Palm Sunday

“Lionheart.” King Richard I of England earned that name because of his courage in battle. He was a fearsome warrior and led a crusading army to the Holy Land to try to recapture Jerusalem. He very nearly succeeded.

But there were divisions in the ranks, and the Third Crusade fell apart. The French and the Germans didn’t get along with the English. King Richard left for home, and it was then his adventure really began.

Passing through Germany in disguise, his identity was uncovered. The German Emperor Henry VI threw him into prison. Henry declared he wouldn’t let Richard go until the people of England had raised the staggering sum of 150,000 marks (100,000 pounds of silver). At today’s price of silver, that would be around $27 million.

It was, literally, a king’s ransom.

All over England, money was collected to buy King Richard out of prison. Taxes were increased by 25%. Gold and silver treasures from cathedrals and abbeys were melted down.

Finally, there was enough. King Richard went free and returned home.

When Jesus entered Jerusalem, he too was hailed as a king. And, like Richard the Lionheart, Jesus would soon be imprisoned.

Yet for Jesus, there was no ransom — neither asked for nor offered. They hauled him before the chief priests and the scribes, and eventually before the Roman governor, Pilate.

Jesus didn’t cut a very kingly figure in Pilate’s courtyard. They had stripped him and beaten him. The only crown he wore was woven from thorns.

Pilate, being a practical sort of politician, saw no advantage in treating Jesus as a visiting head of state, despite what the people had been calling him as he entered the city. Had there been anyone willing (or able) to raise a king’s ransom for him, the governor might have taken a different approach. But this country rabbi who rode into town on a donkey had nothing. As far as Pilate was concerned, he was just a troublemaker and insurrectionist. Pilate had learned to nip these Judean revolutionary movements in the bud. And so, he offered the mob that cruel choice: Jesus or the bandit, Barabbas. They chose Barabbas. And Jesus went to the cross.

It had all looked so different just a few days before. The sun was shining, the crowds were cheering, and the people were running to catch a glimpse of him, calling out: “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord — the King of Israel!”

What was on Jesus’ mind that day, as he allowed the people to make such a fuss over him? He didn’t contradict them, saying, “I’m not the King you’re looking for.” No, he let the demonstration go on. He received the cries of adulation. He let the people lay their cloaks down in the road before him, a gesture of deference offered only to those of the highest rank. He let them go on waving palm branches, a politically provocative act, because palm branches had been the symbol of the Maccabean rebellion a century before. That revolt had succeeded for a brief time in throwing the foreign overlords out of Jerusalem.

But this demonstration at the city gate was clearly not a serious invasion of Roman-held territory. Jesus had no army following behind him. He wore no olive wreath of victory on his brow. He wasn’t riding a mighty war-horse, nor steering a chariot as you might expect a conquering hero to do.

He was perched atop a donkey like some country bumpkin, his feet almost dragging along the ground. And donkeys don’t always go in a straight line. Sometimes they stop altogether, dig in their heels and have to be prodded along. Very likely, there was laughter in the crowd, as they watched this Nazarene rabbi make his way down the street.

Jesus’ little demonstration was no competition for the Roman machine — as seen by the fact that Pilate sent no soldiers to bar his way. It was a minor disturbance, a little kerfuffle off at the edge of the city.

For Richard the Lionheart, the people pay the king’s ransom. For Jesus, they do not. Quite the opposite. When he needs someone to step up and help him, no one does.

This is not the conquering king, riding into the city in triumph. No, this is a Suffering Servant king, after the pattern of those famous “servant songs” of Isaiah: one who “sets his face like flint,” then lays down his life for his subjects.

Every other king dispatches soldiers into battle — to fight for his honor, and the honor of the nation. This king enters the battlefield — the city of Jerusalem — alone and unarmed, riding an animal of peace.

Every other king upholds and personally embodies the law. France’s mightiest king — Louis XIV, the Sun King — had a catchphrase: “L’état c’est moi.” “I am the State.” This king submits to the law, allowing himself to be crushed by it.

A peculiar sort of king indeed, this Jesus of Nazareth. No wonder Pilate’s baffled when Jesus finally stands before him, uttering barely a word in his own defense!

Pilate will admit, at the conclusion of the trial in John, chapter 18, “I find no case against him.” Now, this is the point (in a fair trial) when any judge worth his salt would bang the gavel and declare, “Case dismissed.” But we all know Pilate will do nothing of the sort. The man is utterly corrupt, a tyrant who loves power above all else and manipulates the law — and human lives — whenever it suits him.

This is why he puts the choice to the crowd. I will free one prisoner for you, Jesus or Barabbas. Which will it be? Some ancient manuscripts say the two have the same name: Jesus of Nazareth and Jesus Barabbas. It’s as though Pilate is saying to the crowd, “Look, here are two Jesuses. You can have whichever one you want.”

Jesus Barabbas is a “bandit” — the same word the Jewish historian Josephus uses to refer to revolutionaries. He was involved in some sort of failed insurrection.

Pilate has a pretty good idea which one the crowd’s going to choose. He knows the Nazarene has proved to be a disappointment to them. His satirical street theater was fun while it lasted, but it was a flash in the pan. Ordinarily, Pilate would have let Jesus of Nazareth go and sent Jesus Barabbas to the cross. But he has something to gain by freeing the revolutionary and executing the misguided rabbi.

The ruckus the Nazarene raised at the temple is far more serious than his little donkey-parade. Flipping over the tables of the moneychangers was a provocative act of reform that threatened the whole temple system. It turned the ultra-orthodox — and especially the temple authorities — against Jesus. Not that Pilate cares much for the temple system. But he does care about his relationship with the temple authorities. He needs their cooperation to govern these unruly people.

So, this is a way to throw the religious pooh-bahs a bone, without appearing to be beholden to them. Let the crowd do his work for him. Let this Nazarene mystic go to his death. And let Jesus Barabbas have his freedom — for now. But Pilate knows where he lives. Should the man turn up dead outside some tavern in a few days, with his throat slit, most people will be able to connect the dots. They will know who really governs this miserable, backwater province.

There’s no ransom for Jesus. No one’s willing to stand up on his behalf.

What Pilate doesn’t know — what no one knows, not even Jesus’ closest disciples — is that a king’s ransom is being paid, but it’s being paid in reverse. Not for him, but by him. The ones who are ransomed are you and me. And the price is the king’s own blood.

So let’s wave our palms and cheer his triumphal entry. But let us also be aware that, between the hosannas of Palm Sunday and the alleluias of Easter there is an arrest, and a flogging, and a trial — and a cross. Let us remember – and be grateful.