I love a parade!

What is the point of a parade?

These days they are often rather silly affairs. Bright, colorful floats pulled by a pickup truck. Community organizations waving cheerfully behind their sagging banners. Music played from moving loudspeakers so that it becomes weirdly distorted as each group passes by. If you’re lucky, you might see a parade with a real, live marching band–or, even better, bagpipes and drums. But in my experience parades are just noisy and frivolous. I will never forget the time that I scheduled a burial service here at Trinity for the first Saturday in December, forgetting that that was also the day of the Columbia Christmas Parade. Though I was mortified, the family of the deceased were gracious and had a good chuckle as they entered the Cathedral as Santa Claus passed by on Sumter Street, ho-ho-ho-ing from a speedboat on a trailer.

With all the tossing of beads and candy, and clowns handing out balloons, and Shriners zipping around in their little cars, we can easily forget that parades originated as military exercises. But those who have attended a military academy or served in the armed forces of our nation know that to be “on parade,” has nothing to do with the flashy trappings we now place upon the word. Rather, a parade is a demonstration of readiness and strength. It is a chance to display the discipline of the troops, and their preparedness to face a challenge. It is quite literally a show of force, intended to instill confidence and pride in the hearts and minds of friends, while putting fear and despair into the hearts and minds of potential foes.

That was certainly the point of a parade in the first century. And no one put on a more impressive or fearsome parade than the soldiers of the Roman Empire. The Romans knew the value of a spectacular parade. While superior battlefield tactics and shrewd negotiations might bring new territories under their sway, it was the awesome display of military might that helped to hold the people of those territories in line. To witness the apparently unconquerable ranks of legionaries marching into a city–following their nigh-sacred eagle standard with the sun glinting off helmets, shields, and javelin tips–was to know and feel for certain that Roman authority could never be shaken by any force on this earth, and that Roman power ought therefore never to be challenged.

How odd, then, must the shabby little procession making its way into the city of Jerusalem some 2,000 Sundays ago have looked to eyes that had beheld Roman military parades. Instead of the invincible rows of soldiers stepping together in perfect discipline, a muddled mass of Judaean peasants milling and shouting and working one another into a frenzy. Instead of impeccable Imperial insignia held high and glinting gold, a jumble of palm fronds lifted up and then laid low to cover the road. Instead of a proud emperor, or a stern governor, or even an officious centurion astride a stamping, snorting white charger, a country preacher riding on a little juvenile beast of burden.

Jesus of Nazareth’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem didn’t do any of the things a proper military parade is supposed to do. It didn’t even do any of the things that a silly modern parade, the distant descendant of those ancient displays of power, is supposed to do. Instead of a show of force or an entertaining spectacle, Jesus offered his followers the almost embarrassing sight of his entrance into the holy city “humble, and mounted on a donkey; on a colt, the foal of a donkey.” And their reaction was not to cower in fear or laugh in delight but to cry out for help: they shouted “Hosanna!” which means “Save us now!”

What is the point of this parade? The King of kings and Lord of lords comes to us in meekness and gentleness, in lowliness and love. At the same time that he mocks the pompous pretentions of the powers this world, he also refuses merely to entertain his disciples. He shows the mighty that they shall be cast down from their seats, and he invites the lowly to look to and follow the only One who ever could or would save them from the brokenness of the world around them and the brokenness deep within them. His parade is not meant to shock and awe, nor is it meant to amuse and distract. It is a display of humility more powerful than any strength of arms. It is a triumphant procession in which his people are meant to join. It is a parade leading us to death, even death on a cross–and through that death to life unending.

Parades might seem silly. But they are not pointless. This Sunday, we parade with Jesus into Jerusalem, glorying in his self-emptying, empire-shaming, sin-shattering love. From there, he invites us to walk with him to the Upper Room with his disciples where he breaks bread, and to the Garden of Gethsemane where is betrayed, and to the Cross of Calvary where he is crucified, and to the tomb where his body rests, and ultimately, triumphantly, to the gates of Hell itself, that we might see them broken forever.

So come, join the parade.