Good morning to you all at Hyattsville Mennonite Church.

Joy to worship with you virtually on this Palm Sunday, just as it has been a joy to work with Michelle on Expecting Emmanuel and Prone to Wander.

Our congregations have both been journeying through Prone to Wander in this season, and we have come to the final Sunday of Lent, Palm Sunday.

This scene of the branch-waving, cloak-spreading crowd in Jerusalem is one we read about every year. The cries of “Hosanna!” ring familiar in our ears–and for some of us the Jesus Christ Superstar chorus of “Hey-sanna, Hosanna, Sanna, Sanna Hey” gets stuck in our heads in these high holy days.

As Andrew Lloyd Weber’s musical suggests, Jesus is clearly the star of this Holy Week show. But I’ve found myself thinking more about the crowds. All Lent we’ve been exploring stories of women in the wilderness, and while there are no women explicitly mentioned in this Palm Sunday text, we know they were there.

Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Suzanna. Possibly Jesus’ mom and James’ mom. Mary and Martha.

Their voices joined with the cries: “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”

These pilgrims, in Jerusalem for the holy days, are singing/chanting/shouting these words from Psalm 118, which are traditionally part of the Passover celebrations:

“Save us, we beseech you, O Lord!

O Lord, we beseech you, give us success!”

“Hosanna!” means “Save us!”

That is the cry of the crowd. Many people, all speaking the same words, and yet, I expect, meaning quite different things.

The woman who had bled for twelve years, the woman who had been bent over for eighteen years, along with many others, I’m sure, were crying “Hosanna!” meaning “Save us from our diseases and physical pain.”

Perhaps some–Mary of Bethany, who sat by Jesus’ feet, the Canaanite woman who Jesus called a dog, the woman Jesus saved from being stoned to death–perhaps these, and others, were crying “Hosanna!” meaning “Save us from the limitations and impositions we face as women in this world.”

The poor were crying “Hosanna! Save us from destitution.”

The lonely were crying “Hosanna! Save us from being forsaken.”

The fearful were crying “Hosanna! Save us from powerlessness.”

Judas Iscariot and his fellow Zealots were crying, “Hosanna!” which meant, for them, “Save us by defeating the Roman military forces.”

Jesus’ mother, the Samaritan woman Jesus met by the well, Martha, Peter–those to whom Jesus’ identity as the messiah had been revealed, were crying “Hosanna! Save us by ushering in the kingdom of God! Now!”

The unified voice of the crowd carries an overwhelming diversity of meaning: Hosanna! Save us, we pray.

I wonder what salvation are we crying out for in these holy days? What do our hosannas mean?

Because surely we, too, want salvation.

I mean, the term itself might make us a little antsy because of all the fundamentalist baggage it carries. But we do, really, want salvation. At least I do.

Salvation from physical ailments and pain.

Salvation from patriarchy and white supremacy.

Salvation from a gnawing sense of existential insignificance and loneliness.

Salvation from financial uncertainty.

Salvation from the cruelty of a government that is cutting aid, detaining people without cause, threatening the mental and physical well-being of lgbtqia people . . .

The list, I’m afraid, could go on. And on.

Hosanna! Save us, we pray!

It sounds like a unified cry from the crowd:

“Hosanna!
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
     Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

But Jesus knew–he had to know–tottering over their coats and branches on the back of the colt–that all those people were asking different things of him; that he would deeply disappoint all of them; that he would not save any of them in the ways they wanted to be saved.

–

I imagine this is not the outcome people had expected when Jesus entered Jerusalem five days ago on the back of a colt; a crucifixion wasn’t what they had in mind when they shouted “Hosanna!” When they pleaded with God to save them.

What kind of salvation is this?

The one who championed the poor had his clothes stripped from him.

The one who sought to liberate the oppressed was bound and whipped.

The one who they thought would lead a powerful military force was utterly defeated by Roman soldiers.

The one who was supposed to heal people’s damaged bodies had his own body brutally broken.

The one they hoped would usher in the Kindom of God hung there before them, dead on a cross.

Nobody is shouting Hosanna now. In fact, “the crowds” who had gathered to watch turned around and went home, “beating their chests.” Were they distraught by the cruelty of the Roman government? Were they ashamed of their own complicity in such a violent spectacle?

Were they disappointed that Jesus had not, in fact, brought the salvation they had convinced themselves was just around the corner?

Whatever their chest-beating is about, it is clear that this is not what they meant by Hosanna! This is not what they had in mind when they begged for salvation.

This, it turns out, was a waste of a Friday afternoon.

But wait. There are still some people there, around–but not too close to–the cross. “Everyone who knew Jesus, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance observing these things.”

Those who knew Jesus were willing to hang out a little longer. They had come to expect the unexpected from their friend and teacher. They had heard him talk about crosses and death and going to God. This didn’t look like salvation. They didn’t much feel like shouting Hosanna. But still . . . maybe . . . But no. Jesus just kept hanging there. And it would be dark soon.

So eventually, we assume, “everyone who knew Jesus” left–including the remaining eleven apostles. And it is only Joseph of Arimathea and “the women who had come with Jesus from Galilee” who remain.

They had hoped, I am sure, for something different from Jesus. For a rallying of troops? For the overthrow of Caesar? For angel armies descending? Or for, at least, more time with Jesus–more time to learn from him and be healed by him. They had prayed, along with the crowd, Hosanna. They had hoped, along with the crowd, for salvation.

The others, it seems, have abandoned this prayer. Have given up on this hope.

The others have said, with disappointment–maybe even disgust–What kind of salvation is this? And walked away.

But there are the women and Joseph wondering:

What kind of salvation is this?

It is, it seems, the kind of salvation that prompts Joseph, a member of the council that condemned Jesus, to go to Pilate and ask for Jesus’ body. A salvation that stirs up a reckless love in Joseph that moves him to risk being ostracized by his community; the salvation of a powerful love that makes him willing to become a target of the Roman government.

This is some kind of salvation– when he takes Jesus’ body from the cross, when he wraps it in linen cloths, when he carries it–heedless of who sees him–to the tomb and lays it gently inside.

What kind of salvation is this?

It is, it seems, the kind of salvation that brings an odd and holy community of women together. Peasants with members of Herod’s household; those in the center of Jewish community and those on the edges; mothers, widows, a whole group of women belittled in the world yet loved and esteemed by Jesus and each other. I expect many of these women could have, should have, gone home earlier to clean the house, make supper, tend to the children. But they didn’t go. They stayed.

And isn’t that a kind of salvation?

They are creating family among themselves; a family where they are valued, where they are equal.

They are choosing to do the tasks that are important to them rather than those that society expects them to do.

They are honoring their own grief, giving themselves and each other holy space to mourn.

And they are, in the midst of it all, keeping the Sabbath. Despite all of the oppressive elements of their religious institution, they hold onto the liberative, life-giving center of their faith.

What kind of salvation is this?

I’ll grant you, it’s not a “Ho-sanna Hey-sanna” kind of salvation.

It is, to be sure, a salvation that doesn’t feel much like salvation at all.

And yet . . . And yet . . .

For those who stick around. For those who ask the question with a faithful inflection.

For Joseph, for Joanna, Susanna, the Marys and the other women

There is a glimpse here, even here, of God’s kindom.

There is a hint, a whisper, of the Spirit’s answer to our deepest Hosannas; our most desperate prayers for salvation.

What kind of salvation is this?

May we be blessed by this question in these holy days ahead.

And may we be open to the surprising answers we might find, together, along the way.