A Shattered King (A Palm Sunday Poem with Notes) ~ Luke 19:28-44

 

Brothers and sisters,

Pay attention – heed my words

Our story comes – through rhyming blurbs.

It all started with an ironic parade

With colt and cloak and shouts of praise

A worship band and with hands raised

Here comes the king

Let’s sing his praise

He blessed comes – to rule and reign

And we will win and glory gain (pause)

And all our foes will be subdued

Our national shame will be removed

These Roman invaders – crushed and killed.

We’ll sing and dance, a Patriot’s thrill

For it’s either us or them – us or them – us – NOT them. (pause)

But now here comes a troubled few.

Who worry rightly of this political brew

Shut them up – these leaders say

For you are not king as your disciples pray

Shut them up – for the Romans may hear.

Shut them up – a riot we fear.

Shut them up – this heretical cheer.

For politics doesn’t belong

And you are not our king. (pause)

And then he stops – this would-be king

And he finally speaks: “If they didn’t sing –creation would croon, the rocks would ring – for I am.” (pause)

And he rode on, this donkey king

And came upon the city in Spring

With peasants working, markets churning, children playing, women praying, soldiers marching, new life starting, elderly dying, people striving, people stirring, people – so many people - trying

And then . . .

And then it says in verse 41 . . .

Brothers and sisters, Jesus wept.

He bawled. He cried his bitter tears. He sobbed and coughed, face smeared, eyes red . . .

We worship. He weeps.

Some want a king to conquer foes. He weeps.

Some want no part, fine with the status quo. He weeps.

And here I want to pause, to ponder,

to wonder in silence, to let our minds wander.

Take a moment – which person are you? (pause 15 seconds)

We worship. He weeps.

And whispers gently – “You do not know the way of peace.”

You do not know though you have heard

You do not see you think it absurd

That the king is here

And love is law

Forgiveness policy

Nonviolence the operation of shock and awe

And the platform that God is not against you, not against them, not mad at you, nor partisan for them

So which one are you?

Which problem do you have?

Do you want a kingdom without a cross? (pause)

Are you like the crowd? You want to win, to vanquish foes, to bless only kin, to drop the bomb, to wield the woes, to chant the slogans, and deal the blows –rejecting suffering, without love for enemies. You refuse - to be shattered.

Or do you want a cross without a kingdom? (pause)

Are you like the pharisees? You want a religion nice and tidy, with rules and order from the Almighty, redemption for yourself but without pity for those who languish in the city – without justice or public contention. You refuse - to shatter things.

Brothers and sisters, of every color, this Palm Sunday,

Reflect on this

Jesus declared himself to be king of this world.

And not some petty tyrant to tyrannize with law or hate and without grace

He came to establish God’s kingdom of peace, allowing himself to be shattered and battered, worn and torn. He is the shattered king.

So that finally God might be understood: God is love – willing to suffer what he should - and cry.

Let us not act as if his story is private - for it’s about cities, factories, mentalities, everything – do you see?

Let us awaken to the reality - that this week brings.

We worship. He weeps.

He is the shattered king.

                                                                                                                    

Palm Sunday is not a comfortable celebration. It’s a both/and-story of pain and praise.

Because on this day, Jesus does not quietly drift into Jerusalem unnoticed—he stages a prophetic moment. He deliberately acts out the hopes of Zechariah: a king arriving on a donkey. The crowds shout their praise. He does not silence them.

But then—he weeps. That is the tension we must not resolve too quickly.

Palm Sunday forces a question that cannot be avoided: What kind of king are we actually welcoming?

Because the crowds were not wrong to celebrate—but they were profoundly wrong about how Jesus would reign. They wanted victory without vulnerability, power without sacrifice, a kingdom that looked like every other kingdom—just with God on their side.

And Jesus rides straight into that expectation… and weeps.

He weeps because they cannot see that the way of peace is often the way of suffering. He weeps because they are about to reject the very kingdom they are praising. He weeps because their vision of salvation is too small, too violent, too self-protective.

And if we’re honest, ours often is too.

Palm Sunday is not just about what they misunderstood. It exposes what we still resist.

We still want a kingdom without a cross.

We want Jesus to fix things quickly, decisively, and preferably in ways that confirm our side is right. We are drawn to versions of faith that promise control, influence, and visible success. We baptize our agendas and call it the kingdom of God. But the king on the donkey refuses to be weaponized. Jesus’ authority does not crush enemies—it absorbs violence and transforms it through forgiveness and love.

But there is another temptation, just as dangerous.

We also want a cross without a kingdom.

