Protest Joy

A sermon preached with the people of St. John’s Episcopal Church in Oakland, California.

On Palm Sunday, we remember something we might now call performance art – or street theater.

The Romans liked a good parade.[i] And the main thoroughfare through the imperial outpost of Jerusalem had seen its fair share of them. With helmeted soldiers, crowned rulers, and great war horses, these processions were designed to display — through grandeur and military might — power over a subjugated people. Clinking metal, glimmering gold, and grand scale.

And, in this morning’s first Gospel reading from Matthew, here comes Jesus of Nazareth, riding down that same parade route … with a ragtag crew of disciples, probably smelling of fish and sweat, and perhaps a larger coterie of dusty, weary followers trailing behind.

Here he comes, leading the way — not on a giant steed, but on a donkey and a colt (“a poor person’s working animals”[ii]) covered in old coats.

“The entry scene is full of irony, imitating celebratory imperial entry processions with an ‘anti-triumphal’ parody,” as Biblical scholar Warren Carter puts it.[iii]

And the people — crowds of them — show up for it. And play along. They understand exactly what is happening.  They spread branches and the cloaks off their backs on the ground, as if to protect the wheels of a fine chariot; and in reality, providing cushion for ordinary, dusty hooves.

I imagine there was laughter among the crowd. I know in my heart that there were smiles, as they looked around at one another and felt a sense of community; these ordinary people living on the edge of empire, breathing in the truth that the only real power lies with God. And that God was there — right in front of them.

“Hosanna to the Son of David!” they shouted. “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!” they sang.

It’s a scene of joy. But a complex joy— a joy that carries within it vibrations of danger and heartbreak.

Protest joy.

In October, you may recall, news broke that Federal immigration enforcement agents were planning to move into Oakland, as they had done in Portland and would soon do in Minneapolis.

On the day this movement was set to happen, a group of peaceful locals showed up at Coast Guard Island, where the agents were said to be driving in from.

Early in the morning, an agent struck the Rev. Jorge Bautista, of the United Church of Christ in San Mateo, in the face with a projectile carrying noxious chemicals. A terrifying scene.

But the locals stayed. And the performance art went on. By the time I got there, there was a cadre of clowns —actual clowns—and plenty of clergy. A proper pairing, if ever there was one. There was a man painting the scene plein air. A woman dressed as none other than Wonder Woman. A jump-roping crew. And there were also, of course, regular, un-costumed people—teachers and tech workers, grandmas and grad students.

Moving in a circle, singing, and occasionally shouting our thanks and praise to Wonder Woman … I found myself smiling. And sometimes even laughing. And I looked around and saw others smiling. And sometimes even laughing. And I thought: is this… joy? And if so—is this… right?

We were assembled out of fear for our neighbors and friends. In the shadow of arrest and detention. In response to the possibility of death-dealing in our community. Some of us had witnessed state violence less than an hour before.

And here was …  joy? But this isn’t an isolated experience, is it? We’ve seen it elsewhere.

In the so-called Portland Protest Frog—and the proliferation of puffy resistance rally costumes across the country that can’t help but make you smile. Some of us saw it just yesterday at the No Kings rally—in the clever signs and slogans; the apparel and accessories; the music and movement. The performance art of it all.

Even with the vibration of the ever-present possibility of state violence — there is …  joy.

Joy that does not deny the pain running straight through the center of the moment. Joy that breathes in the truth that the only real power lies with God. And that God is right here, in front of us.

Protest joy.

If I’m being honest, I really don’t love the way we squeeze both Palm Sunday (the story of Jesus’s entry into Jerusalem), and the Passion narrative (the story of Jesus’ trial and execution) into one big event this morning. The beginning and the end of a week-long story, missing its middle.

It’s a relatively new innovation — introduced to the Episcopal Church, as with so many things, by the 1979 Book of Common Prayer. Before that, Palm Sunday stood on its own, and the marvelous procession into the city was enough.

The most cynical take on the reason for this change is that there was an assumption that churchgoers could not be trusted to go through the danger and heartbreak of Good Friday on their own—a concern that we would all just “skip right to Easter,” holding only the joy of the Resurrection in our hearts and minds.

But I think that take not only demeans the interior spiritual (and, quite honestly, intellectual) lives of churchgoers, it creates a false dichotomy between “joy” and “heartbreak.” As though anyone on that day in Jerusalem — or anyone who has waved palms on a spring morning ever since — hasn’t felt in their bones, even as we smile and laugh and sing, that there are hard days to come.

As though the joy of Palm Sunday isn’t exactly this kind of joy — the kind that feels the vibration of danger and heartbreak underneath the boisterous shouts of Hosanna and the glorious strains of “All Glory, Laud, and Honor.”

Protest joy.

Not a joy that ignores what is coming. Not a joy that pretends everything will be fine. But a joy that knows the state violence of the cross is ahead … and chooses to show up anyway.

Because this joy knows that despite the cross — despite death itself — God is alive. And God is here —right in front of us. This Palm Sunday protest joy holds all of it.

And so we continue the tradition of Jesus that day long ago in Jerusalem.

We gather ourselves in the crowds. At rallies and protests. On overpasses. Outside detention centers. Outside courts. And here, in this house of holy performance art that is the church.

We gather ourselves in community, even and especially against the backdrop of so many imperial parades designed to display — through grandeur and military might — power over a subjugated people.

We sing. We laugh. We smile. We lay down cloaks and branches in the road. Because God is here, right in front of us.

And, we shout that great and ancient hymn of protest joy:

Hosanna in the highest!
Hosanna in the highest!

[i] Usually these “entry processions” “celebrated conquering generals or the arrival of governors and emperors in a city.”   Gale A. Yee. Fortress Commentary on the Bible: Two Volume Set (p. 2427). (Function). Kindle Edition.

[ii]  Carter, in  Gale A. Yee. Fortress Commentary on the Bible: Two Volume Set (p. 2427). (Function). Kindle Edition.

[iii] Ibid.