Shadows on the Hill

The Rev. Dr. Skip Ferguson

Manassas Presbyterian Church

Manassas, Virginia

April 13, 2014

Palm Sunday

Shadows on the Hill

Matthew 21:1-11

They came from far and near,

men and women, young and old.

Some came from as far as the city of Cyrene,

800 miles away on the African coast,

a week’s voyage across the turbulent Great Sea.

The port city of Joppa bustled as boats

converged on the docks.

Passengers steadied themselves on

legs made wobbly by the sea,

before picking up their bundles and heading east,

taking the road down through Emmaus,

and then on to the great city of Jerusalem

where they would celebrate the Passover.

Passover in Jerusalem was a festive time,

as multitudes came to the city,

just as the faithful had for more than a thousand years,

ever since God first said to Moses,

“This day shall be a day of remembrance for you.

You shall celebrate it as a festival to the Lord;

throughout your generations

you shall observe it as a perpetual ordinance.”

(Exodus 12:14)

And so they came,

the crowds that walked the Emmaus road.

They were filled with the spirit of joy,

filled with a sense of celebration.

People talked,

people laughed,

people sang.

Some even danced as enthusiastically

as King David once had

as he led the Ark of the Covenant into Jerusalem.

(2 Samuel 6:16)

The teeming throngs were eager to get to Jerusalem,

to see the Temple,

the Temple rebuilt centuries before

after the Babylonians had destroyed it;

God’s house rebuilt on the foundation of the great

Temple of Solomon constructed

almost a thousand years before.

Nothing,

not the long journey,

not the heat of the sun,

not the dust kicked up by the thousands of feet

shuffling along the road –

nothing could darken their mood.

Nothing, that is,

except the sight that greeted them

just outside the western gate of Jerusalem.

Their journey almost over,

the city’s gates just before them,

yet, there it was, looming,

riveting,

terrifying.

Most had heard about it,

but they couldn’t imagine it,

couldn’t imagine how frightening it was.

To see,

to take in that scene on the hill,

the great hill that rose up on the left side of the road,

the hill planted with crosses:

two, four, eight, ten, more,

more than anyone wanted to count.

Large, heavy timber planted deep in the hillside,

rising up as though to the sky,

casting shadows on the hill,

shadows sharp and distinct,

shadows twice as long as the height of the crosses,

shadows dark and chilling.

The cross was Rome’s cruel executioner’s tool.

Crucifixion was Rome’s preferred way

for dealing with criminals.

It didn’t take much for a person to wind up there,

hung high on a cross to die a slow, agonizing death.

And that was just as the Romans wanted it:

the very image on that hill a warning,

a warning to all,

but especially to those coming to the city

for the very first time:

“Obey Rome.

Do not question or challenge

the authority of the empire.

Worship your God Yahweh if you will,

if you must,

but remember that it is Caesar who rules.”

The very name of the place froze their hearts:

Golgotha, the skull.

The crosses themselves,

the lifeless shadows they cast on the hill,

turned the festive crowd silent.

The laughter gone,

the singing gone,

not even the sound of a baby crying or a dog barking

could be heard from the crowd.

Nothing.

As they silently, somberly, slowly passed

the shadows on the hill, though,

the people could hear sounds coming

from the other side of the city,

the east side,

sounds carried on the wind,

the sound of people’s voices raised in cheer

and praise.

“Hosanna to the Son of David!” came the cry.

People shouting out words that came from

the Passover Psalm:

“Blessed is the one who comes

in the name of the Lord.”

(Psalm 118:26)

The voices were loud and happy,

voices of people with something to celebrate.

The silent, doleful crowd on the west side

looked at one another,

all wondering what the celebration was about,

but no one dared to speak.

Clearly something exciting was happening

on the east side of the city,

on the Jericho Road,

by the Mount of Olives.

But what?

What was happening over there?

Who was it they were cheering?

Was it some great military leader,

resplendent upon a mighty steed?

To whom were the shouts of “Hosanna” directed?

The word meant, “Save us”.

Why were the people crying out “Save us,”

and who were they looking to as they shouted?  

Was it someone who bore the very image of David,

strong, fearless,

someone who would confront the power of Rome?

Those on the west side,

on the Emmaus Road,

walking in the shadows of Golgotha,

had no way of knowing that

the man the people were cheering

was not a mighty military leader,

not a man astride a fiercesome steed,

but a man riding a donkey,

a slight man,

his skin parched by wind and sun,

his feet dragging in the dust

as the donkey carried him past the Mount of Olives

toward the gates of the city.

The sounds from the east began to fade

as those on the west passed through the gates into the city,

finally leaving the shadows on the hill behind them.

Those on the east also began to make their way into the city,

and thoughts of the Passover,

the festival began to fill them all:

Praise the Lord!
Praise, O servants of the Lord;
   praise the name of the Lord.

Blessed be the name of the Lord
   from this time on and for evermore.
 From the rising of the sun to its setting
   the name of the Lord is to be praised.

…The Lord has been mindful of us; he will bless us;
   he will bless the house of Israel;
   he will bless the house of Aaron;

he will bless those who fear the Lord,
   both small and great.

(Psalm 113:1-3; Psalm 115:12-13)

When those who had come into the city from the west

heard about the man astride the donkey,

that he was the one the people were

shouting their Hosannas to,

most scoffed.

How could such a man stand up to

the power and might of Rome?

A man who carried neither sword nor spear,

who rode not a horse, but a donkey –

how could he be the Son of David?

It was stories of the shadows on the hill

that took hold of most of the people.

“Be obedient;

Don’t cause trouble;

Stay away from anyone

who might challenge the authority of Rome.”

This was, after all, a festival,

a time to celebrate;

No one wanted trouble.

                          

There was still laughter and singing

within the walls of Jerusalem,

but it was muted,

not as lively and joyful as it had been

for those on the roads.

Fear had cast a shadow over the Passover.

No one seemed to remember the words

of the prophet Zechariah:

“Rejoice greatly, O daughter Zion!
Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem!
Lo, your king comes to you;

triumphant and victorious is he,

humble and riding on a donkey,

on a colt, the foal of a donkey.

He will cut off the chariot from Ephraim

and the warhorse from Jerusalem;

and the battle-bow shall be cut off,

and he shall command peace to the nations;

his dominion shall be from sea to sea,

and from the River to the ends of the earth.

(Zechariah 9:9-10)

If they had remembered their Scripture,

they might have remembered

not only the words from Zechariah,

but that the name itself, “Zechariah,” meant,

“Yahweh remembers”.

Even if God’s children did not remember,

God remembered;

God always remembers,

remembers his promises to his children.

God remembers

and God will honor his promise,

his promise to usher in his kingdom,

a kingdom of peace,

a kingdom where no one wants for food or shelter,

hope or love,

a kingdom built not on power and might,

but on righteousness and justice,

peace and love.

Death itself will have no place in God’s kingdom;

Death won’t even be able to hide in the shadows,

for God will rid the world of shadows:

The Lord is God and has given us light!

        

So bind the festal procession with branches,

for our King comes to us,

humble and riding on a donkey.

He comes to bring light to all the world,

and shadows will be no more.

Hosanna in highest heaven!

AMEN