Today is Easter Sunday, the day we celebrate that Jesus came to us. We celebrate is life. We celebrate his death. And we celebrate that his tomb became empty. We celebrate that he rose again. And that in the end is the whole point of Easter. Seyla.
Two thousand years ago, Jesus went to Jerusalem to celebrate Passover. He traveled to the Temple where a market reigned in the middle of the temple, selling offerings to Jews who came from far and wide. Jesus called them thieves, grabbed a whip, and drove them from the temple. He called the priests that supported this corrupt and faithless. This they could not forgive. This dirty carpenter from nowhere had dared to come into their city and called them corrupt. Liars. Morally bankrupt. They could not allow that to stand. They wanted to crucify him. Literally. And then they had the Romans place guards at the tomb to keep his disciples from pulling any mischief with the body. They did not want an empty tomb for stories to be made of. They wanted the name of Jesus stricken from history and his followers forever shunned and ruined. They did not get what they wanted.
Two thousand years ago, the leaders of Jerusalem arrested Jesus for numerous and sundry crimes against the people, the priests, and their God. They sent him to the Romans for justice and demanded that they crucify him. They filled the crowds with people paid to call for his head, and they watched the Romans whip him up and down the streets. They watched as he carried the cross he was to be executed on until even his toned, carpenter’s body was no longer able to carry it, and another was dragged from the crowd to take it the rest of the way to Golgotha. There they hammered stakes through his wrists and feet to pin him to the cross. There they lifted the cross and dropped it into a hole with him hanging from it. There they pierced his side with a spear. The ground quaked and day turned to night for three hours. It was the day that Jesus died.
Two thousand years ago, a Jewish preacher named Jesus celebrated the Passover with the disciples he had taught for three years. They were his friends. His closest confidants. Brothers and sisters who had followed him all over Israel. He washed their feet, as a servant would for a master. He said that one of them would betray him. That even the fiercest of them would deny him in the following days. He told them to break bread and drink wine in remembrance of him and his covenant with them. Two thousand years later, that Communion is still observed all over the world. Every month, every week, someone is breaking bread (or some bread-like substance) and drinking wine (or juice or something akin to it) in remembrance of Jesus and the New Covenant he established with us.
Two thousand years ago, a Jew went to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover. He was a teacher that many listened to, riding into the city on a lowly donkey. But people placed their clothes on the ground before him as if he was a conquering king. They cut palm leaves off and cleaned the streets. They called on him to save them from centuries of Roman oppression. And the leaders of Jerusalem looked on at what the country bumpkins were up to and sneered. This was no king. He was a stupid hick preacher from a small town in the middle of nowhere. Nothing good came from there, let alone this idiot with delusions of grandeur. They would not let this… Jesus… do anything important while he was here. They did not know that Palm Sunday would still be celebrated all over the world two thousand years later.
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