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A Palm Sunday Peace Parade
And a Personal Pilgrimage
Luke 19:41-44; 23:32-34, 46
Richard A. Rhem
Unity Church on the Lakeshore
Douglas, Michigan
Palm Sunday, March 28, 2010
Prepared Text of Sermon
It was last fall when I received a call from Jan Weren inviting me to preach here
at Unity Church on the Lakeshore. She was lining up Sunday speakers for the first
quarter of 2010 and, having just begun, I had the whole period from which to
choose a Sunday. I chose the last Sunday of the quarter, not to put it off as far as
possible but, rather, because I saw that March 28, today, was Palm Sunday and
Palm Sunday is my favorite Sunday to preach.
I’ve come to recognize that in retrospect – one of the luxuries of retirement,
which for me was June, 2004, is that one can reflect on the way one has come. I
have been aware of my being gripped year after year by the Palm Sunday arrival
of Jesus in Jerusalem. Luke narrates much of his story of Jesus as a journey to
Jerusalem. In 9:51 we read that Jesus set his face as a flint to go to Jerusalem.
And it is particularly Luke’s account that moves me. Matthew, following Mark,
makes it the triumphal entry of the king with tinges of nationalism which would
be perceived as a threat to peace and order – and indeed there were many who
would have loved it to be so. But Luke and John are clear – this is no display of
nationalistic fervor – this is a Peace Parade. Not a war-horse but a donkey, an
animal bespeaking humility. Not a military band but the voices of children.
And Luke’s portrayal of Jesus on the crest of the Mount of Olives, surveying the
city and weeping, moves me greatly. Luke’s portrait of Jesus was written over a
half century after the events. By the time he wrote, the Temple at Jerusalem was
an ash heap and the city no longer the center of Jewish faith nor of the Jewish
Jesus movement.
Thus, the words he puts in Jesus’ mouth as he overlooks the city from the Mount
of Olives are not prediction but description of the actual situation when Luke
wrote. But the core of Luke’s story, as well as that of the other Gospels, is most
certainly true; Jesus came to Jerusalem. In the Synoptics he came only once; in
John, three times. In any case, Luke, after the birth narratives, the Galilean
ministry, puts Jesus on the way to Jerusalem (9:51). The crisis will build until it
spills over in his tears; he weeps for the City. He needed not to be a predictor of
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future events; any sensitive, insightful person might have known catastrophe was
around the corner. In spite of his sense of the inevitable disaster, he entered the
City and went to the heart of the religious, spiritual life of his people – the
Temple.
His coming was peaceful. Luke and John present it as such, using the images
found in Zechariah 9:9-10 of humility, peacefulness, non-apocalyptic, nonpolitical. Jesus acted out symbolically his non-violent protest – he negated the
Temple and all it stood for. It had become a den of thieves. The politics of
domination and the economics of injustice were all tied up with the Temple as
symbolic center, and Jesus’ symbolic action was the climax of his non-violent
protest in the name of the God of justice.
It was a dangerous, subversive action, for it called in question the legitimacy of
the whole structural, religious, political, economic life of the Jewish nation under
Roman imperial domination. For this action he was executed as a threat to the
safety of the State.
So, there Jesus is on the crest of Olivet overlooking the city – weeping, “O
Jerusalem, if only you were able to recognize the things that make for peace …
but they are hid from your eyes. Devastation approaches, for your violence in
response to Roman violence will bring on greater violence and you will finally be
destroyed, the Temple a charred ruin.”
Going back over the last two decades of my ministry I discovered I had preached
seventeen times on Palm Sunday and on seven of those seventeen I had used the
passage from Luke. And even more significant for me, two of those seven were
pivotal moments in my own understanding of Jesus, of the way of Jesus –
indeed, of Christian faith itself. Two past Palm Sundays represent moments of
epiphany, or perhaps more accurately, having experienced epiphanic moments as
I wrestled with the message, I made, for me, fresh expression of the Gospel.
It was Palm Sunday, April 15, 1984, that I preached on the subject, “Jesus, You
Are Really Something!” I remember it well; it was a moment of discovery. While
studying in The Netherlands in the late 1960’s I had purchased Dietrich
Bonhoeffer’s Letters and Papers from Prison. In the days of heavy theological
reading, Bonhoeffer’s little volume sustained me spiritually as he recorded his
prison experience, which was the consequence of being a part of a group that
sought to assassinate Hitler. Hitler ordered Bonhoeffer’s death in May, 1945, as
the U.S. forces were closing in on the prison camp in southern Germany.
