Sunday, March 29, 2026
Luke 19 (Palm Sunday)Brennan Whaley singing Spencer LaJoye's "Plowshare Prayer"
1.
Brennan, it seems you and I have been talking about that song and your singing it here for months. And I for one am so glad that it worked out this way: that you sing it for the church, and to the church today, on Palm Sunday. Because it strikes me, it really strikes me, that your particular interpretation of that Plowshare Prayer is as close as we’re ever going to get to the “Hosannas” of that first Palm Sunday. You have—in such a beautiful way—liberated those first “Hosannas” from the dusty pages of scripture, and given them to us fresh.
What you’ve given us, Brennan, is something like the song of a people shattered by cruelty, but believing again in the generosity of God; a people exhausted by war, but now greeting this Prince of Peace with palms and praise. And not cheap praise: but purposeful praise, the kind of praise that reorders our footsteps and reimagines the future. What you’ve given us, Brennan, is something like the cry of a crowd, encouraged to dream again, newly awakened by grace, and welcoming their Beloved and his nonviolent, open and affirming, apartheid-free rebellion.
So I wonder, then, if we might take--all of us--just a piece of that prayer and recite it together. As our own Palm Sunday “Hosanna!” Brennan’s offered it as a gift to us, even as our gospel this morning. So let’s make it our own. And let’s do it now according to the simple call and response tradition. You don’t even need your bulletins. In fact, go ahead and put them down. I’ll read a line, and you’ll repeat it. Just a piece of this remarkable, tender, Christ-like prayer. A crowd, newly awakened by grace, encouraged to dream again.
In many gospel accounts, the disciples greet Jesus with cries of “Hosanna!” as he reaches the Mount of Olives on the gimpy donkey and looks across the Kidron Valley to Jerusalem itself. “Hosanna!” “Hosanna!” Or, “Save us!” Or, “Deliver us!” “Hosanna!”
And their cries vocalize their ancestors’ passion for liberation, the great Hebrew yearning for freedom from Pharaoh’s oppression and empire’s violence. From despair itself. It seems clear that the Festival of Passover is at hand and their every prayer, every hope, every liturgy is tuned now to God’s promise of deliverance. “Hosanna!”
What this plowshare prayer offers, then, is a fresh take, even a revolutionary take, on deliverance and liberation. What it means for you and me to claim the freedom Jesus offers in his teaching and in his life and (yes) in his sacrifice. To claim it for ourselves, and for one another. No longer need we be shackled to images of God that bully some of us without mercy and render others unimportant or unseen. No longer need we be suffocated by fears—stoked by 21st century Pharaohs, by the way—fears of people who look different or pray different or talk different or dream different dreams. No longer need we be tethered to violence and war as the true means of safety and security.
“I was a stranger,” Jesus says, “and you cherished my company.” “I was broken and wounded,” Jesus says, “and you made a place for me.” “I was at the end of my rope,” Jesus says, “and you pulled me close.” “I was forsaken by family,” Jesus says, “and you became my family.” Free from fear. Free from violence. Free from cruelty.
1.
Brennan, it seems you and I have been talking about that song and your singing it here for months. And I for one am so glad that it worked out this way: that you sing it for the church, and to the church today, on Palm Sunday. Because it strikes me, it really strikes me, that your particular interpretation of that Plowshare Prayer is as close as we’re ever going to get to the “Hosannas” of that first Palm Sunday. You have—in such a beautiful way—liberated those first “Hosannas” from the dusty pages of scripture, and given them to us fresh.
What you’ve given us, Brennan, is something like the song of a people shattered by cruelty, but believing again in the generosity of God; a people exhausted by war, but now greeting this Prince of Peace with palms and praise. And not cheap praise: but purposeful praise, the kind of praise that reorders our footsteps and reimagines the future. What you’ve given us, Brennan, is something like the cry of a crowd, encouraged to dream again, newly awakened by grace, and welcoming their Beloved and his nonviolent, open and affirming, apartheid-free rebellion.
So I wonder, then, if we might take--all of us--just a piece of that prayer and recite it together. As our own Palm Sunday “Hosanna!” Brennan’s offered it as a gift to us, even as our gospel this morning. So let’s make it our own. And let’s do it now according to the simple call and response tradition. You don’t even need your bulletins. In fact, go ahead and put them down. I’ll read a line, and you’ll repeat it. Just a piece of this remarkable, tender, Christ-like prayer. A crowd, newly awakened by grace, encouraged to dream again.
Amen on behalf of the last and the least2.
