Lectionary Commentaries for March 24, 2024
Sunday of the Passion (Palm Sunday) Year B

Mark’s account of the trial and crucifixion of Jesus highlights the human capacity—with rare exceptions—to resist and even oppose the ways of God.

The Passion account unfolds at a noticeably slower pace than the rest of Mark’s Gospel, as if challenging readers (listeners, preachers) to consider again their own answer to the question Jesus asked at Caesarea Philippi: “Who do you say that I am?” (Mark 8:27)

Opposition from the beginning

Although the opening verse of Mark makes clear Jesus’ identity (Christ, Son of God) as well as the narrative intent of the Gospel (the beginning of the good news), human opposition quickly rises against Jesus’ ministry (for example, 2:6–7; 3:6; 3:21–22; 6:3–4). Even the disciples, those closest to him, often struggle to understand both his mission and his message.

Despite the opposition, his growing popularity causes the power-elite—scribes, Pharisees, Herodians, chief priests—to fear him (see also 11:18; 12:12). 

It comes as no surprise when they conspire to end Jesus’ ministry (not to mention his life) by handing him over to Pilate. After all, Jesus had predicted this outcome on more than one occasion (8:31; 9:31; 10:34). 

Political expediency

As Roman governor of Judea, Pilate authorizes Jesus’ crucifixion, although he seems to be  swayed by political expediency rather than by a conviction that Jesus’ death is the appropriate outcome. He recognizes that jealousy fuels the actions of the chief priests even as he hands Jesus over “to satisfy the crowd” (Mark 15:15). 

For their part, the crowds who shout, “Crucify him!” had—just a few days earlier in narrative time—welcomed Jesus as a king with shouts of “Hosanna! … Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!” (11:9–10). 

How things have turned! The crowds’ words and actions illustrate how easily people may be manipulated into violence: the dangers of mob mentality at its worst. 

Not that sort of king

Although Mark attributes several titles to Jesus (for example, Son of God, Son of Man, Christ, Teacher/Rabbi, Lord, et cetera), “King of the Jews” appears only in the Passion account, where it carries an ironic or sarcastic valence. 

Three times Pilate refers to Jesus as king, as if with a question mark, seeming to imply his recognition that the trial itself is a scam. 

For their part, the Roman soldiers taunt Jesus as king (see also Psalms 22:7; 69:19–20). They clothe him in a purple cloak, twist thorns into a crown, salute, and kneel in false homage. Creating a game of the spectacle, they cast lots for a share of Jesus’ clothing. 

In ironic testimony to Jesus’ supposed crime, the words “King of the Jews” are inscribed as the charge against him. Passersby mock him, as do chief priests and scribes, whose sneering taunts are joined even by the criminals who are crucified with him.

These all act as if Jesus’ ministry has counted for nothing. No matter that he cast out demons, healed the bedridden, gave sight to those who could not see, restored people to community, fed multitudes, and forgave sins. 

None of that is enough to engender their trust in his mission as God’s Messiah. People want more, and on their own terms. “Let the Messiah, the King of Israel, come down from the cross now, so that we may see and believe” (15:32).

They do not recognize the truth they speak. Jesus is, indeed, the Messiah, King of Israel, and the cross will not be his end. However, like those who hear Jesus’ parables or witness the feeding of the multitudes, they see, but they do not understand (4:12; 6:52; 7:18; 9:32). 

Their inability to perceive the truth betrays their answer to the question Jesus had earlier asked his disciples: “Who do you say that I am?”

It also triggers a devastating outcome, as happens whenever religious conviction and political power join forces to support a deadly end. 

The end of the beginning

Jesus bears a share of the worst that people can inflict upon one another. Whatever suffering might lie ahead for Jesus’ followers (for example, 13:9) then and now, it has already happened to Jesus. Cruelty, betrayal, abandonment, suffering—even the death every human must face is a death he has already endured. 

Several verbal threads connect Jesus’ death (15:37–39) to his baptism (1:10–11) and create an inclusio, or frame, around his earthly ministry. Identified as “my Son” by a voice from heaven at the baptism, the forsaken Jesus cries out to “my God” at his end, holding fast to that relationship even at this most desolating moment. 

The Spirit that came into him (Greek pneuma…eis) as the heavens were torn apart (schizō) departs from him with his final expiration (ekpneō). And the temple curtain is torn (schizō).

