Sunday, April 13, 2025
1.
Where there is nothing left to lose,
There may be nothing left to do
But shake up the space and make it new.
(Micah Posey, A Table-Flipping Prayer)
I found myself in an argument of sorts this week, with a group of colleagues I love and respect; and this ongoing argument revolves around our varied understandings of power. Power. Simple word, complicated concept. Is the church comfortable with generating and building power for action, advocacy, resistance even, in the public square? Is power itself consistent with our faith, with the gospel, with the beatitudes of Jesus? Or are we to work on an entirely different plane: trusting that loving service alone will transform unjust systems of violence and privilege? Is the church called to promote mercy and kindness in human relations, and to leave notions of power and advocacy to secular players and institutions?
It was a lively argument on a gray day. And surely not resolved. All of it unfolding on a Zoom screen in a dozen boxes. But I confess to being surprised, again, by colleagues who seem almost allergic to the notion of power in and around the Christian church. Or even progressive interfaith coalitions. Power is the province of the callous, apparently; charity is the calling of the church.
Well, respectfully, I think I’d like to disagree. Faith has nothing to do with coercion, of course, or intimidation or political bullying. But over and again in the Gospels, Jesus embraces and then extends power in and then through communities of care and resistance. Power-with-others; not power-over-others. But power nonetheless. When the curious ask Jesus if God is at work in his circle, he says, “The blind see, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poorest of the poor see the glory of God.” Nothing passive about all that. So, yes, Jesus embraces power, builds it among his followers, and empowers them to be changemakers too.
In this Palm Sunday story, for example, the waving of palms, the spreading of cloaks, the rejoicing of crowds—it’s all about the “display of power” they’ve all seen in and around Jesus. That language is right there in the text, by the way. The “display of power” they’ve witnessed in his ministry. Clearly, Jesus himself is not allergic to the notion and practice of power. And his disciples have noticed this, have trained with him for this, have discovered in his mercy and love a new and generative kind of power. And we can’t understand this procession of palms and praise, this wildly wonderful ascent to Jerusalem, apart from that project. The power they have built together. The power they have manifested along the way. The power Jesus has insisted they use for the good. To bring down destructive empires. And build up the kin-dom of God.
“Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!” That’s the cry in the streets, right? “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!” This isn’t just sanctimonious liturgy, friends; this is joyous praise on the lips of those with nothing left to lose, raucous thanksgiving in a crowd made bold by Jesus’ particular kind of power, made brave by his particular kind of movement, made aware of their own capacity for godly play and social change. “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!”
Remember, for example, that in the days prior, they’ve encountered massive crowds of hungry, impoverished neighbors crushed by an economic system that degrades them. Remember that in that moment the disciples are ready to send the crowds away, overwhelmed by their pain and the challenge of meeting it; but Jesus insists that they take control of the moment, that they invite God’s partnership in the moment, that they organize the poor, and then assess the resources in hand, and then feed them with whatever bread, whatever fish, whatever at all they can find. Power, Jesus says, is something we cultivate in ministry. Power, Jesus says, is something we build together. Power is ours not to subjugate and intimidate, but to organize and feed and celebrate. “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!”
And then, maybe the day before this rowdy procession of palms, Jesus has called Zacchaeus out of the sycamore tree. Remember this story? Remember the song?
Zacchaeus is some kind of tax-collector and the story says he’s very rich, maybe Elon Musk rich or Jeff Bezos rich or maybe just you and me rich. But he’s curious, just the same, about Jesus and this movement he’s building along the way. And he leaps from that sycamore tree, and Jesus says: “I’m staying at your house tonight. We’re hanging out at your house tonight. Let’s break bread at your house tonight.”
And again, the power of Jesus’ attention, the power of the community he’s gathered, the power of human relationship is such—that Zacchaeus is transformed by their time together, his life radically rearranged, his commitments reconfigured. Not just in some vague way—but tangibly, concretely, even financially. Half of his possessions he gives to the poor, that same night, on the spot. “And if I’ve defrauded anyone of anything,” he says, “I will pay back four times as much.” The power of conversion, right? The power of righteousness resurrected, right? Not just warm and fuzzy power—but consequential power. The kind of power that redistributes resources, opportunities and does right by human community. And Jesus says to the whole house that night: “Tonight salvation has come to this house.” Power. Power in communion. Power in conversation. Power to change the world. “Salvation has come to this house.”