On behalf of the anxious, depressed and unseen
Amen for the workers, the hungry, the houseless
Amen for the lonely and recently spouseless
Amen for the queers and their closeted peers
Amen for the bullied who hold in their tears
Amen for the mothers of little Black sons
Amen for the kids who grow up scared of guns
Amen for the addicts, ashamed and hungover
Amen for the calloused, the wizened, the sober
Amen for the ones who want life to be over
Amen for the leaders who lose their composure
And amen for the parents who just lost their baby
Amen for the chronically ill and disabled
Amen for the children down at the border
Amen for the victims of our law and order
In many gospel accounts, the disciples greet Jesus with cries of “Hosanna!” as he reaches the Mount of Olives on the gimpy donkey and looks across the Kidron Valley to Jerusalem itself. “Hosanna!” “Hosanna!” Or, “Save us!” Or, “Deliver us!” “Hosanna!”
And their cries vocalize their ancestors’ passion for liberation, the great Hebrew yearning for freedom from Pharaoh’s oppression and empire’s violence. From despair itself. It seems clear that the Festival of Passover is at hand and their every prayer, every hope, every liturgy is tuned now to God’s promise of deliverance. “Hosanna!”
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| "A Brave & Quiet Heart" (J. MacKenzie) |
“I was a stranger,” Jesus says, “and you cherished my company.” “I was broken and wounded,” Jesus says, “and you made a place for me.” “I was at the end of my rope,” Jesus says, “and you pulled me close.” “I was forsaken by family,” Jesus says, “and you became my family.” Free from fear. Free from violence. Free from cruelty.
“Hosanna,” we cry. “Bring it on,” we cry. “Save us!”
What’s so stunning about Jesus’ ministry—then and now—is that Jesus builds a movement beyond lazy tolerance and simple acceptance. He’s about so much more than that. Jesus builds a community that doesn’t simply tolerate “the anxious, depressed and unseen,” but calls out their gifts (OK, our gifts) as the holy sacraments of God’s transforming grace. The holy sacraments of God’s transforming grace.
This is an unmistakable theme in scripture itself. There is no kin-dom, no gospel, no movement without them—without the “hungry, the houseless, the recently spouseless”; without the “addicts, ashamed and hungover”; without the “calloused, the wizened, the sober”; without the “ones who want life to be over.” There is no kin-dom, no gospel, no movement without them. Pete Hegseth may think that human weakness is abhorrent and disastrous. He may think Christianity’s all about holy war and religious conquest and righteous whiteness. But Jesus confronts these myths over and over and over again. Turning the tables on pride and contempt. Touching the “untouchable” and blessing their many gifts. Refusing to take up a weapon. Any weapon. Ever.
The world will be transformed, Jesus insists; our communities will be healed, even redeemed, not by a phalanx of warriors, not by battlefield strategists and high-tech wizards blowing things up, but by the loving intentions of wounded human beings, by the prayerful compassion of broken-hearted brothers and sisters. And, if this sounds naive and unreasonable, he says, then so be it. The world will be transformed by forgiven people extending forgiveness to one another. By liberated communities insisting on liberation for all.
And isn’t that the message, Brennan, isn't that the promise of this plowshare prayer? That our frailty, our fragility, our vulnerability is itself an invitation to radical hope, to costly solidarity, to lovingkindness and mercy? Blessed are the poor in spirit.
3.
Meeting Jesus on the Mount of OIives means meeting Jesus in his own intense vulnerability. Meeting Jesus on the Mount of Olives means meeting Jesus as he contemplates his own mortality and the consequences of costly solidarity in an empire where diversity, equity and inclusion are dirty words. And punishable. And meeting Jesus as he crosses the Kidron Valley means breaking bread with his sketchy friends and bearing witness, up close, as he rejects violence but bears its terrible cost.
This week, this Holy Week, will change us. It has to. Though we’ve walked this path three dozen times before, it will change us. Not because we’re deficient in some essential way. And not because we’re wretched and unworthy of love and spirit. Because this is the kind of blasphemy cooked up by theological bullies who’d rather rant than reconcile, who’d rather hound than heal. Who imagine Christianity as a war to defeat our many enemies and win back the human soul.
No, this week will change us because Jesus is waiting for us in the midst of it all. In all of it. In your tears on Friday, at the foot of his cross. In your own very personal and private grief and disappointment, the sadness only you can name; and in your heartbreak too for the suffering of so many others in so many places. Jesus is waiting in the midst of it all. In the strange silences of Saturday. With sighs too deep for words. With hope and wonder beyond reason, without data. The bloody cross behind us, the tomb yet unsealed. Jesus waiting in the midst of it all.
