FULL TO THE BRIM: Love Leads to Justice

Palm Sunday remembers a day when two different parades marched into Jerusalem; which are we a part of? Scripture: Luke 19:28-40

Sermon transcript: https://tinyurl.com/FBCJC-4-13-25

Transcript

I.

Nearly everyone loves a parade. I know there are a bunch of happy, donut-filled kids who are finishing up a parade about now. There’s something about the music, the energy, the people lined up to watch and cheer. Parades celebrate something—a holiday, a victory, a cause, or maybe simply, your neighbors.

Bob Goff, author and kindness dealer, began an annual New Year’s Day parade in his San Diego neighborhood thirty years ago this year.

It started small—just Bob, his wife, Sweet Maria, and their three young kids—a total of five. They stood together at the end of the cul-de-sac, trying to look like a parade with decorated wagons and bikes. They thanked God for their neighbors and the privilege of living among them. Someone said, “Go,” and they started walking down the street, waving to the six neighbors watching, tossing some candy their way.

If you count both sides, the block has only twenty houses, so the parade wasn’t long, and it wasn’t complicated.

From the very beginning, there was only one rule: no spectators. If you came to the parade, you had to participate. It turns out that’s not just the motto of a quirky neighborhood parade—it’s the invitation of Jesus’ kingdom. Everybody in. No one watching.

Today, up to 800 people come. Kids pull wagons full of stuffed animals and pet goldfish. There are dinosaurs and old cars, and grand marshals and parade queens. There are no fancy floats or marching bands. And there are most certainly no spectators! By the time they all line up for the parade these days, they are already at the end of the parade route and sometimes a little past it before anyone starts moving.

Bob's parade has never been about performance—it was about presence. It isn’t about watching—it is about belonging, about loving your neighbor.

On Palm Sunday, we remember a day in Jerusalem when two very different parades marched into the city from opposite gates. Two very different kinds of power: one that came to dominate, one that came to deliver; one that said some people are out, one that said everybody is in!

The question for us this Palm Sunday is: Which parade are we in?

II.

In their book, The Last Week, Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan describe these two processions into Jerusalem. Passover was the most sacred week of the Jewish year. Thousands of Jews traveled to Jerusalem from all over to celebrate God’s liberation of the Jewish people from the oppressive empire of Egypt. But what we often don’t hear is that during this festival of freedom from slavery, the government would always show up.

Each Passover, the Roman governor would travel to Jerusalem and ride into the city from the west, mounted on a war horse. Alongside Pilate were soldiers and drums, weapons and armor. This was the Roman military marching into town with one goal: intimidation. They were there to ensure nothing got out of control because when a captive and oppressed people within your empire celebrate being freed from an earlier empire, you must remind the people that you are still the one in charge. They can have their little festivals, sing their songs, and burn their offerings, but do not forget who is in control and who runs the empire. Rome does. The military processional was spectacle and intimidation.

However, during Passover week, there is another procession entering from the east. It is Jesus, the man from Nazareth – the One who raised Lazarus from the dead, the One who proclaimed himself that the Spirit of the Lord anointed him to proclaim liberty to captives and freedom to the oppressed. This Jesus enters riding a borrowed donkey. No armor. No weapons. Just cloaks and branches, ordinary people, children singing, “Hosanna! Save us, Son of David.” 

Jesus was enacting a prophecy from the prophet Zechariah: “Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem! Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.” (Zechariah 9:9)

This passage was likely written 500 years before Jesus. His Jewish audience would have known it well—many could recite it from memory. They were familiar with the powerful image of a long-awaited king entering Jerusalem on a donkey. In their minds, riding a donkey wasn’t just transportation for Jesus; it was a declaration of royalty, a sign of kingship.

Knowing this, you see that Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem was no ordinary parade—it was a bold, political act. A deliberate and dangerous protest against the Roman Empire, it mocked imperial power and declared, “This is what God’s kingdom looks like. This is how the God’s kingdom comes.”

Make no mistake—Jesus’ procession wasn’t sentimental. It was subversive. Not soft, but strong in the way only love can be. Not armed with weapons, but thunderous with hope.

On that first Palm Sunday, two parades marched. Two visions of power. Two invitations. And every day, we get to choose which parade we are in.

III.

Theologian David Fredrickson asks: What if Jesus isn’t defined by the word “Lord,” but instead redefines what it means to be Lord or King?

Even a powerful word like “Lord” is transformed by Jesus—his life and death reshape it so completely that he becomes its meaning. Jesus is the servant King—the self-emptying Lord.

The Apostle Paul reiterates this in Philippians: “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus who, though he existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, assuming human likeness. And being found in appearance as a human, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross.” (Philippians 2:5-8) 

In the week that follows this parade, we will see what that mind looks like:

• As Jesus kneels to wash his disciples’ feet.
• As he breaks bread with those who will betray and abandon him.
• As he heals the ear of a wounded enemy.
• As he forgives those who crucify him.
• As he promises paradise to the criminal dying next to him.