In contrast to those unable or unwilling to see the truth of who Jesus is, a lone centurion, standing nearby, declares the answer to the question Jesus asked at Caesarea Philippi: “Truly, this man was God’s Son” (15:39).

Nearby or far away: What is next?

The women who followed Jesus are witnesses to his death, “looking on from a distance” (verse 40).

Their presence within eyesight of the cross and again at the tomb, where his body is laid, offers  silent testimony to all that Jesus did and taught during his earthly ministry. 

Just as they supported him through that ministry, they now offer a ministry of their presence.

Their willingness to remain close during the trauma stands in sharp contrast to the absence of the 12 disciples. Like the crowds, who turned from cheering supporters at the triumphal entry to a jeering mob at the trial, the disciples seem to have lost their trust in Jesus’ messianic identity. 

Jesus told them this would happen. They should not be surprised. 

Nonetheless, the disciples are nowhere to be found throughout the trial and crucifixion. Only Joseph of Arimathea—not one of the 12 but a member of the council waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God—takes the bold step of providing a respectful burial for Jesus.

The end of the passage leaves a lot hanging. Life and death are often like that. 

But—spoiler alert—this is not the end of the good news of Jesus Christ, Son of God.

Palm procession is a revolutionary act.¹

I attend a liturgically inclined, sensorial, and embodied congregation. We worship with the explicit intent of encountering the divine with all of our senses. We see the divine through stained glass, chalices, pews, bulletin boards, and other visual worship paraphernalia. We smell the divine through the incense and the wood of the pews and old furniture. We touch and eat the divine through the Eucharist. Of course, we hear the voice of the congregation singing together and our ministers who have been reflecting upon God’s grace with the community.

One of the most exciting and profound liturgical embodiments of our church is the Palm Sunday procession around our church block. It is exciting because we as the church get to invite, show, and legally disrupt the normal flow of traffic if even for a brief moment during Sunday morning. Also, we are loud and deliberately ornate. We start our procession from the church by waving the palm branches. Then we chant and sing as loudly as we can. Some people of the neighborhood wave back at us. Some roll their eyes. Some are nonchalant about it. The police officers are irritated with the procession but can’t do anything about it because it ends as quickly as it started.

It is short-lived, but it is revolutionary. It is revolutionary not because we caused some kind of huge commotion or change. Rather, we disrupted the normalcy of things by transgressing the borders between the church and the world, the liturgical and the mundane, the divine and the created, the loud and the silenced.

This is also what I see in Mark 11:1–11.

The so-called triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, as many commentaries and authors already espouse, is not triumphant at all. Among many other reasons, the procession is not fully triumphant because it lacks the finale of a royal, imperial, and even messianic procession during the time of Jesus. The procession should have ended with a grand ritual/sacrifice, expulsion of former vestiges of power, and/or even a banquet celebration. None of them happened.

Instead, Jesus looked around the temple area and disappeared to Bethany (verse 11). This anticlimactic ending could be either a reflection of Mark’s take on the suffering Messiah, or a manifestation of postcolonial mimicry in which Jesus is subverting the Roman Empire by mimicking and mocking such imperial procession. I would like to offer a further exposition of the latter.

Revolutionary and subversive acts do not have to be grandiose or immediately altering. They can be small, seen but immediately unseen, loud and expected but bewilderingly unconventional. In that way, the powers that be cannot control, stop, or even anticipate the next revolutionary act.

The so-called triumphant procession of Jesus is intentionally incomplete and unconventional because the oppressed fight back in ways that are unexpected. They do so because it is a survival strategy that protects the oppressed from the backlash of the oppressors. In other words, Mark 11:1–11 is depicting to us the revolutionary side of Jesus and his disciples who performed their unconventional jab against the empire. This is their act of solidarity with the oppressed.

So for the upcoming Palm Sunday, please try this revolutionary act. Disrupt the indifference, distract the oppressive. Perhaps someone out there is waiting for your invitation. Perhaps someone in your church is waiting for the church to become a source of positive change in the world.

Notes

1. Dong Hyeon Jeong, “Jesus’ ‘Triumphal Entry’ as Flash Mob Event: Molecular ‘r’evolution in Mark 11:1–11,” The Bible and Critical Theory 15, no. 2 (2019): 1–19.

In times of adversity, it is quite natural for a person to hide, seek shelter, and avoid threatening circumstances. This instinct toward self-preservation is a gift from our long evolutionary journey through a very dangerous world. 

