I am excited to be sharing poetry throughout this Holy Week with you that will hopefully encourage your faith, maybe challenge your faith, maybe question your faith, maybe will just help you engage with your faith.
On Palm Sunday, the people in Jerusalem celebrated the arrival of a king to rule a kingdom that looked completely different than the kind of kingdom Jesus was actually ushering in. They were looking for and expecting a different kind of king, a different kind of Messiah, a different kind of ruler.
Jesus was an utterly different king. God is utterly different from the kind of king we keep asking for. To this day, we are still seeking a different kind of king than who the king of the universe revealed himself to be in Jesus.
So I'm sharing a poem that's based in the Last Supper, which might seem odd for Palm Sunday, when you're supposed to be waving the palms and celebrating, but it seems to me this is the kind of king we wish would have shown up on the evening of his death, leading up to his resurrection.
This poem gratefully appeared in Reformed Journal online earlier this year; you can pop over to the link in the email to listen to me talk a little bit about writing this poem, and my thoughts on writing more politically edgy pieces and how uncomfortable it makes me.
So I pretty much told you what I talked about on the podcast over at Reformed Journal, but check it out anyway if you'd like.
Jesus, Son of Gop
“We are going to put on the armor of God,” Kari Lake, the Arizona Republican candidate for Senate said to cheering supporters. “And maybe strap on a Glock on the side of us just in case.”
- “Kari Lake Urges Supporters to Arm Themselves Ahead of Election,” NYTimes.com, April 16, 2024
On the night he was supposed to be betrayed, Jesus strapped on a Glock under his cloak, just in case the breastplate of righteousness didn’t hold up. The boys arrived in the upper room, ready for whatever the Son of Man might offer up, but when he got down on his knees to lace the boots of the Lord’s army, it seemed abrupt. Are we really doing this? Shouldn’t we eat first? Before he took the bread, he broke down, said, This is my body and it will not be a victim. The crew looked haggard, like they could use a little motivation, so before he drank from the cup, he lifted it up—imagine this is blood—he yelled, poured out from our enemies, and then he drank it. That got them on their feet. We’ll take up this cup again a few hours from now, Jesus said, but not before we toss back one more. He stared at Judas, I know what you’re up to, his eyes like polished daggers. Judas left, bewildered. Isn’t this what he wanted? In the garden, Jesus checked his hip, checked his ammunition, checked his 9mm. When he saw the mob coming he fired first. Ask questions later. Why wait for the wine-stained lips of some betrayer? Peter drew his sword in vain. Before they could even begin, it was finished. Jesus saved himself and his followers from the coming crucifixion, the garden of Good Friday, their final expedition. Later, when two survivors made their way back to Emmaus, they lamented how the bloodbath happened, on Passover no less, the sacrificial lamb they had hoped would be their Savior turned Prince of the Slaughter. It was so typical, they complained, Jesus just another run-of-the-mill messiah with a machete, mowing down the wheat and weeds for a better view of trespassers that might malign his legacy. But at least he stood for something. At least he didn’t go down without a fight.
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