On Palm Sunday, 1984, I confessed to my people a discovery – that the life of
Bonhoeffer moved me more than the life of Jesus. This is what I said then:
Jesus has no doubt been the greatest inspirer of human faith and life in the
whole of human history. I have been reflecting on why his life has not been
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more powerful for me. I think I understand why Bonhoeffer moved me
more – or so it seems. I think it is because Bonhoeffer was of our time. He
seems more human – more one of us. He took on Hitler – not the Jewish
High Priest or the Roman Emperor. He was a man – just a man. But Jesus
was something else.
The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that the Church in her
theological discussion has removed Jesus – the real, historical, human
figure – from me. Yet the more I penetrate through the theological haze
surrounding him, the more I see him for what he was, the more
overwhelmed I am at the grandeur of his life, the more I am moved by his
faith and commitment, the more I love him and want to be like him. It is a
paradox; the more I see him in his full humanity, the more I am inclined to
bow in worship before him….
Of course we cannot get back into the skin of those first Palm Sunday
pilgrims. We cannot divest ourselves of centuries of theological discussion
and church doctrine. Yet sometimes someone catches a glimmer of what it
might have been like. For example, in the rock opera, Jesus Christ
Superstar, which some Christians picketed and of which many more
disapproved, I personally think I see something of the power and the
impact of that truly human existence. Mary Magdalene’s solo has always
struck me – even moved me. Listen to the words:
I don’t know how to love him, what to do – how to move him.
I’ve been changed – yes, really changed in these past few days
When I have seen myself.
I seem like someone else. I don’t know how to take this.
I don’t see why he moves me. He’s a man. He’s just a man.
I’ve had so many men before in many ways, he’s just one more.
Should I bring him down? Should I scream and shout?
Should I speak of love, let my feelings out?
I never thought I’d come to this. What’s it all about?
Don’t you think it’s rather funny I should be in this position?
I’m the one who has always been so calm, so cool, no lover’s fool…
He scares me so. I never thought I’d come to this.
What’s it all about?
Yet, if he said he loved me, I’d be lost, I’d be frightened.
I couldn’t cope, I just couldn’t cope. I’d turn my head,
I’d back away. I wouldn’t want to know. He scares me so.
I want him so. I love him so.
Whether true to the real feelings of Mary Magdalene or not, something of
the confusion, the adoration and yet the drawing back in wonder must
have been true of Jesus’ contemporaries. To meet him was to be changed
by him. His power was not the power of coercion, but the power of grace;
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not the overwhelming of pomp, but the weight of truth, of authenticity, of
humility; it was the power of a person in whom God became transparent.
That was Palm Sunday, 1984. Something very deep was going on in my being –
Jesus, the human being, and the way of Jesus as the way of non-violent
resistance, the way of peace was gripping me. I knew well enough the history of
those early centuries of the Christian era. I knew of the intertwining of the
Constantinean establishment of the Church, emperors calling church councils,
and elevation of the man Jesus to the supernatural status of Son of God, second
member of the Trinity. Jesus’ humanity was never denied. Indeed, in 451 C.E.,
the concise formula was rendered – Jesus, true God and true man. But I think my
experience was not rare – the human Jesus got swallowed up by the Divine being.
But for me, the man Jesus was emerging as the one I wanted to follow and in the
ensuing decade became the one who more and more found expression in my
preaching.
The second significant pivot point in my own understanding of Christian faith
came to expression on Palm Sunday, 1993. Again from Luke 19, my sermon title
was “Jesus Died Because of Our Sins, Not For Our Sins.” This was a radical move
because in making that claim, I was really denying the whole structure of
atonement theology. In fact, I stood it on its head. I was beginning to see Jesus in
the great tradition of Israel’s prophets and thus his concern for the very real
historical context of his life – Roman imperial domination with establishment
Judaism’s collaboration, oppressing the poor on the one hand and the
revolutionary elements, the Zealots, plotting insurrection against Rome on the
other. Jesus spoke truth to power. The common people heard him gladly. The
authorities of religion and politics saw him as a threat to order – one that needed
to be silenced. On that Palm Sunday, 1994, I said,
Two thousand years ago, Jesus said, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem.” Was not his
point that there is only one way to deal with that which is so endemic to
the human situation that spews violence and spawns response in violence?