We reduce faith to something private, internal, and manageable. We speak of forgiveness but avoid justice. We celebrate grace but resist disruption. We want a Jesus who comforts us but never confronts us - the systems, assumptions, and loyalties that harm our world. We admire his suffering but hesitate to follow him into it.

Palm Sunday challenges both distortions: a kingdom without a cross and a cross without a kingdom.

Because the king who enters Jerusalem is both confrontational and cruciform. He challenges the powers and chooses suffering on our behalf. He declares a kingdom and embodies a sacrifice for us and our salvation.

This is why we return to this story every year—not merely for the sake of tradition, but because we so easily forget.

We forget that the clearest picture of God is not found in domination, but in self-giving love. We forget that divine power is revealed not in coercion, but in nail-pierced mercy. We forget that when Scripture says “God is love,” it is not offering romantic feelings—it’s describing a reality that looks like a man riding toward his death, fully aware, and unwilling to turn back.

Palm Sunday reminds us that the kingdom of God is not established by making others suffer, but by entering into suffering for others.

And that means this is not just a story to believe—it is a way to follow.

·       to lay down not just palm branches, but our assumptions about power.

·       to release not just praise, but control.

·       to move beyond worship that celebrates, into a life that also participates.

Because the question Palm Sunday asks is not simply, “Do you praise this king?”

It is: Will you follow him where you may not wish to go?
Will you trust his way of peace when it costs you?
Will you love when it would be easier to win?

Will YOU worship AND weep. And follow the shattered king. Amen.

A People Who Remember “Amen”: Welcoming the Stranger in the Way of Jesus (Series Summary) ~ Deuteronomy 27:19

 

Introduction: What These Stories Have Been Doing to Us

Over these past weeks, Scripture has not simply given us answers about immigration—it has been forming us, shaping us into a people capable of faithfulness.

We’ve listened to stories—some strange, some uncomfortable, even unsettling. But God often forms people not through rules or arguments, but through story—through memory, imagination, and wisdom lived out in real lives.

So today is not about revisiting every text. Instead, we gather around a deeper question: Who are we becoming as we listen to Scripture and welcome strangers? And who is God calling us to be?

Across Scripture, we don’t find a policy so much as a pattern—a way God consistently acts and calls God’s people to live. Scripture calls this way blessed, and its refusal is called "cursed"—not because God delights in punishment, but because turning from God's way harms us, others, and the world.

Our passage from Deuteronomy brings this into focus. The people are warned (that's what is meant by "cursed" in Scripture) to uphold justice for the foreigner and to respond with a simple word: “Amen”—a word that means to be firmly planted.

So in these next moments, I invite you to reflect on where this journey of welcoming the stranger has taken us. And if you sense something true—something the Spirit is stirring—then join your voice with God’s people across generations and say: “Amen.” Let’s explore six “amens” together.

1. God Often Reveals Himself Through Strangers - What we fear or overlook, God may be using to protect, bless, and save. ~ Matthew 2:1-12

The gospel begins, not with familiarity, but with strangers and strangeness.

In Matthew 2, some of the first people to recognize Jesus are not insiders, not the religious authorities, not those fluent in Scripture—but foreigners, pagans, Magi from the East. They come from far away. They speak differently. They practice a different religion. They study the stars. The truth is that much of what they do would have been viewed with deep suspicion by faithful Jews. And yet—they see what others miss and show up with unexpected gifts.

From the very beginning, Matthew insists that God’s revelation is not protected by borders, purity, or proximity to power. Strangers are not obstacles to God’s work. They are often the ones who recognize it first and protect it best.

The contrast is stark:

• The Magi outsiders respond to the birth of Jesus with curiosity, generosity, and courage.
• Herod, the royal insider, responds with fear, control, and violence.

Same news. Same child. Different posture.

This pattern will repeat again and again in Scripture: Fear closes in. Curiosity opens. And God keeps showing up in strange ways, with strangers who bear incredible gifts.

2. Stories Restore the Humanity Fear Erases - When we listen to real lives instead of labels, compassion becomes possible. ~ Ruth 1:1-10

If Matthew teaches us where to look, the book of Ruth teaches us how to see.

Ruth illustrates the way many immigrant stories begin: with famine, with instability, with people crossing borders because staying means death - because home is the mouth of a shark.

And Scripture refuses to leave people as labels. It gives them names. Naomi. Orpah. Ruth. Immigration stops being abstract when confronted by people with stories and names.