And this, all this is what’s happening on the road, in the movement, within this beloved community of believers and dreamers and broken souls Jesus has gathered. This is why the crowds on the outskirts of Jerusalem are hopeful and glad; this is why they’ve pulled palms from the trees to wave and celebrate; this is why they’ve taken their own precious cloaks and laid them on the roadway as Jesus rides past. “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!”
2.
Now there are—in my very basic understanding of New Testament Greek—there are two words used to describe power in relationship to Jesus. “Exousia” and “Dunameis.” The first (‘exousia’) suggests the energy and purpose that derive from his special calling, his particular relationship to God and God’s dream. But the second (‘dunameis’)—and this shows up in today’s reading—the second refers to the kind of power generated in human relationships, in faithful partnerships, in collaborative and covenantal action.
“Dunameis”—in fact—shows up in the English language as ‘dynamism’: it’s the ancient root of our English word, ‘dynamism.’ And this then is the word Luke uses and Mark uses, the Gospels use again and again, as Jesus builds a movement with folks like Zacchaeus and the Syro-Phoenician woman, as Jesus invites creativity among them in addressing the hunger of the poor or the needs of children or the bigotry that divides neighbor from neighbor. “Dunameis” is power-with, power-together, power-deepening-in-community, power-extending-to-make-us-whole.
In first century Jerusalem, as in 21st century America, there are all kinds of signs that coercive power is the name of the game, that political bullying gets things done. They had the Roman legion parading through the city at the Passover festival, buffed up on giant war horses. We see ICE agents in masks kidnapping grad students in Somerville and whisking them off in plain sight to kangaroo courts in Louisiana. They had purity codes back then, restricting the poor from full participation in community life, and the disabled from being counted as fully human, and women and slaves from speaking freely in court. We see Congress voting cynically just this week to restrict voting rights for immigrants, for people of color, for trans neighbors and perhaps eventually even for women.
But “dunameis”: “dunameis” involves both the nurturing of new imagination and the building up of relational power. It’s everything Jesus is modeling out there in the desert with the hungry thousands; and it’s everything he’s asking of Zacchaeus face to face over supper. When we offer our energies to God in prayer, when we turn to Jesus for instruction and inspiration, when we turn our own desires over to the kin-dom of God—then, then, then the Spirit breathes fresh life into the church and empowers us in bringing hope, healing and even justice—maybe even justice—into our communities. Not the justice of bullies, but the justice of God.
For example, on Friday night, our high school youth spent a cold night on the street, in cardboard boxes, learning something significant, something sacred—about the lives and needs and hopes of those who live among us without homes, without safe spaces in their lives. That kind of immersion, that kind of commitment—shaped by Kristin Forselius and other youth leaders: it nurtures in our youth a kind of power for action, the kind of power that gets into their bones, and into their relationships, and into their hearts. That’s “dunameis,” right? That’s the power the crowds on the Mount of Olives are celebrating in Jesus, the power that offers hope for a renewed community in a redeemed future.
Or how about the organized ways our immigration team is preparing for whatever comes next on that front? Because of our love for one another, because of our commitment to one another, because of the immigrants who’ve changed our lives for the better—we are moved to do brave things; we are motivated to persist; we will work together as long as it takes, and we will protest together whenever we have to, and we will organize within communities, congressional delegations and city governments in every way possible. Because “dunameis” is the gift and promise we claim in faith. Because “dunameis” moves us to assert our vision, and (yes) God’s vision, for a beloved community where hatred is no more and bigotry is dissolved once and for all, and all God’s children are fed generously and abundantly at the table of creation. “History belongs to the intercessors,” said the wonderful Walter Wink. “History belongs to the intercessors, those who believe and pray the future into being.”
You see, friends, to follow Jesus is not just to accept the cost and joy of discipleship—and it is that—but also to commit to relational power, to “dunameis,” cultivated Sunday after Sunday, at every church meeting, and at supper tables across the life of the church. “Dunameis.” So that the hungry might be fed, and the lonely touched by love. “Dunameis.” So that our kids—in all their diversity and glory—might be cherished and protected, and immigrant friends enfolded in strong arms and tender care. We’re not punching timecards in church; we’re building a movement. And we must not, we will not accept powerlessness as our calling. Jesus doesn’t. Jesus doesn’t yield his agency to the whims of dictators or zealots. And he doesn’t let the rest of us off the hook either. You see, that’s what this procession of palms is all about: not the bullying of the proud, but the power of the loving; not the thunder of the violent, but the songs of the faithful. There’s nothing the least bit passive about all this, about this gospel, and it’s not a particularly safe crowd to travel with either. But it is good. And it is defiantly kind. And it is joyous. And Jesus is at the very heart of it. “History belongs to the intercessors, those who believe and pray the future into being.” This is what today, this is what Palm Sunday is all about.