In his final days, Jesus the King borrowed a donkey, washed dirty feet, ate with misfits, forgave enemies, and went to the Cross because of His love for humanity. This is what divine kingship looks like. This is what love looks like.

Luke tells us that as Jesus approached the Mount of Olives, the disciples began to praise God joyfully in loud voices. Quoting Psalm 118, they shouted, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!”

It’s a beautiful moment, but it’s also a dangerous one. These shouts for salvation come from a people desiring liberation from Rome. The Jewish people have waved palm branches a generation before in victory over their oppressors, and they are ready to do it again. They are saying something significant to Jesus. They are saying, "Rescue us and do it like it’s been done before." They don’t understand yet that Jesus rescues us in ways we often don’t understand … through the surprising and apparent powerlessness of the cross.

The cries to be saved won’t sit well with the procession coming in from the West. His town isn’t big enough for two vastly different kings and kingdoms.

The Pharisees tell Jesus to quiet his disciples. But Jesus says: “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.” (Luke 19:40). In other words, you can’t stop this. Everything is in motion. You can’t silence love when it’s marching toward justice. You can’t mute the music of liberation. The very ground will join the chorus.

This is not a parade for spectators. It is a movement, a calling, an invitation. Everyone is invited to join in.

IV.

Bob Goff knows how to love big and bold. One of my favorite stories is about how he loved his neighbor, Carol. She wasn’t just a neighbor—she was like family, chosen by the Goffs when they sold her their house and moved across the street. Carol invested in the Goff kids, even sitting with the family on the front row at their weddings.

One day, Carol called Bob and said three words no one wants to hear or say: “I have cancer.” Bob wanted her to know she wasn’t alone. He also wanted their connection to remain light and joyful, so he bought her a set of walkie-talkies. Like kids, they chatted throughout the day—sometimes late into the night.

During one of those conversations, Bob asked if she had any unfulfilled wishes. After a long pause and a bit of static, Carol finally said, “I’ve never toilet-papered a house.”

Usually a rule-follower, Bob didn’t hesitate. A few days later, in broad daylight, the two—disguised and giggling—snuck across the street with arms full of toilet paper. Carol held Bob’s arm for balance as they decorated a neighbor’s trees, laughing like kids.

Then the police showed up. Bob played the cancer card, and they were let off with a kind-hearted warning. Carol had the time of her life.

It was a whimsical, beautiful—if slightly illegal—gift from a friend who loved her well.

And it wasn’t the last.

Years earlier, Carol had been the neighborhood parade queen—known and loved by all. But this year, she was too weak to leave her bed, let alone join the celebration.

As the sounds of the parade neared her home, Carol was surprised to hear Bob’s voice in the foyer. With permission from the nursing staff, Bob, his two sons, and his son-in-law gently lifted their fragile neighbor and carried her to a chair by the front window.

What Carol didn’t know was that the parade wasn’t just passing her house—it was ending there.

Hundreds of neighbors walked up the street and down her path, each offering love and gratitude. Some brought flowers or balloons; others carried cards. One by one, over 500 people pressed their noses to the glass, waved, and told Carol—through smiles, tears, and gestures—that her life mattered and she would not be forgotten.

From her makeshift throne, the former parade queen blew kisses through tears.

Two days later, Jesus welcomed her home—to her second parade that week, said Bob.

Bob’s parade may seem small next to Rome’s grand processions from the east and wet, but it looks a lot more like Jesus’ than Pilate’s. That’s the kind of parade Jesus leads. One where love goes out of its way to include. Where the route always shifts toward the hurting. Where nobody watches from the sidelines. That is the kingdom of God.

And that kind of love—when it multiplies—can change a neighborhood, a city, even the world.

V

Palm Sunday isn’t just about waving branches—it’s about making a choice at the crossroads.

Which parade will you join?
 Will you follow the spectacle of power and domination—or the humble procession of peace?
 Will you walk with the empire of fear—or march with the kingdom of love?

Jesus still leads a parade of love into the heart of injustice—because love always leads to justice. That’s the kind of king he is. And that’s the kingdom we’re called to build—not with clenched fists, but with open hands. Not with silence born of fear, but with songs full of hope. Not by silencing the crowd, but by raising our voices in chorus.

So, this week, wave your palm branches—not just in worship, but in witness. In protest. In participation. Because this is not a spectator faith.

Let us walk the parade route of love—following Jesus not just into the city, but all the way to the cross. Let’s be the ones who carry the weary. The ones who shift the route so no one gets left behind. The ones who say, “Everybody’s in.”

This is the parade that brings glory to God and good to the world. Amen.

Melissa Hatfield © 2025

All scripture quoted is from the NRSVUE unless otherwise noted.