It was a Sunday in spring, the beginning of the most sacred week of the year, and two processions were entering the capital city. One, entering from the west, was a military procession, a march, a show of force. An army of occupation, its presence in the city that day was a warning to all that any attempts to take advantage of the hubbub of the holy days by striking a blow against the empire would be met with full military power. Rumor had it that there were hotheads in the city—rebels, insurgents—who needed no encouragement to rise up against the occupying forces, just as they’d done from time to time throughout the years.
From the east came a second procession, a much smaller one. No army, just a ragtag crowd of peasants following a 33-year-old man on a donkey. A Jewish teacher and healer (some would say a prophet), he came in peace, and he came to show that God’s law, the law of love, was greater than that of the empire. He entered the city to cheers from the populace, who spread their cloaks on the ground before him. In five days he would be dead, executed by the occupying forces in collusion with the local religious authorities, who owed their position and status to the military and political leadership. Throughout the centuries, prophets had railed against religious authorities who colluded with and benefited from unjust political leadership, but their voices were seldom heard then, just as they are ignored today.
The man’s death would not be the end of the story, of course. Another Sunday would come, and with it the possibility of resurrection to new life, a life not of power and might but of love and peace. It is a possibility not for a single day but for all time, a possibility not for a single people but for all nations and races and faiths. It is a possibility that stands before us like a fork in a road—two processions through the city, two pathways through life, one the path of domination and division, the other of peace and community.
Two pathways—two choices—spreading out before us today and always.