But the teacher in this poem does not do that, and it is worth asking why.

The teacher in Isaiah 50 is astoundingly bold—some might even say reckless. He takes a number of actions that place him squarely in the way of danger: 

I gave my back to those who struck me
    and my cheeks to those who pulled out the beard;
I did not hide my face
    from insult and spitting. (verse 6) 

… therefore I have set my face like flint,
    and I know that I shall not be put to shame. (verse 7) 

… Who will contend with me?
    Let us stand in court together.
Who are my adversaries?
    Let them confront me. (verse 8)

It is the Lord GOD who helps me;
    who will declare me guilty? (verse 9) 

Like the suffering servant of Isaiah 52:13–53:12, this teacher is exposed to suffering as a result of his calling. In contrast to those later chapters, however, the suffering of the teacher in Isaiah 50 is not as strongly linked to the themes of healing and redemption. 

It is not entirely clear what in the teacher’s message makes him so dangerous. The closest thing we get to a content summary is found in verse 4: “The Lord GOD has given me a trained tongue, that I may know how to sustain the weary with a word.” The message is somehow intended to sustain those who are weary. Perhaps it aligns with other accusations in verses 1–3, which plainly accuse Judah of sin and transgression. Or perhaps it echoes the hope of return seen already in Isaiah 40. Either way, the teacher and his message make him dangerous to an unspecified group of “adversaries” (verse 8). 

Chapter 50 does, however, provide answers to our original question: Why does the teacher choose to place himself in harm’s way? Several answers are given, but all of them relate to the fact that the teacher does not undertake his task alone: Yhwh is with him. 

The most relevant material is found in verses 4–5 and verses 7–9. Significantly, the teacher’s powers of teaching and learning are attributed to Yhwh’s generosity from the very beginning: 

The Lord GOD has given me
    the tongue of a teacher, 
that I may know how to sustain
    the weary with a word
Morning by morning he wakens—
    wakens my ear
    to listen as those who are taught. (verse 4) 

The teacher gains from Yhwh both the ability to teach and the ability to learn. These gifts appear in the form of “grace,” without any indication of merit or worthiness. God gives them and the teacher receives them on a daily basis. 

The teacher goes on to describe how he responded to these divine gifts: 

The Lord GOD has opened my ear,
    and I was not rebellious,
    I did not turn backward. (verse 5) 

Unlike so many other prophets and teachers who are called (for example, Moses, Jeremiah, Isaiah), the teacher appears to accept the gifts without hesitation. 

But the divine gifts do not end there. Verses 7–9 describe a God who stands alongside the teacher as a helper and savior: 

The Lord GOD helps me;
    therefore I have not been disgraced;
therefore I have set my face like flint,
    and I know that I shall not be put to shame;
    he who vindicates me is near.
Who will contend with me?
    Let us stand up together.
Who are my adversaries?
    Let them confront me.
It is the Lord GOD who helps me;
    who will declare me guilty?
All of them will wear out like a garment;
    the moth will eat them up. (verses 7–9)

Each verse begins with a statement about Yhwh’s character, followed by a statement or question that derides his enemies and mockingly highlights their weakness. Ultimately, the teacher is able to face his opponents, not because he is reckless or plucky, but because he knows that he is not alone. 

Readers of Paul will recognize a very similar logic at work in Paul’s lengthy resurrection discourse in 1 Corinthians 15:54–55:  

“Death has been swallowed up in victory.”
    “Where, O death, is your victory?
    Where, O death, is your sting?”

An indicative, declarative statement is followed by derisive questions that indicate the impotence of death. 

Texts like Isaiah 50 and 1 Corinthians 15 bear witness to a deeply seated theological “syntax” at work throughout the Bible. Ultimately, that syntax is based on assumptions about the generous character of Yhwh, the God of Israel. We are who we are because of who God is.

This God acts through created human beings to “sustain the weary,” but working with human hearts in the midst of suffering and adversity is some of the hardest work ever devised. And the God of the Bible—being generous, kind, and compassionate—never leaves teachers to do that work alone. 

This was true for the teacher in Isaiah 50, and it is true for us today.

As the worshiping church follows the Gospel narrative into Jerusalem and toward the cross, the song-prayers of the Psalms provide the “soundtrack” for the drama that unfolds. These words—already old and beloved by the time of Jesus’ passion—harmonize with Mark’s exposition, Isaiah’s foreshadowing, and the theological application in Philippians to offer a very human emotional and psychological dimension to the momentous events of Holy Week.