Ruth—the Moabite widow, the excluded foreigner—becomes the moral center of the story. God never speaks. No miracle breaks the sky. Instead, God shows up entirely through chesed—fierce loyalty, compassion that acts. It’s often translated “loving-kindness” and two-thirds of its usage in the OT is solely used for God’s love. But in Ruth, chesed is revealed not through insiders, not through law—but through two foreign women from a despised nation.

This is not sentimental. It is theological. Ruth teaches us that when we assume we already know someone’s story, we stop listening—and when we stop listening, cruelty becomes reasonable.

And the shock is this: God’s redemptive future—David, and eventually Jesus—runs straight through the life of an immigrant woman most people thought God had already judged.

3. Scripture Grounds Welcome in Our Identity, Not Sentiment - We care for the stranger because we remember our own fragile history—and who welcomed us.~ Exodus 23:9; Leviticus 19:33–34; 1 Chronicles 16:19–24

We discovered that the Torah does not command hospitality because immigrants are vulnerable. God commands hospitality because people are forgetful. We all share an immigrant identity. When we talk about immigrants as “them,” Scripture keeps interrupting us with “you.” God keeps telling us:

“You know how it feels.” “You were foreigners.” “Remember when you were few.”

Biblical ethics are not abstract. They are remembered practices of personal identity. To mistreat the immigrant is not just a moral failure—it is spiritual amnesia and self-harm. To forget the immigrant experience was to forget their own story of God’s grace and mercy. Care for the stranger is not optional kindness. It is how God’s people stay alive to their own salvation story of grace.

4. Obeying God Sometimes Means Resisting the Law - We honor authority, but we obey God first, especially when the vulnerable are harmed. ~ Exodus 1:15-21 & Romans 12:21–13:7

Pastor Caitlin reminded us that Scripture calls Christians to honor governing authorities. But it never calls us to idolize them.

She reminded us that the Hebrew midwives disobeyed Pharaoh—and God blessed them. That Daniel disobeys and keeps praying. The apostles disobey and keep preaching. Even Paul himself is arrested and executed by the state whose authority he affirms.

She explained that Romans 13 only makes sense when read with Romans 12:
“Love must be genuine.”
“Pursue hospitality to strangers.”
“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

The pattern is clear: We honor authority—but we obey Jesus first.

When laws protect the vulnerable, we rejoice.
When laws restrain evil, we support them.
When laws harm the stranger, Scripture calls God’s people to wrestle, to advocate, and sometimes to resist—not because we reject the law, but because we love who the law is meant to serve: foreigners, widows, the marginalized, and oppressed.

5. Scripture Can Be Used Faithfully—and Still Be Misread - Even sincere faith can wound when fear becomes the interpreter. ~ Nehemiah 13

We also learned that Scripture can be a cautionary tale. Nehemiah loves God. He rebuilds the walls. He restores order. He helps the poor. And then—out of fear—he reads Scripture narrowly and uses it to justify violence, exclusion, and family separation.

The Bible is unflinchingly honest: You can have a mouth full of Scripture and still harbor a heart shaped by fear.

Nehemiah forgets Ruth. He forgets Israel’s immigrant beginnings. He forgets that God’s covenant was always meant to bless the nations.

And Scripture does not hide this failure—because God wants God’s people to grow wiser. The lesson is sobering: Faithful people can use the Bible to harm others when fear becomes the interpreter.

That is why Scripture must always be read:

• in conversation with Scripture,
• through the life and teaching of Jesus,
• and in light of God’s expansive mercy.

6. Jesus & Paul Make Welcome Provocative, Urgent, Costly, and Non-Negotiable - Following Jesus means publicly crossing boundaries with courage, goodness, and provocative love daily, without harming a soul. ~ Romans 12:9-21

When Jesus stands up in Nazareth in Luke 4, he does not offer a theory of justice but a daily practice.  He says: “Today the poor are experiencing good news, the prisoner – freedom, the blind – sight, the oppressed – liberation. Not someday. Not eventually. Not when it’s safe. Today. And then he reminds his hometown that God’s mercy today has always crossed borders—blessing foreign widows and enemy generals.

That is when they try to kill him. He’s not rejected for being too harsh. He’s rejected for being too merciful. And if Jesus’ very first sermon about God’s love for foreigners, could provoke attempted murder, then maybe we should stop assuming that faithfulness to Jesus’ mission will always feel safe, affirming, or polite.

And Paul insists that those who follow Jesus must also fight like Jesus:

not repaying evil for evil,
not surrendering to hatred,
but overcoming evil with good.

This is not passivity. It is courageous, creative resistance that refuses to let fear and violence disciple the church.

Conclusion: Who We Are Becoming

Across Scripture, strangers and foreigners are never peripheral. They are a mirror.

