Shouting & Silence

Everything In Between Shouting and Silence

Palm Sunday 2025

Rev. David Collins

Luke 19:29-40

I have never mastered the art of saying the right thing at the right time.

Ever.

There are moments I plan out exactly what I want to say...something engaging and wise, and then what comes out of my mouth is basically, “Big gulps huh? Well, see you later!.”

Other times, I promise myself that this time I’m gonna stay quiet. I’m not gonna get involved. And then someone says something wild like “Well, Jesus only really cares about our souls” and suddenly I’ve blacked out and I’m 14 minutes into a lecture with a bibliography.

I am a seasoned practitioner of the arts of blurting and bottling.

Sometimes I say way too much, way too fast. Other times I sit there silent, stewing in it...just bottling it up to ruin a vacation six months from now.

We all do this, right?

We live in a world that’s so loud, with the arguing and reacting, and yet somehow, we still don’t know how to say what we really mean. So we either shout it and regret it… or stay quiet and wonder if we missed our moment.

And into that world comes Palm Sunday.

A day filled with noise and silence. A day when people are shouting “Hosanna!” with everything they’ve got, and other people are letting go of something precious without saying a word. And both are part of the story.

So today we’re gonna talk about everything in between. Between shouting and silence. Between blurting and bottling. And how maybe faith lives right there in the middle.

Let’s start in Luke 19:29, where we see that sometimes silence is faith.

Holy Silence

Sometimes silence is what you offer when you don't need credit. When you’ve decided to participate in something bigger than yourself, and you don't need to be seen or celebrated for it. Silence can be surrender. It can be trust. It can be the quiet decision to release your grip on something because God is asking for it.

29 When he had come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, 30 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. 31 If anyone asks you, “Why are you untying it?” just say this: “The Lord needs it.”’ 32 So those who were sent departed and found it as he had told them. 33 As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, ‘Why are you untying the colt?’ 34 They said, ‘The Lord needs it.’ (Luke 19:29-34)

We’re going to pause here for a bit, because here’s the first place we see that silence isn’t always unfaithful. Because the people who owned this donkey showed some truly beautiful silence.

Think about what it meant for them to let that colt go.

A donkey wasn’t just a pet. It wasn’t some cute animal in the corner of the barn they hadn’t gotten around to naming yet. A donkey was transportation. A beast of burden. A way to move goods, carry water, earn a living.

This colt might have been their livelihood for the month—or the year. It might’ve been the one they were saving for. The one they were planning to train up and sell. The one that would carry their kids to the market or haul the grain they’d worked so hard to gather.

And yet—when two strangers show up with a sentence that sounds more like a password than a plan—“The Lord needs it”—they let go.

No contract. No guarantees. No timeline for when they’d get it back. Just trust.

That kind of trust is quiet. But it’s not weak. It’s the quiet of people who are strong enough to risk something. People who believe that what they have is not too small for God to use—and not too precious to give up when God asks.

What have you been holding back from God?

Now, I know you don’t have a donkey in your garage—unless you live in Winter Garden, then honestly it’s 50/50.

But—what’s that thing you’ve been holding back?

What’s the thing you’ve been saving, protecting, planning for…

Could it be that God is asking, “Can I use that?”

Would you let it go—even without a guarantee?

I sure am glad these people did.

They don’t shout “Hosanna,” but they make a way for it.

35 Then they brought it to Jesus; and after throwing their cloaks on the colt, they set Jesus on it.

This was all to fulfill a prophecy about the Messiah that everyone in Israel knew by heart,

Rejoice greatly, O daughter Zion!  Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem! Lo, your king comes to you;  triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey,  on a colt, the foal of a donkey. (Zechariah 9:9)

Now don’t feel bad that you don’t have that memorized. If the Bible was your only source of content, you would too. If your world wasn’t saturated with TikTok and breaking news and whatever new show just dropped, you’d have lines like this stored in your bones.