That is the way of sacrificial love – turning the other cheek; loving the
enemy; embracing the one who despitefully uses me. Of course, you can’t
run a world that way. But my point is, you see, God’s problem is not that
God cannot forgive me. God’s problem is that God doesn’t seem to be able
to change me. Jesus didn’t die so that I could have the sentence removed
and I could have a passport to heaven. I mean, wouldn’t that be wonderful!
I could say, “Yes, I believe. I’ll take that ticket. Thank you very much,” and
remain unchanged. We have this neat theological system of Christian
doctrine where the problem is our sin and the solution is Jesus’ death. Sin
is removed, guilt is removed, and there is openness to God.
Yet the world continues to be on the brink of exploding because in the
human heart there is never any significant transformation. Not in my
heart. And not in the hearts of the Muslim fanatics, and the Jewish
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Orthodox, and the Christian fundamentalists. The problem is not that God
can’t forgive my sin. The problem is God can’t break through to me. But,
don’t you see, the word repentance comes from the Greek word metanoia,
which means to change one’s thinking? The problem with the world is not
that God can’t forgive the world of sin. The problem is that the world’s
thinking will not change. We egg each other on, and we escalate the
violence. We raise the stakes and nothing changes!
The die was cast; my focus had moved from Jesus as the Divine Interloper who
came to be a sacrifice for the sin of the world to Jesus, the fully human being who
came to challenge the human structures of domination, political, religious, social
– the Jesus whose non-violent resistance spoke truth to power. One Lenten
season I taught my people a mantra which occasionally is repeated to me:
He died the way he died because he lived the way he lived.
In the last decade of my ministry it was issues of social justice and peace that
occupied me. Happenings in the nation, the political scene and international
relations became the arenas in which I applied the way of Jesus as I understood
it. I was greatly energized but, to be honest, I have often despaired, because it
seems violence, conflict and war are ever present. And, to be honest, I have
despaired of the imperial designs of our own nation.
There is a recent book by the journalist James Carroll whose title says it all – The
House of War – the Pentagon and the Disastrous Rise of American Power. It is a
history of the last seven decades, the history, thus,from the Second World War to
the present. Generations of good and decent persons have led our nation,
genuinely wanting peace, and we have carried a heavy burden of liberating people
and ensuring peace.
But that is only one side of the story. James Carroll documents the disastrous rise
of American power. Through historical circumstances we have evolved into a
powerful nation with a military that has become the shaping force of American
policy. We are a military state upon which depends our economy, our industry,
even our great research universities.
In Carroll’s telling of the history through which I’ve lived, it is clear that, had our
leaders the mind of Jesus, there would have been no Cold War with Russia and
again, had the Way of Jesus informed our leadership following the end of the
Cold War, there would be no problem of nuclear proliferation today. Thank God
our nation and Russia have just agreed on a significant reduction of nuclear arms.
But they could have been banished at the Cold War’s end.
Lest I leave you in too dark a mood on this Palm Sunday, let me speak of a
relatively new understanding of our human nature and the whole cosmic dance
into which our lives are caught up.
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Did you watch the recent Winter Olympics in Vancouver? If you did, is there one
moment in particular that stands out for you? For me it was the moment when
Joannie Brochere, the Canadian figure skater, finished her first program – a
brilliant performance and, at its completion, burst into tears. Her parents had
come to Vancouver to support her bid for an Olympic medal. A day after arriving,
her mother died of a heart attack. It was decided Joannie would skate
nevertheless. She did. She did it beautifully – for her mother – and then burst
into tears. I think there was not a dry eye in the Olympic stadium nor anywhere
in the world where people were watching. The TV commentator Scott Hamilton’s
voice cracked with emotion. In those moments the world was one, united in
empathic embrace of that young woman.
I use that phrase “empathic embrace” because at the time of this event I was
reading a book by Jeremy Rifkin entitled The Empathic Civilization, (Penguin
Group, 2009). He opens chapter one with an account of December 24, 1914, in
Flanders, Belgium:
“The evening of December 24, 1914, Flanders. The first world war in
history was entering into its fifth month. Millions of soldiers were bedded
down in makeshift trenches latticed across the European countryside. In
many places the opposing armies were dug in within thirty to fifty yards of
each other and within shouting distance. The conditions were hellish. The
bitter-cold winter air chilled to the bone. The trenches were waterlogged.
