Pop Punk and Palm Parades: A Sermon for Palm Sunday, April 10, 2022
Image: Neo-Punk Jesus by Marco Almera
Jesus went toward Jerusalem.
When he had come near Bethphage and Bethany,
at the place called the Mount of Olives,
he sent two of the disciples,
saying, “Go into the village ahead of you,
and as you enter it
you will find tied there a colt
that has never been ridden.
Untie it and bring it here.
If anyone asks you,
‘Why are you untying it?’ just say this,
‘The Lord needs it.’ ”
So those who were sent departed
and found it as he had told them.
As they were untying the colt,
its owners asked them,
“Why are you untying the colt?”
They said,
“The Lord needs it.”
Then they brought it to Jesus;
and after throwing their cloaks on the colt,
they set Jesus on it.
As he rode along,
people kept spreading their cloaks on the road.
As he was now approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives,
the whole multitude of the disciples
began to praise God joyfully
with a loud voice
for all the deeds of power that they had seen,
saying,
“Blessed is the one
who comes in the name of the Lord!
Peace in heaven,
and glory in the highest heaven!”
Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him,
“Teacher, order your disciples to stop.”
He answered,
“I tell you, if these were silent,
the stones would shout out.”
- Luke 19
+++
“Blessed is the one
who comes in the name of the Lord!
Peace in heaven,
and glory in the highest heaven!”
I think that this song, sung with joy and hope at the top of the people’s lungs, was beautiful.
And that it was beautiful to them.
And
I think
to everybody else
that it sounded horrible.
I think
to everybody else
that it sounded like
nonsense and static and noise.
+++
It’s February.
1994.
I’m 13 years old.
And I’m in my mom’s
red
Chevy
minivan,
which is parked in the
small
sort of “secret”
back parking lot
of our tiny rural church,
[while my mom runs inside for some Sunday School supplies].
To my right is the church cemetery.
To my front is the entrance to the semi-exposed basement
that is the fellowship hall of the church.
And to my left is the parsonage.
Everything else… all around…
is corn.
+++
It’s 1994.
So we don’t have
cellphones.
Or cellphone addictions.
Yet.
So, instead, I’m fiddling with the radio,
as I often do–
searching for something on the dial
that might sort of settle
my teenage soul.
Rock. R&B. Oldies. Country. Soul. Whatever.
It was all good.
All
beautiful.
But, still, at 13, I’m searching.
Searching for something more.
For something that speaks directly to me.
But
on this particular day
though I am searching,
I am also tired.
So, for a moment, I stop.
I stop searching.
And I just leave the radio on.
I lean back in the seat.
And I let the DJ play whatever they thought
I should hear.
[Pause]
And then,
as I stop searching,
as I’m nodding off in the minivan
warmed through the window by the winter sun.
It happens. It arrives.
Waiting in the car for my mom.
In the parking lot of the church.
An amazing sound I’ve never heard before.
A new song.
A brand new song.
And, hearing it,
hearing this new song,
I’m
mesmerized.
I turn all of the knobs up–as far as they’ll go.
I close my eyes.
And
in a moment,
I feel liberated.
The soundwaves all around me
infiltrating my ears
and opening my mind
to
a new way of perceiving
and a new way of being
in the world.
All at once.
There it was.
It arrived.
+++
So…
in the time and place where I was growing up,
and in the public schools that I was attending,
music was
incredibly
important.
It was important because
music
wasn’t
just
music.
It was more than that.
Music was a culture.
Music was a way of dressing.
Music was a way (even) of perceiving the world.
Music could be a lens.
And:
as a teenager,
the music you liked
would a lot of times determine
the people you hung out with.
Or:
sometimes, it was the other way around:
sometimes the people you hung out with
would sort of dictate the kind of music you listened to–
at least
when you were together,
in public.
That is:
music wasn’t just music.
But, rather:
music had to do with belonging.
And with human connection.
Music was your tribe.
And music had to do with
who we,
as teenagers
and young people,
were becoming.
Music was more than music.
It shaped us and formed us
and connected us
on our way.
It shaped even who we’ve become to this day.
+++
[Now: I give you full permission to laugh at me, depending upon your own musical taste, or to look at me with glazed-over eyes if you have no idea who I’m talking about, but bear with me, regardless:]
The song, that February of 1994,
played on Milwaukee’s New Rock 102.1
was a song called “Basket Case.”
And it was written
by a band
called Green Day
for their album
called Dookie,
an album that is credited (among others)
for introducing a genre of music called pop-punk
to folks like me–
folks who were teenagers and pre-teens
in the midwest of the US
in the early 1990s.
+++
And, as we’ve established: music, for us, was important.
And so punk rock was important, too.
Very important.
Punk was important because it offered
(in the form of popular music that was accessible and on the radio)
an alternative to youth who didn’t seem to fit in.
You see:
the athletes had X kind of music.
And the farm kids clearly had Y kind of music.
And the kids who shopped at the mall and who wore designer clothing had Z kind of music (as well as A, B, and C).
But (to our knowledge) there wasn’t really fully any
“other”
kind of music
that we as teenagers knew of.
Nothing we had access to.
Nothing that would galvanize the
“other” kids
the ones who didn’t fit it,
the ones who were left out or put down.
Those who dwelled at the margins
of the middle school hallways,
and those who felt somewhat lost in the world.
Without a style.
Without a tribe.
And without a song.
Those without a place to really belong.
+++
But,
then,
here it was:
This re-birth
of punk.
Of “pop-punk.”
Here it was.
On the radio!