3.
To our confirmands today, I want to say that we draw a good bit of this power, and a good measure of our perseverance, from you: from your stories, from your hopes, from your heartbreak, and from your courage. Your confirmation is but a step on your spiritual journeys, to be sure. But it’s one we mark with joy and our own promises. As you take on the costs and joys of discipleship, you will never be alone in this kind of faith. When the world breaks your heart, you will find mercy and compassion among siblings in the church. When you discover something so beautiful, so exquisitely wonderful, that you simply must share it, we will be here to revel in your discovery and praise God together. And when the time comes to do something difficult, to speak truth to power or take a risk for love, we will show up to cheer you on and lift you up. That’s “dunameis.” That’s our power together and God’s power in us. And that’s what we’re all about in the church.
Know this, too. Building beloved community together; leaning into God’s power together; and (yes) confronting cruelty and even fascism together will mean making choices. At 13, 18, 28, 58 and 78. It’ll mean making choices. It will mean taking Jesus seriously and watching closely how he does what he does. It will mean showing up for one another, learning to pray for one another in joy and sorrow, and cultivating the kind of power that is not easily maintained or expanded. God reaches for us, calls to us, and invites us to join this procession—not just for a day or even for a season. But for a lifetime. Christianity isn’t a badge of honor: it’s a practice shared in communities like this one. It’s a covenant we keep in powerful and prayerful relationships.
And that means, of course, that Palm Sunday is but a beginning. For all of us, for the church, for the palm-waving people of God. Jerusalem awaits. Agents in masks. Cabinets drunk on their own egotistical kind of power. And, yes, prison cells for prophets (and profits). On Thursday, in the shadows of all that violence, Jesus will break bread yet again, remind us of the economics of grace yet again, and show us what service means, how to kneel before our weakest parts and tend to them in love. On Friday he will choose nonviolence and forgiveness over every weapon and every impulse to fight back. The covenant, then, is laid out for us, in full view, in human terms: a covenant of devotion to God and solidarity in care for one another.
In a certain sense, we know how the story goes. But not entirely. What Jesus is doing among us, and where he’s going, should always, always surprise us. To trace his steps this Holy Week is to practice a kind of solidarity—with him, with the vulnerable, with his procession. Into the valley of the shadow of death, yes, and beyond it. As we do, as we keep watch Thursday, Friday and through the long hours of Holy Saturday, we discover not only his grace, not only God’s immense love—but the power, the holy power that is ours to claim, build and share. “Dunameis.” “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!” “Dunameis.” And blessed are we who walk—in all kinds of power—by the imprint off his steps.
Amen and Ashe.
It was a lively argument on a gray day. And surely not resolved. All of it unfolding on a Zoom screen in a dozen boxes. But I confess to being surprised, again, by colleagues who seem almost allergic to the notion of power in and around the Christian church. Or even progressive interfaith coalitions. Power is the province of the callous, apparently; charity is the calling of the church.
Well, respectfully, I think I’d like to disagree. Faith has nothing to do with coercion, of course, or intimidation or political bullying. But over and again in the Gospels, Jesus embraces and then extends power in and then through communities of care and resistance. Power-with-others; not power-over-others. But power nonetheless. When the curious ask Jesus if God is at work in his circle, he says, “The blind see, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poorest of the poor see the glory of God.” Nothing passive about all that. So, yes, Jesus embraces power, builds it among his followers, and empowers them to be changemakers too.
In this Palm Sunday story, for example, the waving of palms, the spreading of cloaks, the rejoicing of crowds—it’s all about the “display of power” they’ve all seen in and around Jesus. That language is right there in the text, by the way. The “display of power” they’ve witnessed in his ministry. Clearly, Jesus himself is not allergic to the notion and practice of power. And his disciples have noticed this, have trained with him for this, have discovered in his mercy and love a new and generative kind of power. And we can’t understand this procession of palms and praise, this wildly wonderful ascent to Jerusalem, apart from that project. The power they have built together. The power they have manifested along the way. The power Jesus has insisted they use for the good. To bring down destructive empires. And build up the kin-dom of God.
“Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!” That’s the cry in the streets, right? “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!” This isn’t just sanctimonious liturgy, friends; this is joyous praise on the lips of those with nothing left to lose, raucous thanksgiving in a crowd made bold by Jesus’ particular kind of power, made brave by his particular kind of movement, made aware of their own capacity for godly play and social change. “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!”
And then, maybe the day before this rowdy procession of palms, Jesus has called Zacchaeus out of the sycamore tree. Remember this story? Remember the song?
Zacchaeus is some kind of tax-collector and the story says he’s very rich, maybe Elon Musk rich or Jeff Bezos rich or maybe just you and me rich. But he’s curious, just the same, about Jesus and this movement he’s building along the way. And he leaps from that sycamore tree, and Jesus says: “I’m staying at your house tonight. We’re hanging out at your house tonight. Let’s break bread at your house tonight.”
And again, the power of Jesus’ attention, the power of the community he’s gathered, the power of human relationship is such—that Zacchaeus is transformed by their time together, his life radically rearranged, his commitments reconfigured. Not just in some vague way—but tangibly, concretely, even financially. Half of his possessions he gives to the poor, that same night, on the spot. “And if I’ve defrauded anyone of anything,” he says, “I will pay back four times as much.” The power of conversion, right? The power of righteousness resurrected, right? Not just warm and fuzzy power—but consequential power. The kind of power that redistributes resources, opportunities and does right by human community. And Jesus says to the whole house that night: “Tonight salvation has come to this house.” Power. Power in communion. Power in conversation. Power to change the world. “Salvation has come to this house.”
And this, all this is what’s happening on the road, in the movement, within this beloved community of believers and dreamers and broken souls Jesus has gathered. This is why the crowds on the outskirts of Jerusalem are hopeful and glad; this is why they’ve pulled palms from the trees to wave and celebrate; this is why they’ve taken their own precious cloaks and laid them on the roadway as Jesus rides past. “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!”
2.
Now there are—in my very basic understanding of New Testament Greek—there are two words used to describe power in relationship to Jesus. “Exousia” and “Dunameis.” The first (‘exousia’) suggests the energy and purpose that derive from his special calling, his particular relationship to God and God’s dream. But the second (‘dunameis’)—and this shows up in today’s reading—the second refers to the kind of power generated in human relationships, in faithful partnerships, in collaborative and covenantal action.
“Dunameis”—in fact—shows up in the English language as ‘dynamism’: it’s the ancient root of our English word, ‘dynamism.’ And this then is the word Luke uses and Mark uses, the Gospels use again and again, as Jesus builds a movement with folks like Zacchaeus and the Syro-Phoenician woman, as Jesus invites creativity among them in addressing the hunger of the poor or the needs of children or the bigotry that divides neighbor from neighbor. “Dunameis” is power-with, power-together, power-deepening-in-community, power-extending-to-make-us-whole.
 |
| Sec. Kristi Noem in El Salvador (April) |
But “dunameis”: “dunameis” involves both the nurturing of new imagination and the building up of relational power. It’s everything Jesus is modeling out there in the desert with the hungry thousands; and it’s everything he’s asking of Zacchaeus face to face over supper. When we offer our energies to God in prayer, when we turn to Jesus for instruction and inspiration, when we turn our own desires over to the kin-dom of God—then, then, then the Spirit breathes fresh life into the church and empowers us in bringing hope, healing and even justice—maybe even justice—into our communities. Not the justice of bullies, but the justice of God.
For example, on Friday night, our high school youth spent a cold night on the street, in cardboard boxes, learning something significant, something sacred—about the lives and needs and hopes of those who live among us without homes, without safe spaces in their lives. That kind of immersion, that kind of commitment—shaped by Kristin Forselius and other youth leaders: it nurtures in our youth a kind of power for action, the kind of power that gets into their bones, and into their relationships, and into their hearts. That’s “dunameis,” right? That’s the power the crowds on the Mount of Olives are celebrating in Jesus, the power that offers hope for a renewed community in a redeemed future.
