As Jesus rode along, the people were spreading their cloaks on the road; and now as he was approaching the slope of the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of his disciples began to praise God aloud with joy for the mighty deeds they had seen. . . Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, rebuke your disciples.” He said in reply, “I tell you, if they keep silent, the stones will cry out!” (Luke 19.36-37, 39-40)
Jerusalem was a very noisy place on that day. Not that it wasn’t noisy on any other day. Of course it was. It was a large city, the political and religious center of the Jewish people. It was the home to the Second Temple, a visible and gigantic symbol of the Jewish belief of the Divine Presence in their midst. Historically, it was the city of David, the place where he consolidated his power over the twelve tribes of Israel, choosing this mountain fortress of the Jebusites as the center of his kingdom.
On any ordinary day, some 25,000 people probably lived within the walls of Jerusalem. But this was not an ordinary day. During Passover, the highest of the high holy days for the Jewish people, pilgrims from far and wide descended upon Jerusalem for the annual celebration of the deliverance of the Hebrew slaves from Egyptian rule. As many as 100,000 people–if not more–crowded into the streets of Jerusalem to commemorate the seven-day celebration.
With this many people moving about the city, there was a lot of noise. It could not have been otherwise, as any city dweller in our times also knows, the sounds of a large quantity of people heard throughout the day and the night, found in the movement of people, the commerce of people, and the entertainment of people. Whenever there is a crowd, there is noise.
So, it is no surprise that Luke the evangelist tells us of the noise that filled the streets of Jerusalem as Rabbi Jesus entered it in preparation for the Passover celebration, riding into the gates on a donkey, his followers spreading their cloaks on the ground before him, their jubilation reaching fever pitch as they see the Teacher making his way through the streets towards the Temple.
As Luke tells the story, the noise bothered the Pharisees, bringing them to protest to Rabbi Jesus the disturbance caused by his followers. Luke describes it in this way, “Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, ‘Teacher, rebuke your disciples.’ He said to them in reply, ‘I tell you, if they keep silent, the stones will cry out!’”
Of course, there is more to the Pharisees’ protestation of the noise than their sensitivity to the high volume of sound. They knew crowds made noise. Their concern was more one of self-preservation, seeing this rabble-rousing as leading to a riot, an event that was sure to bring down the wrath of the Roman occupiers who squashed any perceived insurrection with brutality and fatalities, their political power put into question by the rioters.
So, quiet, even if it was not genuine, only repressed resentment, was preferred by the Pharisees, who did not want to risk displeasing the Roman authorities. They want everything to appear quiet on the surface, something the followers of Rabbi Jesus were not interested in doing. Nor, for that matter, does it appear the Galilean Rabbi was interested in quieting down the crowd, stating that the stones on the ground would cry out even if everyone else was subdued.
The evangelist states that the cause for the crowd’s acclamation was “the mighty deeds they had seen” him perform, a general reference to the many healings and exorcisms that have marked his mission throughout Galilee and on the road to Jerusalem, which has occupied the last ten chapters of the gospel. The people find in these mighty deeds a different kind of power, a power that flows from compassion, unlike the tyrannical power they have seen from Rome, a power that flows from corruption.
The distinction is visible even as Rabbi Jesus enters Jerusalem, riding upon a donkey, a small beast of burden that barely could carry the weight of a man, while anyone of importance, such as Roman military leaders, always rode upon the back of a large horse, generally the larger the horse the more important the man. Likewise, whereas Rabbi Jesus has nothing but a cloak to soften the ride on the donkey, people with power would have ridden on saddles.
The question put before us in this scene that provides the backdrop for our celebration of Palm Sunday today is if we are vocal in our proclamation of the ways of Jesus, resisting the self-protection that comes from remaining quiet in the face of opposition, or do we become mute, content to let the stones cry out because we are too weak to give voice to the teachings of the Galilean.
There is no escaping the question, not today, when the noise of the crowd in Jerusalem resounds in our ears, praising God for his deeds. Nor is there any escape from the question in a few days’ time, when the noise of the crowd has become the mayhem of a mob out for blood, a spineless flip-flop of loyalties, presenting us with a clear choice to stand with Rabbi Jesus or to stand apart from Rabbi Jesus.