Soldiers shared their quarters with rats and vermin. Lacking adequate
latrines, the stench of human excrement was everywhere. The men slept
upright to avoid the muck and sludge of their makeshift arrangements.
Dead soldiers littered the no-man’s-land between opposing forces, the
bodies left to rot and decompose within yards of their still-living comrades
who were unable to collect them for burial.
As dusk fell over the battlefields, something extraordinary happened. The
Germans began lighting candles on the thousands of small Christmas trees
that had been sent to the front to lend some comfort to the men. The
German soldiers then began to sing Christmas carols – first “Silent Night,”
then a stream of other songs followed. The English soldiers were stunned.
One soldier, gazing in disbelief at the enemy lines, said the blazed trenches
looked “like the footlights of a theater.” The English soldiers responded
with applause, at first tentatively, then with exuberance. They began to
sing Christmas carols back to their German foes to equally robust
applause.
A few men from both sides crawled out of their trenches and began to walk
across the no-man’s-land toward each other. Soon hundreds followed. As
word spread across the front, thousands of men poured out of their
trenches. They shook hands, exchanged cigarettes and cakes and showed
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photos of their families. They talked about where they hailed from,
reminisced about Christmases past, and joked about the absurdity of war.
The next morning, as the Christmas sun rose over the battlefield of
Europe, tens of thousands of men – some estimates put the number as
high as 100,000 soldiers – talked quietly with one another. Enemies just
twenty-four hours earlier, they found themselves helping each other bury
their dead comrades. More than a few pickup soccer matches were
reported. Even officers at the front participated, although when the news
filtered back to the high command in the rear,, the generals took a less
enthusiastic view of the affair. Worried that the truce might undermine
military morale, the generals quickly took measures to rein in their troops.
The surreal “Christmas truce” ended as abruptly as it began – all in all, a
small blip in a war that would end in November 1918 with 8.5 million
military deaths in the greatest episode of human carnage in the annals of
history until that time. For a few short hours, no more than a day, tens of
thousands of human beings broke ranks, not only from their commands
but from their allegiances to country, to show their common humanity.
Thrown together to maim and kill, they courageously stepped outside of
their institutional duties to commiserate with one another and to celebrate
each other’s lives.
While the battlefield is supposed to be a place where heroism is measured
in one’s willingness to kill and die for a noble cause that transcends one’s
everyday life, these men chose a different type of courage. They reached
out to each other’s very private suffering and sought solace in each other’s
plight. Walking across no-man’s-land, they found themselves in one
another. The strength to comfort each other flowed from a deep unspoken
sense of their individual vulnerability and their unrequited desire for the
companionship of their fellows.
It was, without reserve, a very human moment. Still, it was reported as a
strange lapse at the time. A century later, we commemorate the episode as
a nostalgic interlude in a world we have come to define in very different
terms.”
But was it a lapse or was it an epiphany moment when what is deepest in our
human nature came to expression in a most remarkable fashion?
“Yet what transpired in the battlefields of Flanders on Christmas Eve 1914
between tens of thousands of young men had nothing to do with original
sin or productive labor. And the pleasure those men sought in each other’s
company bore little resemblance to the superficial rendering of pleasure
offered up by nineteenth-century utilitarians and even less to Freud’s
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rather pathological account of a human race preoccupied by the erotic
impulse.
The men at Flanders expressed a far deeper human sensibility – one that
emanates from the very marrow of human existence and that transcends
the portals of time and the exigencies of whatever contemporary
orthodoxy happens to rule. We need only ask ourselves why we feel so
heartened at what these men did. They chose to be human. And the central
human quality they expressed was empathy for one another.”
Thus Rifkin begins an extensive portrayal of the empathetic core of human
nature, the recognition of which is a relatively recent discovery and calls in
question the traditional understanding of human nature. He points out that the
official chroniclers of the human story – the historians – “have given short shrift
to empathy as a driving force in the unfolding of human history. They write about
social conflicts and wars, heroes and evil wrongdoers, technological progress and
the exercise of power.” Only rarely is the other side of the human experience
covered – the side that speaks of our deeply social nature and the evolution and
extension of human affection. Rifkin continues:
History, on the other hand, is more often than not made by the disgruntled
and discontented, the angry and rebellious – those interested in exercising
authority and exploiting others and their victims, interested in righting
wrongs and restoring justice. By this reckoning, much of the history that is
written is about the pathology of power.
