Opening the Gates of Hope
Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29; Matthew 21:1-11
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
April 9, 2017
It would have been a good day to stay indoors. A good day for the people of Jerusalem to huddle with their families in the security of their homes; a good day for the sick and the dying to sink deep into their couches of pain. It would have been a good day to make the best of a bad situation, to accept things the way they were– a good day not to rock the boat.
Word was out. Passover was coming, and everyone knew that their festival of freedom made the Roman occupiers nervous. They had heard that the Roman governor–the arrogant and brutal Pontius Pilate–was coming from his seaside mansion to be in Jerusalem to control the Passover crowds. They knew he would bring a lot of soldiers. They knew he would make a big deal out of his arrival–an unwelcome and unholy parade through the streets of their holy city.
I imagine their anticipation of Pilate’s arrival put a damper on their preparations for Passover. How do you celebrate God freeing your people from slavery when the hated occupier is parading his message? You may not be slaves, Pilate’s presence shouted to them, but you are not a free people.
I imagine it would have been tempting to privatize Passover that year–to celebrate it as a family holiday, to interpret the scripture as a metaphor for spiritual freedom, to try to shield the ancient story from the realities of real life.
Yes, it would have been a very good day to shut the doors, lock the windows and bar the gates.
***
Last Sunday afternoon, sixteen people gathered to talk about Ice Cream at the Ashram, the book I recently published. One of the themes we discussed was the power of fear. In the book, I had described my surprise when I arrived at a Christian ashram whose name meant “Living Waters” to find a massive steel gate securely padlocked. I was equally surprised the next day to see a similarly massive steel gate hiding the one Christian church in the town of Rishikesh. I was alternately annoyed and perplexed as Sister Tureeya, the guru of the ashram, kept telling me to be quiet, wear a headscarf and not look anyone in the eyes. I didn’t know whether or not there was a real basis for her fearfulness, but I could feel myself taking her fear into my body.
In our conversation last Sunday, I asked whether anyone had experienced that contagious nature of fear. A woman spoke up. With tears in her eyes, she described how her synagogue had recently installed a buzzer system for its doors. In the wake of recent bomb threats against Jewish organizations, it was certainly the responsible thing to do. Her synagogue continues to host the Metrowest Free Medical Clinic and is open and affirming in many ways. Now they live out their commitment to openness with a locked door.
We talked about the spiritual cost of locked doors. Of course God cannot be contained or constrained by our doors. Our spirits, though, can be. Fear gets in the way of our capacity for wonder at God’s greatness and trust in God’s goodness. Closed doors may seem to keep us safe, but they get in the way of our experience of sanctuary–for they constrain our awareness of God’s presence among and beyond us.
As we talked, I thought of the words of today’s anthem: Open. Open. Open the gates of the temple. Open your hearts, O ye people….
Our conversation from last week gives me new appreciation for the people of Jerusalem on that first Palm Sunday. The safe choice would have been to stay home, to lower their expectations, to redefine Passover. They chose instead to be brave. They opened the gates of their hearts and dared to hope. As they watched the first parade–the governor and his soldiers–they struggled to hold tight to the faintest threads of hope. As the second parade approached, they unleashed their pent-up torrents of hope. Hope–and bravery–proved that day even more contagious than fear.
We know what they didn’t know that first Palm Sunday. We know that within a few days, their hopes would be dashed–with the arrest and crucifixion of Jesus. We know that in some ways their hopes were misplaced. They yearned for a savior who would drive out Rome, who would rescue them from their problems, someone who would fix things. That’s not who Jesus was.
Their hopes were misplaced; still, they were right to hope. For a week later the empty tomb would lead them to a deeper, more lasting hope. The frenetic energy of Palm Sunday would ultimately give way to the joy of Easter.
This Lenten season, we have reflected on our theme: Sanctuary–Safe Space, Brave Space. The streets on that first Palm Sunday were not safe space; in fact, it was dangerous to be there. The streets were brave space. And they were sanctuary, for on those streets the courageous people of Jerusalem awakened to the sacred gift of hope.
Today, I invite you to join the people of Jerusalem. Join them in opening the gates of your hearts. Join them in daring to hope. Dare to hope that someday there can be peace and security in Syria–even though we can’t imagine how to get there. Dare to hope that racism in our nation can be dismantled–even when we know it is deeply entrenched. Dare to hope that grief does not have to define your life, even though your losses feel overwhelming. Dare to hope for peace, for healing, for meaning, for community.
Hope is a brave space. The Palm Sunday story reminds us that hope is risky. Hope can lead to disappointment–even to betrayal and crucifixion. The promise of our faith is that, if we dare to stay open, we will awaken to a deeper hope–the assurance that new life emerges out of pain and loss, the conviction that God’s love is more powerful than fear and hate and even death.
Let us choose the risky sanctuary of the Palm Sunday streets. Let us open the gates of hope. Amen.