Obviously, we do not have to live in Jerusalem to hear the noise. In fact, we find ourselves overwhelmed by noise in our own times, sadly the loudest noises coming from the bombs and bullets of warfare, from the bickering and badmouthing of politics, and from the bombast and badgering of the culture wars that presently consume our country. But, where, dare we ask, is the noise that “praises God aloud with joy for all the mighty deeds he has done?”
That noise, it is safe to say, is rarely heard, or spoken so softly that the loudmouths of power and prejudice and deep pockets have shut out any sounds that call for tolerance, for righteousness, for fair play. There is no audible noise that lifts the poor, feeds the hungry, or welcomes the foreigner. Instead, good noise, if spoken, is lost in the drumbeat of bad noise.
And, yet, it is clear that the mission of Rabbi Jesus, as evidenced by the enthusiasm of the crowd in Jerusalem, was to be a voice for those who did not have a voice, for the powerless in a world ruled by the powerful, for the poor in a world order ordained by the rich. For this reason, he welcomed the sinner to his table, allowing them a dignity that is the birthright of each person, and silenced the naysayers who badmouthed their ways, calling out the self-righteous for their hypocrisy.
Rabbi Jesus reached out to the outcast, the throwaways of society, inviting them back into the human family, reminding them of a Father’s love for all his children. And when the high-handed and low-minded murmured against him for his association with the likes of sinners, he silenced them with the scribblings of his finger in the sand.
Even when the noise of evil men taunted him on the cross and mocked him, making him a laughingstock as he suffered in agony, he could still be heard offering comfort to the ones crucified with him, assuring the one that he would find a place in paradise. Yes, even there, even then, his voice–parched and cracked–could be heard above the din and the deafening mockery of the gawkers and creepers encircling the place of execution.
So, why, for God’s sake, have the voices for good, for generosity, for graciousness become eerily silent, allowing the airwaves of this world to be filled instead with their opposites–with hatred, with disharmony, with hideous displays of inhumanity? Where in the world do we hear whole multitudes of disciples praising God aloud with joy for all the mighty deeds they have seen?
As followers of Rabbi Jesus, it is our obligation to welcome his ways into the world in the same way as the early followers welcomed him into Jerusalem, stirring up good noise, crying out against injustice, inhumanity, and intolerance wherever and whenever we find it in the same way that he did. The thunderous sounds of evil that permeate the world today will not be subdued by our silence.
Evil, as Rabbi Jesus showed time and again, is battled by a strong voice, not a weak voice, and it is exorcised by a voice that commands it to leave this world, not by whimpering whispers of frightened followers afraid of making a fuss. It is rightly said that the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. Or, we might add, to say nothing.
It is not without purpose or significance that the Civil Rights movement in the mid-20th century was marked by its gospel music. Whatever the obstacle or however strong the pushback, those that marched in protest raised their voices, not only in speeches, but in song, shouting praise to God for the mighty deeds that he alone could do.
A civil rights leader recalled that one evening as her group was meeting, local police raided the facility and turned off all the lights in the building, putting them in total darkness. Rather than leave, she said the group found the strength to break out in song. She said they added a new verse to the song, “We Shall Overcome,” inserting the words, “We are not afraid.”
She explained, “And we got louder and louder with singing that verse, until one of the policemen, visibly shaken, came into the room and asked, ‘If you have to sing, do you have to sing so loud?’” “I could not believe it,” she said. “Here these people had all the guns, the billy clubs, the power, we thought. And he was asking me, with a shake, if I would not sing so loud.” She added, “And it was that time that I really understood the power of our music.”
Or, we might say, it was then that they understood the power of their voices. We saw it when Rabbi Jesus entered Jerusalem on the back of a donkey, a multitude of his disciples praising God aloud with joy, finding in the Galilean hope for the hopeless, care for those uncared for, and right for those wronged. That day reminds those of us who wish to follow his way that we have a similar responsibility to make a loud noise in our time and in this place. If we fail to do so, then surely the stones will cry out in protest.
–Jeremy Myers
Sunday Brunch 