And, of course, Jesus is waiting for you and me. On his knees. On Maundy Thursday. Maybe the most important day in our liturgical year outside of Easter. Jesus is waiting. With a towel around his waist and a bowl of water by his side. As shadows lengthen and darkness falls around us. Jesus is waiting on his knees. Because he knows that your feet are tired and sore. Because he knows that you’ve walked a long, long road. And because he believes that human touch—human touch that is kind and respectful and welcome—human touch can restore spirit to weary hearts and revive dreams of liberation and peace. And we’re going to need a lot of spirit this week. And our dreams really do matter. They matter a lot. So Jesus is waiting on his knees. In an upper room. Making eye contact. Washing your feet and mine. One at a time. Total concentration. One at a time.
This story matters, friends, not because it’s the only story. And Jesus matters to us—not because he’s the only child of God either. What we see this week, what we touch this week and know in our bones this week—is the radically renewing promise that Jesus reveals. In his tears. By his loving. With his hands. By his brokenness. The promise that Jesus reveals; not on his own, but with a wildly wonderful and gloriously diverse community of friends. And it’s the promise, as Ann Weems reminds us in her poem, of Emmanuel. That in all of our grieving and breaking and yearning together, and in all of our serving and marching and daring witness, and in all of our half-starts and full-stops and curious retreats and improbable progress, God is with us. In it all. Through it all. On his knees. On her knees. God is with us.
And because that’s so, because God’s grace is relentless and resourceful and always as close as the heart that beats in your chest, you can trust that goodness and mercy will follow you. This week. Every day this week. And all the days of your life.
Amen and Ashe.
What’s so stunning about Jesus’ ministry—then and now—is that Jesus builds a movement beyond lazy tolerance and simple acceptance. He’s about so much more than that. Jesus builds a community that doesn’t simply tolerate “the anxious, depressed and unseen,” but calls out their gifts (OK, our gifts) as the holy sacraments of God’s transforming grace. The holy sacraments of God’s transforming grace.
 |
| "Gethsemane" |
The world will be transformed, Jesus insists; our communities will be healed, even redeemed, not by a phalanx of warriors, not by battlefield strategists and high-tech wizards blowing things up, but by the loving intentions of wounded human beings, by the prayerful compassion of broken-hearted brothers and sisters. And, if this sounds naive and unreasonable, he says, then so be it. The world will be transformed by forgiven people extending forgiveness to one another. By liberated communities insisting on liberation for all.
And isn’t that the message, Brennan, isn't that the promise of this plowshare prayer? That our frailty, our fragility, our vulnerability is itself an invitation to radical hope, to costly solidarity, to lovingkindness and mercy? Blessed are the poor in spirit.
3.
Meeting Jesus on the Mount of OIives means meeting Jesus in his own intense vulnerability. Meeting Jesus on the Mount of Olives means meeting Jesus as he contemplates his own mortality and the consequences of costly solidarity in an empire where diversity, equity and inclusion are dirty words. And punishable. And meeting Jesus as he crosses the Kidron Valley means breaking bread with his sketchy friends and bearing witness, up close, as he rejects violence but bears its terrible cost.
This week, this Holy Week, will change us. It has to. Though we’ve walked this path three dozen times before, it will change us. Not because we’re deficient in some essential way. And not because we’re wretched and unworthy of love and spirit. Because this is the kind of blasphemy cooked up by theological bullies who’d rather rant than reconcile, who’d rather hound than heal. Who imagine Christianity as a war to defeat our many enemies and win back the human soul.
No, this week will change us because Jesus is waiting for us in the midst of it all. In all of it. In your tears on Friday, at the foot of his cross. In your own very personal and private grief and disappointment, the sadness only you can name; and in your heartbreak too for the suffering of so many others in so many places. Jesus is waiting in the midst of it all. In the strange silences of Saturday. With sighs too deep for words. With hope and wonder beyond reason, without data. The bloody cross behind us, the tomb yet unsealed. Jesus waiting in the midst of it all.
This story matters, friends, not because it’s the only story. And Jesus matters to us—not because he’s the only child of God either. What we see this week, what we touch this week and know in our bones this week—is the radically renewing promise that Jesus reveals. In his tears. By his loving. With his hands. By his brokenness. The promise that Jesus reveals; not on his own, but with a wildly wonderful and gloriously diverse community of friends. And it’s the promise, as Ann Weems reminds us in her poem, of Emmanuel. That in all of our grieving and breaking and yearning together, and in all of our serving and marching and daring witness, and in all of our half-starts and full-stops and curious retreats and improbable progress, God is with us. In it all. Through it all. On his knees. On her knees. God is with us.
And because that’s so, because God’s grace is relentless and resourceful and always as close as the heart that beats in your chest, you can trust that goodness and mercy will follow you. This week. Every day this week. And all the days of your life.
Amen and Ashe.