Perhaps that is why, when we come to think about human nature, we have
such a bleak analysis. Our collective memory is measured in terms of
crises and calamities, harrowing injustices, and terrifying episodes of
brutality inflicted on each other and our fellow creatures. But if these were
the defining elements of human experience, we would have perished as a
species long ago.
All of which raises the question, “Why have we come to think of life in such
dire terms?” The answer is that tales of misdeeds and woe surprise us.
They are unexpected and, therefore, trigger alarm and heighten our
interest. That is because such events are novel and not the norm, but they
are newsworthy and for that reason they are the stuff of history.
The everyday world is quite different. Although life as it’s lived on the
ground, close to home, is peppered with suffering, stresses, injustices, and
foul play, it is, for the most part, lived out in hundreds of small acts of
kindness and generosity. Comfort and compassion between people creates
goodwill, establishes the bonds of sociality, and gives joy to people’s lives.
Much of our daily interaction with our fellow human beings is empathic
because that is our core nature. Empathy is the very means by which we
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create social life and advance civilization. In short, it is the extraordinary
evolution of empathic consciousness that is the quintessential underlying
story of human history, even if it has not been given the serious attention it
deserves by our historians.
Rifkin explains the relatively recent recognition of the empathic core of human
nature:
There is still another reason why empathy has yet to be seriously examined
in all of its anthropological and historical detail. The difficulty lies in the
evolutionary process itself. Empathic consciousness has grown slowly over
the 175,000 years of human history. It has sometimes flourished, only to
recede for long periods of time. Its progress has been irregular, but its
trajectory is clear. Empathic development and the development of
selfhood go hand in hand and accompany the increasingly complex
energy-consuming social structures that make up the human journey. (We
will examine this relationship throughout the book.)
Because the development of selfhood is so completely intertwined with the
development of empathic consciousness, the very term “empathy” didn’t
become part of the human vocabulary until 1909 – about the same time
that modern psychology began to explore the internal dynamics of the
unconscious and consciousness itself. In other words, it wasn’t until
human beings were developed enough in human selfhood that they could
begin thinking about the nature of their innermost feelings and thoughts
in relation to other people’s innermost feelings and thoughts that they
were able to recognize the existence of empathy, find the appropriate
metaphors to discuss it, and probe the deep recesses of its multiple
meanings.
We have to remember that, as recently as six generations ago, out greatgreat-grandparents – living circa mid-to-late 1880s – were not encultured
to think therapeutically. My own grandparents were unable to probe their
feelings and thinking in order to analyze how their past emotional
experiences and relationships affected their behavior toward others and
their sense of self. They were untutored in the notion of unconscious
drives and terms like transference and projection. Today, a hundred years
after the coming of the age of psychology, young people are thoroughly
immersed in therapeutic consciousness and comfortable with thinking
about, getting in touch with and analyzing their own innermost feelings,
emotions, and thoughts – as well as those of their fellows.
The precursor to empathy was the word “sympathy” – a term that came
into vogue during the European Enlightenment. The Scottish economist
Adam Smith wrote a book on moral sentiments in 1759. Although far
better known for his theory of the marketplace, Smith devoted
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considerable attention to the question of human emotions. Sympathy, for
Smith, Hume, other philosophers, and literary figures of the time, meant
feeling sorry for another’s plight. Empathy shares emotional territory with
sympathy but is markedly different.
Rifken connects empathy to its origins in sympathy and makes the distinction.
The term “empathy” is derived from the German word Einfuhlung, coined
by Robert Vischer in 1872 and used in German aesthetics. Einfuhlung
relates to how observers project their own sensibilities onto an object of
adoration or contemplation and is a way of explaining how one comes to
appreciate and enjoy the beauty of, for example, a work of art. The German
philosopher and historian Wilhelm Dilthey borrowed the term from
aesthetics and began to use it to describe the mental process by which one
person enters into another’s being and comes to know how they feel and
think.
