The Buddhist nun, Pema Chödrön tells the story of a woman being chased by tigers. She gets to the edge of a cliff as the tigers close in on her. She looks over the cliff and luckily discovers a vine with which to climb down. As she’s descending away from the tigers, she looks down and notices that on the ground below, more tigers pace back and forth.
Gates open and the procession begins. Thousands line the street, throwing flowers and laurels, waving madly, reaching to touch power as it passes them. Security guards watch the crowd for dissidents, agitators, and zealots, intent on doing harm. The man coming through the gate sits tall in the saddle, looking every bit the champion he is meant to be. A mantle of authority rests easily on his shoulders as he climbs higher to the center of the city, taking his rightful place as lord protector of this people. While this sounds like a political rally from our prolonged and protracted presidential season, the parade I describe took place two thousand years ago in Jerusalem on Palm Sunday.No – not that parade – not Jesus’ triumphal entry. The other one – the triumphal entry of Pontius Pilate into Jerusalem.