An overview of Psalm 31

This psalm requests divine help in the midst of personal crisis. The particular difficulty in which the psalmist finds herself seems to involve social conflict of some kind: neighbors are scornful and dismissive of the psalmist and her suffering (verses 11–12), and some of these neighbors rise to the level of outright enemies who plot against the psalmist and attack her with slanderous lies at the very least (verses 13, 15–18, 20).^[1] She feels bound up—stuck fast in her suffering like an animal trapped in a net (verse 4). She is ashamed (verses 1, 17) and is experiencing significant stress, a sense of isolation, and physical pain that makes her feel as if she is dying (verses 9–10).

The psalmist moves back and forth between asking God to save her from this crisis and declaring that she trusts that God will answer these petitions. Her confidence in God’s reliability and compassion is what makes her turn to God for help in the first place, and this confidence is grounded not only in general knowledge of God’s character as faithful, steadfast, loving, and powerful (for example, verses 6, 23) but also in her own prior experience of God’s attentiveness and deliverance (for example, verses 7–8, 21–22). Verse 5 summarizes this dynamic: the psalmist can commit her spirit to God because God has already proven faithful to redeem.

As it is in so many of the psalms, the value of remembering the past and sharing one’s story with the community is on display in Psalm 31. Not only do these practices build resilience in the ones who voice them, but such testimonies offer encouragement, solidarity, and hope for others in similar difficulties. Indeed, the concluding verses of the psalm reflect this idea of personal testimony as pastoral service to the whole community (verses 23–24).

The rhetoric and imagery

The language the psalmists use in their song-prayers is always worth noticing. These poems are both theologically rich and profoundly emotive. They reflect the beliefs and feelings of ancient faith communities, but they also model for us ways to work through our own feelings and help shape our beliefs. A few aspects of the poetry of Psalm 31 that might be helpful to draw out include the following:

• Throughout the psalm, various images for God as a refuge appear. The psalmist describes God as a refuge (verses 1, 2, 4, 19), a rock (verses 2–3), a fortress (verses 2–3), and a shelter (verse 20).
• The psalmist’s description of her suffering in verses 9–13 is all-inclusive: eye, soul, body, life, strength, bones, and the implication of ears. The sense is that every aspect of her existence is being impacted negatively by the crisis confronting her.
• Verse 13 is likely a reference to Jeremiah 20:10. Connecting her experience with that of a famous prophet legitimizes the psalmist’s lament, and it also gives meaning to her suffering by weaving it into a larger story of God’s servants.
• The strong disjunctive “but” at the start of verse 14 establishes the contrast between what the psalmist is experiencing or feeling and what she chooses to believe. Her situation does not appear to have changed (because she goes on to ask for help again), but she is taking control of her story by reframing the situation and placing it within a larger theological context.

As a general note, the psalmist does not hold back in describing her current emotional state. She is in distress and says so to God (as did the prophet Jeremiah, and as does Jesus). She feels like she is already dead, like everyone is against her. She is completely honest with God—and with the worshiping community within which this song-prayer is voiced.

Psalm 31 and Holy Week

One of the most poignant and significant dimensions of Jesus’ passion is the way it underscores his humanity. For those of us who live in a world filled with suffering of all kinds—sickness and untimely death, family dysfunction, natural disasters, socioeconomic injustice, racism and nationalism, and the list goes on—remembering the story of Jesus’ suffering provides us with a theology of God as empathetic and in solidarity with those who suffer.

Being able to say “I am not alone in this” can be a powerful factor of resilience. When we pray Psalm 31, we join our voices with countless other people of faith who have prayed these words out of their pain throughout the millennia. And remembering that Jesus himself felt these things and prayed these words in his lowest moments further strengthens this sense of companionship.

Psalm 31 also, like all the lament psalms, stands as a reminder that faith and anguish are not mutually exclusive. It is perfectly acceptable to stand in the depths of depression—and say so!—while remaining a person of sincere faith in a God of love, mercy, and justice. Though Mark’s account of the cross records Jesus praying Psalm 22 rather than Psalm 31 (we have to read Luke’s Gospel for that one), both accounts model honest acknowledgment of pain in the midst of faithful obedience.