Because it was their story. Their hope. Their vision for the day when everything would finally be made right.

So when Jesus climbs on that colt—when he lets himself be lifted onto the back of this humble animal—it’s not just a ride into town.

It’s a shout.

Without opening his mouth, he is quoting scripture with his body. He is enacting a promise. He is preaching, loudly, in a language they all understand.

This is not just a man on a donkey. This is a declaration. This is Jesus saying, “Yes, I am that king. And as the scriptures promise, the true king is humble.”

And the brilliance of it is—he never has to say a word.

Sometimes shouting doesn’t need sound. Sometimes it just takes showing up in the right place, at the right time, with the full weight of who you are, living into the truth you’ve been carrying all along.

That’s what Jesus is doing here. He is shouting scripture. He is shouting hope. And he’s doing it in silence. The true king doesn’t have to shout about what a true kind he is. Just showing up is shouting.

And without being told a thing, the people got it.

36 As he rode along, people kept spreading their cloaks on the road.

This is what you did to honor the king. It was the ancient version of a red carpet. You took the thing that protected you—the thing that kept you warm at night, the thing that covered your back—and you laid it down. You made yourself vulnerable to make a path for someone greater.

And these people, they didn’t have much. Most of them lived day-to-day. Their cloaks weren’t decorative. They were practical. Essential. And yet—they let them go.

Because something in them recognized what was happening.

 Something in them said, “This is the moment we’ve been waiting for.”

It’s this beautiful, instinctual act of worship. Of protest. Of hope. It wasn’t organized. No one handed out palm branches or gave a rehearsal. But as Jesus passed by, the people responded the only way they knew how: they gave what they had.

They made a path for peace with the clothes on their backs.

Because when you finally see hope riding in—gentle and lowly, but still majestic—you don’t wait for the perfect plan. You just make a way.

37 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, 38 saying,

‘Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!

Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!’

And just like that, the silence breaks.

The shouts rise up— not because a trumpet sounded, or the “Applause” sign lit up, but because they see their hopes and dreams in the flesh before them.

They start singing the Psalms. The words they’ve sung their whole lives suddenly mean something new. Something real. Something right in front of them.

It was praise, absolutely—but it was also protest.

Protest

Because you don’t shout “peace in heaven” unless you’re aching for it on earth.

 You don’t cry out for glory unless you’ve seen too much shame.

 This is the language of people who’ve been under Rome’s boot for too long, who’ve watched the powerful grow richer while the vulnerable are pushed aside.

 This is the language of people who’ve seen Jesus heal, and lift up, and make space at the table—and they are ready for that kind of leadership.

And they’re not just hopeful. They’re loud.

This isn’t a polite golf clap of gratitude. This is full-body catharsis. The kind that makes you forget who’s watching. The kind that comes from people who’ve been quiet for too long and finally have something worth shouting about.

So the shushers come in right on cue.

39 Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, ‘Teacher, order your disciples to stop.’

And it wasn’t jealousy or envy. It was fear talking.

Because the Pharisees and all the other powers that be in Jerusalem at the time existed at the pleasure of Rome. So long as they were useful, they could stay at the table. So long as they kept the people in line.

But Passover made that difficult.

Passover is Political

On the surface, it was a religious celebration. A festival. Families gathered around tables, telling stories, asking questions. But underneath it all? It was a celebration of revolution. It remembered the moment God broke the back of an empire and set the people free.

So every year, Rome held its breath. Because that same story of freedom from Pharaoh could just as easily be a sermon about Caesar.

You’d hear a kid ask, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” and it wouldn’t take much imagination to hear it as a rallying cry:

 Why is this year different? 

Why not now? 

Why not us?

And Rome knew that. So they didn’t cancel the holiday. That would’ve caused more trouble than it was worth. Instead, they managed it. In part, through people who seemed really religious, but deep down, they were just collaborators like Zacchaeus, albeit a little more respectable. People who taught that religion was exclusively about you, God and your family. Keeping your nose clean. Following all the rules so that God will bless you personally. The Pharisees played their part. So did the Temple leaders.