Or how about the organized ways our immigration team is preparing for whatever comes next on that front? Because of our love for one another, because of our commitment to one another, because of the immigrants who’ve changed our lives for the better—we are moved to do brave things; we are motivated to persist; we will work together as long as it takes, and we will protest together whenever we have to, and we will organize within communities, congressional delegations and city governments in every way possible. Because “dunameis” is the gift and promise we claim in faith. Because “dunameis” moves us to assert our vision, and (yes) God’s vision, for a beloved community where hatred is no more and bigotry is dissolved once and for all, and all God’s children are fed generously and abundantly at the table of creation. “History belongs to the intercessors,” said the wonderful Walter Wink. “History belongs to the intercessors, those who believe and pray the future into being.”
You see, friends, to follow Jesus is not just to accept the cost and joy of discipleship—and it is that—but also to commit to relational power, to “dunameis,” cultivated Sunday after Sunday, at every church meeting, and at supper tables across the life of the church. “Dunameis.” So that the hungry might be fed, and the lonely touched by love. “Dunameis.” So that our kids—in all their diversity and glory—might be cherished and protected, and immigrant friends enfolded in strong arms and tender care. We’re not punching timecards in church; we’re building a movement. And we must not, we will not accept powerlessness as our calling. Jesus doesn’t. Jesus doesn’t yield his agency to the whims of dictators or zealots. And he doesn’t let the rest of us off the hook either. You see, that’s what this procession of palms is all about: not the bullying of the proud, but the power of the loving; not the thunder of the violent, but the songs of the faithful. There’s nothing the least bit passive about all this, about this gospel, and it’s not a particularly safe crowd to travel with either. But it is good. And it is defiantly kind. And it is joyous. And Jesus is at the very heart of it. “History belongs to the intercessors, those who believe and pray the future into being.” This is what today, this is what Palm Sunday is all about.
3.
To our confirmands today, I want to say that we draw a good bit of this power, and a good measure of our perseverance, from you: from your stories, from your hopes, from your heartbreak, and from your courage. Your confirmation is but a step on your spiritual journeys, to be sure. But it’s one we mark with joy and our own promises. As you take on the costs and joys of discipleship, you will never be alone in this kind of faith. When the world breaks your heart, you will find mercy and compassion among siblings in the church. When you discover something so beautiful, so exquisitely wonderful, that you simply must share it, we will be here to revel in your discovery and praise God together. And when the time comes to do something difficult, to speak truth to power or take a risk for love, we will show up to cheer you on and lift you up. That’s “dunameis.” That’s our power together and God’s power in us. And that’s what we’re all about in the church.
Know this, too. Building beloved community together; leaning into God’s power together; and (yes) confronting cruelty and even fascism together will mean making choices. At 13, 18, 28, 58 and 78. It’ll mean making choices. It will mean taking Jesus seriously and watching closely how he does what he does. It will mean showing up for one another, learning to pray for one another in joy and sorrow, and cultivating the kind of power that is not easily maintained or expanded. God reaches for us, calls to us, and invites us to join this procession—not just for a day or even for a season. But for a lifetime. Christianity isn’t a badge of honor: it’s a practice shared in communities like this one. It’s a covenant we keep in powerful and prayerful relationships.
And that means, of course, that Palm Sunday is but a beginning. For all of us, for the church, for the palm-waving people of God. Jerusalem awaits. Agents in masks. Cabinets drunk on their own egotistical kind of power. And, yes, prison cells for prophets (and profits). On Thursday, in the shadows of all that violence, Jesus will break bread yet again, remind us of the economics of grace yet again, and show us what service means, how to kneel before our weakest parts and tend to them in love. On Friday he will choose nonviolence and forgiveness over every weapon and every impulse to fight back. The covenant, then, is laid out for us, in full view, in human terms: a covenant of devotion to God and solidarity in care for one another.
In a certain sense, we know how the story goes. But not entirely. What Jesus is doing among us, and where he’s going, should always, always surprise us. To trace his steps this Holy Week is to practice a kind of solidarity—with him, with the vulnerable, with his procession. Into the valley of the shadow of death, yes, and beyond it. As we do, as we keep watch Thursday, Friday and through the long hours of Holy Saturday, we discover not only his grace, not only God’s immense love—but the power, the holy power that is ours to claim, build and share. “Dunameis.” “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!” “Dunameis.” And blessed are we who walk—in all kinds of power—by the imprint off his steps.
Amen and Ashe.