As Christians encounter and experience suffering in the world today, we should not feel pressured to put on rose-colored glasses and think only of Easter Sunday’s resurrection joy. On the contrary, we should follow Jesus in admitting our hurts, doubts, angers, and fears—both to each other and to the God whom we can trust to care. In doing so, we practice the honesty that is necessary for healthy relationships, and we name the brokenness of a world that needs the salvation Easter offers.

Notes

1. I use feminine pronouns not because I think the historical author of the psalm was a woman but because I am reading the psalm as a woman.

What’s in a name? From a biblical perspective—everything!¹

A name was believed to represent the essence of a person’s character. The name Jesus, of course, is the Greek version of the Hebrew name Joshua, which means “he saves.”

“The name that is above every name…”

In Philippians 2:6-11, Paul incorporates into his letter what is most likely an early Christian hymn. In this hymn we see how Jesus embodies his given name, “he saves.” Being “in the form of God,” he did not regard equality with God as something to be grasped or exploited, as something to be held onto at all costs and used to his own advantage. Rather, he willingly “emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point to death—even death on a cross” (2:6-8).

Jesus is not a passive victim, but enters fully and willingly into his mission. He empties himself of all claims to divine glory and honor to become a human being—not a human of high status and honor, but a lowly slave serving other human beings. He humbles himself even to the point of dying a slave’s death, for the shameful and tortuous form of execution by crucifixion was reserved for slaves and rebels against Roman rule.

This Jesus is the one whom God highly exalts and to whom God gives “the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend… and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father” (2:9-11). In exalting Jesus, God gives Jesus his own name—”Lord”—and confers on him Lordship over all creation. One day every knee will bend before him, “in heaven and on earth and under the earth,” and every tongue join in confessing together that Jesus Christ is Lord.

This hymn makes the astonishing claim that the one we call God and Lord is most fully revealed in the crucified one. The one who humbled himself and took the form of a slave shows us who God is and how God acts. God’s essential character is shown to be one of self-emptying love rather than self-aggrandizement or grasping for power and glory. God’s high exaltation of Jesus confirms the divine nature of his mission and ensures that one day he will be acknowledged by all for who he truly is. Jesus, the one who saves, is God’s anointed one (the Messiah or Christ), and Lord of all.

“Let the same mind be in you…”

Paul incorporates this hymn into his letter in the service of pastoral theology. He is thankful for the Philippians’ care for him and support of his ministry (1:3-8), yet there are some problems in the community. In particular, Paul is concerned about dissension among members (2:2-4; 4:2-3), and about “opponents” who preach righteousness based on circumcision and law observance (1:28; 3:2-3, 7-11, 18-19). Paul urges the Philippians to live “in a manner worthy of the gospel” so that he will know that they are “standing firm in one spirit, striving side by side with one mind for the faith of the gospel” (1:27).

Paul continues on this theme of unity of mind and spirit, urging the Philippians to “be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind” (2:2). In encouraging the community to be “of one mind,” it is unlikely that Paul expects no differences of opinion within the community, for he is not so naïve about congregational life. Rather, he implores them to be united in a spirit of love and concern for the common good. This becomes clearer in what follows, as he urges them to “do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves,” and further exhorts them: “Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others” (2:3-4).

Paul then introduces the Christ hymn by saying, “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus” (2:5). The phrase “in you” is plural (en humin), and perhaps better translated “among you.” Paul envisions the life of the community being formed by the mind of Christ — by a spirit of humility and loving service to one another rather than competition and grasping for power and control.

On this Sunday marking Jesus’ passion, a preacher might explore with hearers what it means to bear this name above all other names. Does our life together reflect “the same mind that was in Christ Jesus”? Are we looking to the interests of others rather than our own interests? Are humility and servanthood evident among us?

Having the mind of Christ ought to shape not only the internal life of a congregation, but its relationship with its community and the world. While some may mourn the passing of “Christendom” and the waning influence of the church in society, Paul calls us to relinquish our grasping for worldly power and embrace the role of servant.² Power struggles and pining for glory do not honor the name of Jesus. Rather, by following Jesus in identifying with the lowly and giving ourselves away in humble service to a suffering world, we honor “the name that is above every name.”

Notes

1. Commentary adapted from one first published on this site on January 1, 2012.

[¿Buscas un comentario sobre San Marcos 15:1-39 [40-47]? Fíjate en este comentario del Domingo de la Pasión de Ariel Álvarez Valdés]

Un acuerdo previo

Cuentan los evangelios que, cerca de la fiesta de Pascua, se presentó Jesús en Jerusalén montado en un burro. La gente comenzó a vitorearlo y a cortar ramas para darle la bienvenida, mientras lo aclamaban como rey y Mesías. La ciudad entera se convulsionó, y todo el mundo se fue tras de él.