They ask:
Do you remember who you are?
Do you recognize where God is at work?
Do you trust fear—or the expansive mercy of the gospel?

The immigrant is not a threat to the church. They are a theological gift, calling us back to memory, humility, courage, and Jesus himself.

The final question is not simply: “Will we help?”

It is: Will we remember ourselves, our strange story, our immigrant identity, our stranger God?

Because we were once strangers. And we were welcomed. And we are saved by a Savior who crossed every boundary to come to us.

May we be that kind of people.
May we welcome in that way.
May we live that strange gospel—today. Amen. Amen. Amen.

Overcoming Evil With Good: How do we fight for others without harming a soul? ~ Romans 12:9-21

 

There are moments in the life of faith when the question is no longer, “Do we care?” But, “How do we care without becoming cruel?”

There are moments when the question is not, “Should we stand up for the vulnerable?” But, “How do we stand up without tearing others down?”

And in this moment—
when immigrants and refugees are talked about more than they are listened to,
feared more than they are known, harmed more than they are helped— the church faces a hard and holy question:

How do we fight for others without harming a soul?

Because Paul knows an uncomfortable truth.

It’s possible to oppose injustice and still lose our way.

It’s possible to speak for the oppressed and curse others –dehumanize.

It’s possible to be right— and still be unfaithful.

That’s why Paul’s words in Romans 12:9–21 are so urgent for the church right now. Paul is writing to a small, fragile Christian community living under the shadow of empire. They have no political power. No armies. No leverage.

What they do have is the gospel of Jesus Christ. And Paul is determined that they not trade that gospel for the weapons of the age— not trade love of enemy for methods of meanness.

So he doesn’t offer theological prescriptions, but practices of a faithful life:

Let love be genuine.
Hate what is evil; hold fast to what is good.
Bless those who persecute you.
Do not repay evil for evil.
Do not avenge yourselves.
If your enemy is hungry, feed them.
Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

This is not weak language. It’s not naïve language. It is Jesus-shaped resistance.

So what does that kind of resistance look like?

Naming Evil Without Becoming Evil

Paul does not deny that evil exists. In fact, he tells the church to hate it.

The way of Jesus is not moral confusion. And love is not indifference. Justice matters. Truth matters. Patience matters. Genuine love matters. And the kind Jesus reveals—is not polite nor private. It is often provocative and public.

Last week we saw Jesus, with love and hope, engineer exactly that kind of public provocation in his first sermon, enraging his listeners by saying plainly and unequivocally: God loves foreigners. Jesus was always willing to name harmful behavior and provoke unjust systems, even when it cost him his safety. Even when it meant his listeners might try to shove him off a cliff.

He was willing to suffer violence for telling the truth. But notice what he does not do. He does not respond by trying to karate-kick them off the cliff in return. He shows us that it is possible to speak truth boldly and lovingly without becoming what we resist. He challenged them yet walked away without harming a soul (no kicks, no stones, no curses).

Paul names this temptation clearly: “Do not be overcome by evil.”

Because evil is not only something out there— in unjust systems, harmful rhetoric, or broken policies. Evil also tries to move inside us. Into our instincts. Our imaginations. Our speech. Our strategies. Evil wants to shape us. It wants to convince us that the ends justify the means. Or as my friend likes to say, “The ends justify the mean.” That being right is somehow the “get-out-of-jail fee card” for bad behavior.

And this is where justice movements—especially faithful ones—are most at risk.

Injustice can wound us. Fear can harden us. And anger—even righteous anger—can quietly train us to mirror the very contempt we oppose.

When immigrants are described as criminals or threats, the temptation is to respond with equal contempt: to caricature, to mock, to write people off as beyond redemption, to employ those methods for all the right reasons.

But Paul insists that if evil gets to decide how we speak, how we see, and how we engage— then even when we are right, evil has already won.

This is why Martin Luther King Jr. insisted that nonviolence was not a tactic, but a way of life. “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” Not because hate is ineffective— but because it is contagious and hurts everyone. And hate is an acid which harms as much the soul in which it is stored as much as the soul on which it is poured.

Leaving Room for the Wrath of God

Paul then says something that sounds strange to modern ears, but is actually deeply freeing:

“Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God.”

This is not a call to apathy. It does not mean injustice does not matter. And it certainly can’t mean God is eager to destroy our enemies so we don’t have to care. God never repays evil with evil. In Jesus Christ, we see who God truly is – One who loves enemies and forgives them.

So what is Paul saying? To leave room for God’s wrath is to say two truths at once.

First: Justice demands action—but not weaponization.

