Palm/Passion Sunday - April 13, 2025 - Sermon Preached by the Rev. Michael Wallens

St. Pauls - Palm/Passion Sunday- April 13, 2025

I wonder if you’ve ever had a donkey at your Palm Sunday worship? If you have, I’m sure you’ll have a few tales to tell. It’s certainly something that grabs media attention and the curiosity of locals.

On Palm Sunday, an incredible drama plays out. There’s something profoundly disarming about the scene: Jesus, the long-expected king, rides not a warhorse, but a donkey. No army follows him, no banners fly. The crowds cheer, yes—but the power on display is not one Rome would recognize. This is a different kind of procession: one rooted in vulnerability, not violence; in humility, not domination.

Jesus enters Jerusalem not to seize earthly power, but to surrender himself. He does not come to crush his enemies, but to embrace the suffering of the world. His power lies not in force, but in a love that bears all things. We have a king who rides on a donkey, many of our children sing. I wonder if we can ever truly get into the skin of this story—or grasp the shock it must have caused at the time?

Many longed for a political leader, a figure of strength—someone who would improve their lot, challenge their oppressors, and defeat the mighty Roman army. Instead, Jesus arrives on a simple donkey. There’s confusion all around—and little to make the authorities tremble.

Yet, in this moment revealed in Luke’s Gospel, we see echoes throughout history in the lives of others who have stood against violence and injustice not with might, but with quiet courage. I wonder what moments you recall?

You might be thinking of this scene: under the scorching Indian sun, a thin, elderly man in homespun cloth stepped onto a dusty road, barefoot and unarmed. This was Mohandas Gandhi. Beside him walked a growing crowd—farmers, labourers, students—drawn not by force, but by purpose. They marched for salt, a simple crystal taxed by a vast empire. Over 240 miles they walked, through village and field, challenging British rule not with weapons, but with unshakable resolve. At the Arabian Sea, Gandhi stooped, lifted a pinch of salt—and with that humble act, shook the foundations of colonial power.

Or you may be picturing something more recent: Malala Yousafzai’s story began in Pakistan, in the Swat Valley, where she first spoke out for girls’ education under the threat of Taliban rule. In that quiet valley shadowed by mountains and militants, this young girl raised her voice for something simple yet powerful: a girl’s right to learn. Malala wrote, spoke, and dreamed of classrooms where every girl could belong. One day, a bullet tore through that dream—but not her courage. From her hospital bed to the halls of the United Nations, Malala rose stronger, her voice louder than ever. What was meant to silence her became a rallying cry for millions.

Perhaps you have other examples in mind—ones you might want to share later with others—of people whose actions and lives have quietly challenged the powers that dehumanize or lead to war.

Each of these moments reveals a paradox: that humility, far from weakness, is a form of power that disarms. It confronts systems of violence not with escalation but with transformation. It holds up a mirror to the world and says, There is another way.

In riding a donkey, Jesus offers us that other way. Not the way of control, but the way of being with people in their reality. Not dominance, but self-giving love: humble and patient. He does not shout down his opponents, nor does he let the jubilant shouts of Hosanna go to his head; he weeps for the city and the people who cannot see the things that make for peace.

So I wonder: might we be called to follow Jesus into Jerusalem—into places of challenge and risk in our own lives? With a love shaped by courage, formed by the Christ we follow, might we gently show that there is another way to live in a world that can feel so hostile? Could we enter spaces of tension—whether in person or on social media—with gestures of compassion?

And I wonder what it might look like for us to choose humility over posturing?

It might mean listening instead of dominating conversations—choosing to hear others fully, especially when we have the power or platform to speak first.

It might mean giving others credit—celebrating their success without needing to insert our own achievements.

And perhaps hardest of all: it might mean standing alongside those who are overlooked—not to save them, but to be with them, in solidarity and love.

Simply following the example of Jesus entering Jerusalem on a donkey, not a warhorse—the path of peace over power.

In a world that prizes dominance and strength, will we dare to believe that the meek truly will inherit the earth? Just look at the headlines this Holy Week—and pray for that vision of humility and peace which Jesus lived and modelled as he entered the Holy City.

 An Orthodox teacher used the phrase glittering sadness to describe Palm Sunday. There is such unbearable beauty, and such pain, today. Jesus is hailed as king, and winds up as a slave; he will empty himself, accepting torture and execution at the hands of humans with total forgiveness. He loves us to the end.

As the hymn says: See, from his head, his hands, his feet; sorrow and love flow mingled down…Glittering Sadness

So.  As we enter into the drama and pathos of Jesus's last days, let’s remember that the essential question is not, How badly are we willing to suffer?  The essential question is: How badly, fiercely, urgently, do we want to live the resurrection?

Jesus’ journey to the cross begins with this humble ride.It is not a detour; it is the path.

And on it, we find that humility is not the absence of power, but its truest form.

And so, I use the words of Thomas Merton as our prayer today:

Lord, 

give us humility in which alone is rest, 

and deliver us from pride 

which is the heaviest of burdens. 

Possess all of our hearts and souls 

with the simplicity of love. 

Occupy all of our lives with the one thought 

and the one desire of love, 

that we may love not for the sake of merit, 

not for the sake of perfection, 

not for the sake of virtue, 

not for the sake of sanctity, 

but for you alone. 

Amen.