Two Parades
Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29, Mark 11:1-11
In January of 2023, I had the opportunity to travel to Israel and Palestine with a group from Austin Seminary and members of Agudas Achim, a Jewish synagogue in Austin. I remember walking that steep path down from the Mount of Olives. It is not wide. It is not straight. It winds back and forth. It drops. It turns back on itself. You descend farther than you expect, down into the Kidron Valley, and just when you think you have arrived, you realize you still have to climb up a steep incline to enter the city. That was the road Jesus took into Jerusalem for the Passover festival.
But it was not the only road leading into the city. There were two processions entering Jerusalem at Passover, one from the east and one from the west, both heading toward the same city and both proclaiming very different visions of power.
From the west came the empire. Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor, traveled from Caesarea on the coast, sixty miles from the northwest, three or four days on the road. He did not travel alone. With him came soldiers, hundreds of them, infantry in formation, cavalry mounted on war horses, armor catching the sunlight, banners lifted high, the eagle of Rome overhead. They traveled along Roman roads that were wide, straight, engineered for strength, direct, elevated, unyielding. This was not just a journey. It was a message. Rome is here. Rome is watching. Rome is in control.
And from the east comes Jesus. Not from a capital or a palace, but from a hillside, down that winding road, into the valley and back up again. Not on a war horse, but on a borrowed colt, surrounded not by soldiers but by ordinary people laying their cloaks on the ground and waving branches cut from the fields.
From the west came the sound of marching feet, the beating of drums, the creak of leather, the clink of metal, the snort of horses, a visible display of power and a reminder, especially during Passover, a festival celebrating liberation from empire, that resistance would not be tolerated. This is what Rome called peace, the Pax Romana, peace through strength, peace through control, peace enforced by the sword.
From the east the sound is different. No marching cadence, no armor, just voices, people pressing in, people hoping, people singing out together, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”
From the west, people step aside. Some show support. Some bow their heads. Some watch in silence.
From the east, people come together, drawn closer. They do not have power or status, but they show up. They follow. They celebrate. They hope.
Both processions are entering the same city at the same time for the same festival, a city filled with people remembering a God who delivers them from empire, now occupied by one.
One procession proclaims the power of empire. The other proclaims the kingdom of God. One rides in on strength. The other comes through the valley. One depends on fear. The other stirs hope.
Rome believed it was bringing peace through control. Jesus embodies peace through justice, mercy, and humility.
Those two parades are not confined to the pages of scripture. They still move through the world. They still pass by us every day, and they still ask for our allegiance.
Sometimes the lines between them can feel blurred because we hear voices, Christian voices, invoking scripture to bless violence, to justify war, to call it necessary, even righteous. And yet, the witness of the church has long been different. Bombs do not create peace. Violence does not lead us to the kingdom of God. When war comes, it is always the most vulnerable who bear the weight through loss, displacement, and fear. Again and again, the call has been to seek another way, a way shaped not by domination but by diplomacy, not by escalation but by restraint, not by destruction but by the hard, holy work of peace.
Which brings us back to the road. Which parade will we join? The one that trusts in force, or the one that walks in mercy. The one that answers harm with retribution, or the one that seeks reconciliation. The one that divides the world into enemies and allies, or the one that longs for unity, not uniformity.
This is not just a question for nations. It is a question for us. It is a question we answer in our homes, in our workplaces, in our conversations, in the ways we speak about those with whom we disagree, in how we respond when we are hurt, and in how we use whatever power we have.
Every day, we step into one procession or the other, because the parade of empire is always recruiting. It promises security. It promises certainty. It promises victory. It tells us that strength comes through control, that peace comes through dominance, that safety comes through exclusion.
And the parade of Christ is always inviting. It invites us to trust that mercy is not weakness, that humility is not defeat, that justice is not naive, that love is not powerless. It invites us to believe that the way of Jesus, the way that passes through the valley, is still the way that leads to life.
The crowds cried out, “Hosanna, save us.” Salvation does not come from powers that demand allegiance through fear. Salvation comes from the one who enters without violence, who refuses domination, who embodies a kingdom where peace is not enforced but cultivated.
So today, the question is not simply what we believe. The question is where we will stand. Which parade will shape our lives? Which vision of power will guide our choices? Which kingdom will form our hearts?
We do not choose once. We choose again and again. We choose when we practice compassion instead of contempt. We choose when we listen instead of dismiss. We choose when we work for justice instead of subtle complicity in complacency. We choose when we refuse to let fear have the final word. Every time we choose mercy, every time we choose humility, every time we choose hope, we step more deeply into the procession of Christ.
I keep thinking about that road, the one that winds down into the valley and only then rises into the city. Before Jesus enters Jerusalem, he descends, and maybe that is where discipleship begins. Not with triumph, but with trust. Not with domination, but with love. Not with certainty, but with faith.
The good news on this fifth Sunday of Lent is that the kingdom of God does not arrive through the power of empire. It grows wherever people choose the way of Christ. So the question remains, which parade will you join?
