sounds of the heavenly host and of all creation itself. With the announcement of what God makes possible in the death and resurrection of Jesus. With the magnificent refrain of the Passover psalm, that ‘his steadfast love endures for ever’.
Let us process then into the darkness and confusion of this holiest of weeks, into the darkness and confusion of our daily lives and of the world about us, waving our palms, yes—but holding fast with Luke to the unwavering promise of the King who comes in the name of the Lord and who loves us to the end.
The Lord is God and he has given us light Blessed be the name of the Lord, now and for ever.