It had arrived.
For us.
This,
this music that was more than just music.
This
was the thing
that we’d been waiting for.
+++
Almost overnight
there was spiked hair
and thick glasses.
There were torn jeans
and big shoes.
Almost overnight,
we were all transformed:
We had gained a new identity,
a new sensibility.
Almost overnight,
we were all in our own amazing bands, [<-sarcasm]
working very hard
with every free minute we had,
after school, between classes, on the weekends,
to intentionally
create
and curate
spaces of belonging–
passing out flyers
to the uncool kids
and to the losers,
we found in the hallways,
intentionally
inviting
the misfits and castaways
in.
Into this new culture.
Into this new way of sounding.
And thinking.
And being.
Into a new place.
A new people.
A new scene.
A space that, while it lasted,
was our sanctuary.
And our home.
A place where we welcomed
all who wished to come into a world
where nerds reigned.
And a world where
weirdos and misfits
were the norm.
And where they (where we!) held the microphone and wrote the songs.
+++
For us, this was more than music. And more than punk.
For us, this was Paradise.
+++
And yet,
to everybody else, (it seemed)
to those who already had a place to belong,
a song to sing,
a dance to dance,
it all sounded
terrible.
And also:
It looked weird.
It smelled weird.
The whole thing was something
folks wanted to avoid.
To everybody else
this stuff sounded like
nonsense.
“I can’t even understand the words,” they’d say.
“It just sounds like static!”
“It just sounds like noise!”
Neighbors would call the cops on teenagers for practicing in their garage!
+++
But
That’s because
they didn’t know.
They didn’t know.
They didn’t understand.
They didn’t understand that what they experienced as static,
we experienced as something of the Reign of Love.
+++
“The last shall be first.”
“The hungry shall be fed.”
“The tyrants shall be torn down from their thrones.”
These words, at the center of Jesus’ message,
(repeated and demonstrated in Jesus’ life and teachings again and again)
certainly sounded transgressive and harsh
to the powerful
and to privileged
of Jesus’ day.
And to those who literally sat on thrones.
Indeed, if Jesus' words were a song
the powerful, upon hearing, would say, something like:
“Turn that *stuff* off!”
“Those words are non-sensical.”
“That’s nothing but static and stench and noise.”
Indeed those in power
did hate Jesus’ scene
so much
that they would try to silence him–both by calling the police on him–
and (ultimately)
killing him, murdering him
in hopes that they would destroy the community that he was creating.
A beloved community of left-outs and of losers.
Of peacemakers and poor people
of people who were pressed down and twisted up by the empire and by the economy in which they lived:
People who were discarded by society
and who were looking for a place,
for a community–for even an event or for a moment–
where they could eat and where they could celebrate
and where they could belong.
+++
Hosanna! They screamed at the top of their lungs.
A song that was beautiful to them.
Hosanna!
A song of praise that means “Save us, please!”
Hosanna!
A song they sang because the world, in Jesus’ presence–in the presence of their savior, their healer, the Son of God–
seemed to be becoming a bit more palatable,
less painful,
more delivered and more healed and safer and saved.
Hosanna!
They screamed and chanted and danced and celebrated in the streets!
Hosanna!
At the top of their lungs.
Save us God! Deliver us!
The last shall be first. The hungry shall be fed.
The tyrants shall be torn from their thrones!
Hosanna!
Save us, O God.
They sang and danced and they sang some more.
And to them, it was beautiful.
And for them it was joyful.
And for them:
it was good.
And singing it together, they were healed.
And singing it together,
in the streets,
they found a place, a community–a moment–
where
they held the mic,
where they sang together (all of them!)
and a place
at last
where they belonged.
No doubt, this moment, this Palm Sunday,
for them, was a sweet taste of God’s Reign of Love.
No doubt it was a foretaste of that Feast
that is yet
to come.
+++
And (honestly)
to everybody else,
to those who already had a place to be,
a song to sing,
a dance to dance,
to those with power and privilege, and rigid,
unchanging exclusive, inflexible “oughts,”
all of it sounded
terrible.
It looked weird.
And it smelled weird.
And the whole scene was something
they wanted to avoid.
To everybody else
this stuff sounded like
nonsense.
“It’s just static!”
“I can’t understand the words,”
“What is this noise?”
“Make it stop,” they’d yell.
“Call the cops!”
And, ultimately:
“Crucify.”
“Crucify.”
“Crucify!”
The Reign of God was at hand.
So close you could touch it.
And the powerful just wouldn’t have it.
And the powerful just wouldn’t have it taking up their air waves and taking up their space.
+++
“Blessed is the one
who comes in the name of the Lord!
Peace in heaven,
and glory in the highest heaven!”
The last shall be first.
The hungry shall be fed.
The tyrants shall be torn from every throne.
I think that this song, sung with joy and hope at the top of the people’s lungs, was beautiful.
And that it was beautiful to them.
And that it is beautiful to us.
Even if sounds horrible to others.
Even if, to others, this song, this hope, this dream, this belief, sounds like nonsense and noise.
Whatever others think,
we, people of faith, we followers of Jesus,
we sing it anyway.
We build community around it.
We curate a scene.
We invite others in.
We seek out those who are too often uninvited, excluded, persecuted, and marginalized–by the Church or by the society in which we live.
And we build among ourselves something of a taste,
a foretaste,
a whiff
a wondering,
a pre-sentiment, a moment
of God’s beautiful and God’s eternal and God’s everlasting Reign
of justice
and
of Love.
+++
Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest!
May it be so.
+++
Amen.
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