In 1909, the American psychologist E.B. Titchener translated Einfuhlung
into a new word, “empathy.” Titchener had studied with Wilhelm Wundt,
the father of modern psychology, while in Europe. Like many young
psychologists in the field, Titchener was primarily interested in the key
concept of introspection, the process by which a person examines his or
her own inner feelings and drives, emotions, and thoughts to gain a sense
of personal understanding about the formation of his or her identity and
selfhood. The “pathy” in empathy suggests that we enter into the
emotional state of another’s suffering and feel his or her pain as if it were
our own.
Variations of empathy soon emerged, including “empathic” and “to
empathize,” as the term became part of the popular psychological culture
emerging in cosmopolitan centers in Vienna, London, New York, and
elsewhere. Unlike sympathy, which is more passive, empathy conjures up
active engagement – the willingness of an observer to become part of
another’s experience, to share the feeling of that experience…
What does this tell us about human nature? Is it possible that human
beings are not inherently evil or intrinsically self-interested and
materialistic, but are of a very different nature – an empathic one – and
that all of the other drives that we have considered to be primary –
aggression, violence, selfish behavior, acquisitiveness – are in fact
secondary drives that flow from repression or denial of our most basic
instinct?
Is there perhaps a different future than we have yet known? Might we be in an
adolescent age with all its awful partisanship in our political life, the rage of
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extremists, the awful acid that oozes from radio and the blather of cable TV’s
talking heads?
Remember Joannie Brochere skating for her mom.
Remember the Christmas Eve on Flander’s Field
Jesus wept. So do I. But Jesus found the human cause worth dying for. So do I,
for down deep, for all that makes us enemies, there is something deeper that
makes us one.
References
Jeremy Rifkin. The Empathic Civilization: The Race to Global Consciousness in
a World in Crisis. New York: The Penguin Group, 2009.
© Grand Valley State University
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Richard A. Rhem Collection
Description
An account of the resource
Text and sound recordings of the sermons, prayers, services, and articles of Richard Rhem, pastor emeritus of Christ Community Church in Spring Lake, Michigan, where he served for 37 years. Starting in the mid 1980's, Rhem began to question some of the traditional Christian dogma that he had been espousing from the pulpit. That questioning was a first step in a long and interesting spiritual journey, one that he openly shared with his congregation. His journey is important, in part because it is reflective of the questioning, the yearnings, and the gradual revision of beliefs that many persons in this part of the century have experienced and continue to experience. It is important also because of the affirming and inclusive way his questioning was done and his thinking evolved. His sermons and other written and spoken materials together document the steps in his journey as it took a turn in 1985, yet continued to revolve around the framework and liturgies of the Christian calendar.
Subject
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Clergy--Michigan
Reformed Church in America
Christ Community Church (Spring Lake, Mich.)
Religion
Interfaith worship
Sermons
Sound Recordings
Creator
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Rhem, Richard A.
Source
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<a href="https://gvsu.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/514">Richard A. Rhem papers (KII-01)</a>
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Grand Valley State University. University Libraries. Special Collections & University Archives.
Contributor
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Kaufman Interfaith Institute
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<a href="http://rightsstatements.org/page/InC/1.0/?language=en">In Copyright</a>
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English
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Sound
Text
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KII-01
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1981-2014
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audio/mp3
text/pdf
Sound
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Event
Palm Sunday
Scripture Text
Luke 19:41-44, 23:32-34, 46
Location
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Unity Church, Douglas
References
Jeremy Rifkin. The Empathic Civilization: The Race to Global Consciousness in a World in Crisis, 2009.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
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KII-01_RA-0-20100328
Date
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2010-03-28
Title
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A Palm Sunday Peace Parade and a Personal Pilgrimage
Creator
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Richard A. Rhem
Publisher
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Grand Valley State University. University Libraries. Special Collections & University Archives
Rights
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<a href="http://rightsstatements.org/page/InC/1.0/?language=en">In Copyright</a>
Subject
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Clergy--Michigan
Reformed Church in America
Christ Community Church (Spring Lake, Mich.)
Sermons
Relation
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Richard A. Rhem - An Archive of Sermons, Prayers, Talks and Stories: http://richardrhem.org/
Language
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eng
Type
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Text
Description
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A sermon given by Richard A. Rhem (Dick) on March 28, 2010 entitled "A Palm Sunday Peace Parade and a Personal Pilgrimage", on the occasion of Palm Sunday, at Unity Church, Douglas. Scripture references: Luke 19:41-44, 23:32-34, 46.
Format
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application/pdf
Jesus' Nonviolent Resistance to
Domination Systems