Crowd
Photo by Rob Curran on Unsplash
On Palm Sunday, I think about the procession. I picture all those people walking in the same direction toward the Temple. Somewhere among them is Jesus. In the thousands of pilgrims making their way into Jerusalem, I wonder if he and his donkey would be noticeable among the lines of people, others riding similar animals, and excited conversations shared by people throughout the crowd. Perhaps only those walking closest to and around Jesus proclaimed, “Hosanna in the Highest.” If we were to step back and survey the entire scene in cinematic grandeur, we might not notice the group of people waving palms around this one man as he enters the city. From this distance, Jesus blends in as a face in the crowd, no different from everyone else.
Isn’t that the point? He is everyman, indistinguishable from humanity because He is human. Most people don’t know who He is, and many will not know who He is even on the day of his death. It is not so much that Jesus is a mystery; he is anonymous because He lives among the nameless, marginalized people of the ancient world. Those who will sentence him to death do not care about his name, the stories surrounding his birth, the legitimacy of his miracles, or how some have come to understand him as the fulfillment of Israel’s messianic expectations. While of note to some, these marginalia will not impact his fate. Rome has killed women and men for much lesser offenses. To crucify an anonymous man from a poor place in a poor province for ill-timed political speech is an administrative footnote—another day in the life of the empire. Prisoners die every day, yet Rome lives. Despite the blood, executions were a bureaucratic and antiseptic procedures. Like any other genocidal process, victims became names and numbers.
Our salvation takes shape in Jesus’ anonymity. Because of his ordinariness and willingness to move with the grand flow of humanity, salvation became a reality. Jesus moved with the crowd, and the crowd followed Jesus. In this symbiosis, He was always where he needed to be, right in the middle of indistinguishable processions of people looking for guidance, a way forward, and something bigger than themselves.
Palm Sunday isn’t about grandeur. It certainly isn’t a parade. We’re walking down the road with the people next to us, asking, “Where are we going?” “I don’t know,” they say, “I’m just following the people in front of us, but I hear when we get there, it will be pretty good.” So, we keep walking, and somewhere in front of or behind us is Jesus, moving in the same direction. And the good news is this: when we all get to where we’re going, we’re all in the same place: me, you, and Jesus.