Pero sabemos que Jerusalén estaba controlada por los romanos, que eran muy sensibles a las manifestaciones políticas subversivas. ¿Por qué, entonces, no lo apresaron y ejecutaron inmediatamente? ¿Y cómo es posible que, en los días siguientes, Jesús se moviera por la ciudad libremente, sin que nadie lo saludara como rey y Mesías? ¿Cómo se entiende que la misma gente que le dio una calurosa bienvenida como rey, poco después pidiera a gritos su muerte frente a Pilato?

El problema es que leemos los cuatro Evangelios mezclándolos. Si leemos solo a Marcos, el más antiguo, descubrimos que él cuenta algo sorprendente.

Según Marcos, la escena comienza cuando Jesús: “envía a dos de sus discípulos diciéndoles: «Vayan al pueblo que está enfrente, y encontrarán un burrito atado, sobre el que nadie ha montado todavía. Desátenlo y tráiganlo. Y si alguien les dice: ¿Por qué hacen eso?, digan: El Señor lo necesita»” (vv. 1-3).¹ Según esta escena, algunos deducen que Jesús conocía el futuro y sabía lo que iba a pasar. Pero es probable que Jesús hubiera arreglado de antemano con el dueño del burro que sus discípulos pasarían a buscar el animal. Incluso que hubiera acordado una contraseña. Ellos dirían: “El Señor lo necesita.” Así el dueño sabría que quienes buscaban el animal eran los enviados de Jesús.

Los Doce y otros más 

A continuación, dice Marcos que los discípulos: “fueron” (v. 4); “encontraron el burrito” (v. 4); “lo desataron” (v. 4); “lo trajeron” (v. 7); “colocaron sobre él sus mantos” (v. 7); “muchos extendieron sus mantos por el camino” (v. 8); “otros pusieron ramas de los campos” (v. 8); y “los que iban adelante y los que iban detrás gritaban ¡Hosanna!” (v. 9).

¿Quiénes hicieron todo esto? Si prestamos atención, el único sujeto al que se refieren esos verbos es “los discípulos” (v. 1). Para Marcos, pues, todas esas acciones las cumplieron únicamente los discípulos de Jesús. Sabemos que él no tenía únicamente doce discípulos (Mc 3:14), sino también una “multitud de discípulos” (Lc 6:17), que lo ayudaban en sus actividades. Estos son quienes lo acompañaron en su entrada, tendieron sus mantos por el camino, cortaron ramas y lo aclamaron.

O sea que, según Marcos, no hubo aclamaciones por parte de los presentes. Nadie lo vitoreó, ni gritó, fuera de sus discípulos. Lo cual es lógico. Porque, según Marcos, la gente de Jerusalén no conocía a Jesús. No sabían quién era. Él no había predicado, ni actuado como maestro en Jerusalén. Siempre había desarrollado su actividad en Galilea, en el norte.

Por lo tanto, la entrada triunfal de Jesús en Jerusalén no consistió en una manifestación masiva, ni espontánea, ni popular, sino en un acto arreglado por Jesús. Él fue quien organizó todo para que, al entrar, los discípulos gritaran saludándolo como Mesías de Israel, ante el asombro de los peregrinos presentes, que no entendían nada, ni sabían quién era el hombre que entraba en el burro. Fue una maniobra llevada a cabo por el círculo de Jesús, para entusiasmar y contagiar de alegría y esperanzas a la gente que se encontraba aquel día en el templo.

Sin entusiasmo posterior

En cuanto a las aclamaciones, según Marcos, los discípulos gritaron dos cosas: “¡Bendito el que viene en nombre del Señor!”, y “¡Bendito el reino que viene de nuestro padre David!” (vv. 9-10). En ningún momento lo aclamaron expresamente como “rey,” lo cual habría sido una imprudencia, dada la susceptibilidad de las autoridades romanas. El primer grito: “¡Bendito el que viene en nombre del Señor!,” era un saludo que se empleaba para dar la bienvenida a todo peregrino que llegaba a Jerusalén. Y la segunda aclamación: “¡Bendito el reino que viene de nuestro padre David!,” anunciaba la venida de un reino esperado, a semejanza del que hubo varios siglos antes, en tiempos del rey David; pero Jesús no aparece directamente vinculado con él, ni se dice que él será quien va a reinar.