We must act decisively but deliberately place our vengeance fantasies into God’s hands. We must stand up but refuse to become judge, jury, and executioner. And when we do, we pray and hopefully see how God enacts justice. And friends, God’s justice always looks like Jesus crucified and risen.

Second: Injustice has real consequences.

While God is not the direct cause of violent harm, Scripture does acknowledge the reality of consequence—natural and even spiritual. In Romans, Paul describes God’s wrath as consent—a giving over. God allows us the freedom to experience the reality of our painful choices that cause real harm.

It is “God’s” in this sense: harming others is always defiance against God, and God will use even the bad consequences of our actions to prick our consciences and transform our lives. In this sense, “God’s wrath” is the pig-pen of Jesus’ Prodigal son story.

This matters deeply in conversations about immigration.

It allows us to say—at the same time— that some policies are unjust and dangerous – harming even those who seem to benefit, and that every person involved—immigrant, citizen, official, neighbor— is still made in the image of God and remains an object of God’s love.

Leaving room for God’s wrath frees us from the exhausting work of hatred. It allows us to fight for immigrants and refugees without fighting against the humanity of others. It allows us to fight and leave some things with God.

Feeding Enemies With Spicy Love (the show Hot Ones - The format involves celebrity guests eating ten chicken wings, each prepared with a progressively hotter hot sauce, while answering questions which become disrupted by the increasing heat. The show's tagline at the beginning of each episode: “The show with hot questions, and even hotter wings.”)

Paul writes, “If your enemy is hungry, feed them. . . And so heap burning coals upon their heads.” This is not passivity. This is courageous, creative resistance. It is a refusal to cooperate with dehumanization— even when it feels justified. It’s spicy love. And we have seen this kind of resistance bear real fruit or bring the heat.

Megan Phelps-Roper was once one of the most visible faces of hate in America as a member of the Westboro Baptist Church. She picketed funerals. She spread cruelty in God’s name. She held signs which gleefully damned others. She brawled with others online curating the church’s social media presence. But ultimately she left the church’s religious-inspired hatred.

What changed her was not being shouted down. Not public humiliation. It was being fed and cared for by people who disagreed with her fiercely and yet treated her with dignity— curiosity, patience, even civility. It was the very people damned on her signs who refused to return her hate with their own damnation.

Over time, that kindness haunted her. It disrupted her certainty. It burned at her hatred.  It enflamed her with hot questions. It opened space for doubt, reflection, repentance— and eventually, transformation.

She did not leave a life of harm because arguments defeated her. She left because patient, genuine love outlasted her defenses. That is what it looks like to overcome evil with good. It is fighting not to win an argument, or to defeat an opponent, but to win a friend.

What This Looks Like on the Ground

So what does Romans 12:9–21 look like when the church advocates for immigrants and refugees? It looks like this:

It means letting love be genuinely spicy, provocative, and public rather than sentimental, easy, or private. Love that’s real, messy, and not necessarily nice. Love that names injustice and does not shy away from calling evil what it is. When naming evil, I often like to use first names. But God rarely if ever calls evil names like Stephen or Megan or Jon. God names evil as greed, hatred, contempt, abuse.

It means refusing to spread false or exaggerated stories— even when they benefit “our side.”

It means speaking about immigrants as neighbors, workers, parents, and children—
not as problems to be solved but family to be empowered. And it means speaking about those who might wish them harm as brothers and sisters. Everyone is family! The “kin” of kindness is for everyone.

It means challenging unjust policies clearly and truthfully, while praying not only for those harmed by the system, but also for those who uphold it.

And finally, it means choosing language and behavior that opens doors rather than seals them shut— that feeds rather than starves, that helps rather than hurts.

As Paul says, “So far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.” Peace does not mean silence. It means our struggle is guided by love rather than contempt that is held available for all.

The Promise at the End

Paul ends with both a warning and a promise: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

The warning is real. Even in our zeal, the church can engage the world in ways that harm our witness. Fear can define us. Violence can disciple us. But the promise is just as real. Good can prevail. Love can win. The way of Jesus is not only faithful— it is hopeful.

It trusts that people can change. That hearts can soften. That systems can be transformed.

And that the church can be a living sign of another kingdom.

This is why King could march with joy. Why Jesus could speak truth without hatred. Why former enemies can become witnesses to grace.

Closing Invitation

Church, we are called to welcome the stranger— and we are called to guard every heart.

May we be a people who speak boldly, love fiercely, resist faithfully, and fight in the way of Jesus.

Not repaying evil for evil. Not surrendering to fear. But overcoming evil with good and without harming a soul. Amen.