It’s funny how the demands of empire line up so well with a sanitized religion.

It’s like the old saying about the carrot and the stick. The Pharisees had the carrot. God just wants you to obey authority and know the right words to our prayers and song. And Pilate had the stick. The stick was coming in from the other side of the city.

Every Passover, to make sure that the people knew who had the real power, the governor of the city would lead in a parade of reinforcements. Extra troops would march in from the west, through the main gates, with banners and armor and horses. And so much gold. Why does everything have to be covered in gold? Because. That’s why.

A lot of Christians throughout history have liked to imagine that Pilate’s parade was happening at the exact same time that Jesus’ parade was coming in from the East.

Two processions. Two kingdoms. Two very different kinds of kings.

One riding a war horse. The other on a borrowed donkey.

So when the Pharisees say, “Make them stop,” they’re asking Jesus to choose silence over suffering. To pick safety over witness. Respectability over truth.

And Jesus—riding that donkey, riding straight into danger—answers with one of the most beautiful, and haunting lines in all of scripture:

40 He answered, ‘I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.

This isn’t bravado. This isn’t Jesus stirring the pot just to make a point.

It’s Jesus saying, “This is too real to be shut down. Too true to be silenced. Too holy to stay hidden.”

This moment has been building since creation. And if the people couldn’t name it, the ground beneath them would.

Because this is what the world was made for

For peace to be declared.

For hope to break through.

For a humble king to ride in—not with a sword, but with scars yet to come.

Even if we go quiet, the truth won’t.

Even if fear tries to muffle the good news, God has a way of making it heard.

Even the rocks would cry out.

The truth can’t stay silent.

The kingdom of God is not a private feeling.

It’s a public announcement.

The gospel isn’t good advice. It’s good news.

Something has happened. Something is happening. And we have to bear witness to it.

So what do we do with that?

Because not every moment calls for a shout—but none of us are called to keep quiet forever.

There’s a time to speak. To challenge the lie dressed up as peace. To name what’s broken. To stand beside those who’ve been pushed to the edges. And yes—sometimes that means raising your voice, even if it shakes a little.

But there’s also power in faithful silence. In letting go of control. In listening well. In offering what you have without needing credit.

Maybe you’re not marching into Jerusalem, but you are standing at the edge of a decision.

Will you choose silence? 

Safety?

 Survival?

Or will you join the chorus—even in your own quiet, faithful way—that refuses to bow to Caesar’s version of peace?

Maybe it’s speaking up at the dinner table.

 Maybe it’s writing your congressperson.

 Maybe it’s refusing to laugh at a cruel joke.

 Maybe it’s showing up at our food drive on May 4th—bringing what you can.

 Maybe it’s writing that letter as part of our Bread for the World campaign—advocating for the kind of justice that doesn’t just sound nice, but actually feeds people.

Because faith is personal,—but it’s never private.

So what’s your next step?

What truth are you being asked to speak? 

What path is Jesus asking you to prepare?

Even if we go quiet, the truth won’t.

 Even the rocks would cry out.

What if we became the kind of people who didn’t wait for someone else to shout, or someone else to act— What if we were the ones who laid down our cloaks? The ones who made a path for peace? The ones who refused to confuse silence with faithfulness— but also refused to confuse shouting with love?

Imagine a church where everyone—quiet or loud, weary or hopeful, broken or healing—found a way to say with their life: 

Jesus is Lord. And this world is not okay.

Not because we’re angry.  But because we are people of hope.  Hope that marches in with a donkey, not a war horse.  Hope that weeps and still rides on.  Hope that breaks bread with traitors, and carries a cross for the guilty, and refuses to be shut down, even by death.

May our faith not be private.

May it be lived. 

May it be a witness. A protest. A path.

And when we wonder if we have anything left to give,   remember...even the rocks are ready to cry out.  So let us raise our voices first.