El relato de Marcos termina de una manera curiosa: “Jesús entró en Jerusalén, en el Templo, y después de observar todo a su alrededor, siendo ya tarde, salió con los Doce para Betania” (v. 11). No hay rastros de la algarabía, ni del griterío de los discípulos. El jolgorio se apagó rápidamente, ya que la gente no terminó de entender quién era el personaje que había llegado. Todo se redujo a un fogonazo de entusiasmo, y se extinguió antes incluso de entrar Jesús en la ciudad.

Los vestidos por el suelo

Según Marcos, entonces, si bien Jesús se presentó en la ciudad como rey, fue un acto lo suficientemente discreto como para no provocar a los romanos. En efecto:

1) Entró montado en un asno, porque cualquier judío entendía que era la cabalgadura que emplearon los antiguos reyes al ingresar en la capital (1 Re 1:38; Za 9:9). Pero ningún romano se habría sentido amenazado por un maestro que llegaba en un burrito.

2) Ordenó a sus discípulos que tendieran sus mantos por el camino, porque era la forma como algunos reyes de Israel fueron homenajeados el día de la coronación (2 Re 9:13). Pero era un gesto que los romanos no habrían comprendido.

3) Les pidió que alfombraran su entrada con ramas de árboles, porque así se hacía cuando los reyes llegaban victoriosos a Jerusalén (1 Mac 13:51; 2 Mac 10:7). Pero era algo que no habría despertado sospechas entre las autoridades militares.

4) Mandó que aclamaran la llegada “del reino de David,” porque cualquier judío sabía quién era este rey esperado. Pero para las tropas de ocupación era un ignoto personaje.

Con gran pedagogía Jesús montó una escena ambigua, comprensible para los judíos, pero enigmática para los romanos, para comunicar un magnífico mensaje a los habitantes de Jerusalén: Dios estaba a punto de hacerse presente, estaba por inaugurar su reino, el reino de justicia, de paz y de libertad tanto tiempo postergado, pero que ahora por fin iba a hacerse realidad.

Todos los detalles triunfales que nosotros conocemos (la multitud que lo aclama, las palmas que enarbolan, la gente que lo sigue, la recepción como un Rey) son añadidos de los otros evangelistas, que quisieron completar a Marcos.

El poder y el amor

La gente de Jerusalén andaba triste y desanimada. Y Jesús quiso devolverles la esperanza, anunciándoles que el reino de Dios estaba cerca, pero sin provocar a las autoridades romanas, ni descalificarlas, porque su reino no era violento ni combativo. Él era un rey de paz, y por eso hizo un ingreso modesto, sin llamar la atención ni alterar a nadie.

Hoy vivimos en un clima de permanente agresión, de constante violencia y descalificación de los demás. Lo reflejamos incluso en nuestro vocabulario. Decimos: estoy luchando contra el cigarrillo, estoy luchando contra la obesidad, estoy luchando contra el cáncer, como si la vida fuera una lucha constante. Cuando alguien muere lo recordamos diciendo: “Fue un luchador.” Y cuando hablamos de nosotros decimos: “Aquí estoy, en la lucha de cada día.”

El problema es que, al concebir la vida como lucha, quien opina diferente termina convirtiéndose en nuestro enemigo, en alguien a quien hay que vencer, someter, destruir. Muchas de nuestras actitudes violentas nos vienen de concebir la existencia como un campo de batalla. Somos guerreros y debemos matar para que no nos maten, humillar para que no nos humillen, eliminar para que no nos eliminen. Jesús enseñó que la vida no es un combate sino una convivencia con gente distinta. El mundo es variado, diverso, y debemos respetar la pluralidad de la gente y sus ideas. No hay dos personas iguales. Y quien no piensa como nosotros/as, se viste de manera distinta, educa a sus hijos de otra forma, viaja a otros lugares y se ríe de cosas diferentes, no es nuestro enemigo.

Los/as cristianos/as seguimos a un rey de paz. Y frente a quienes buscan imponerse por la fuerza, debemos ofrecer la tolerancia. Ese debe ser nuestro potencial. Porque como dijo un sabio: “Algunas personas aman el poder, y otras tienen el poder de amar.”

 Notas:

1. Yo hago mi propia traducción del original griego.