Sermon:
March 28, 1999
Palm Sunday

Scripture:
Luke 19:28-44

Those of you who date back to my early years in Birmingham will no doubt remember a Palm Sunday Steeple Notes article, wherein I told you that there is no mention of "palms" in the synoptic Gospels. "Branches" is what the record states. Not "palm branches." Just "branches." They could have been palms, for there are plenty of palms in Israel. They should have been palms, for no branch makes a better carpet. They must have been palms, for it is hard to imagine my Sunday School teacher as being wrong. Palms is what I remember. Therefore, palms is what they were.

But whenever the scriptures leave room for a second opinion, there is always someone who will press the opportunity. Which is where Byron Rohrig enters in. Byron is a United Methodist pastor in southern Indiana. Having no local outlet for palms available to him ... and serving a church without the kind of budget to absorb such expenses ... Byron Rohrig encouraged his Worship Committee to think creatively. He reminded them that the scriptures make no mention of palms, only branches. Palms, he noted, are specific. Branches are generic. The implication being that the people of Jerusalem turned to the trees and made use of whatever was available. "We should do the same," he suggested. "But what do we have available?" his people asked. "We have no palms in southern Indiana. We have maples, locusts, oaks and a few hardy elms that have not yet succumbed to disease. We also have apples, pears, cherries and flowering crabs. But it is too early in the spring for these. The frost is barely out of the ground." "Think creatively," Byron said. "Use your imaginations." So they did. Which is how it came to pass that the First United Methodist Church of Evansville, Indiana, once launched Holy Week with a marvelous worship experience known as "Pussy Willow Sunday."

Well, pick your branches and take your choice. Most of us will stick with palms. Some of us will wave them. A few of us will throw them. Many of us will take them home and stick them in the frame of the mirror until they turn brittle with age. Then we will throw them out. But, to the degree that palms were once thrown in the pathway of Jesus, they constitute a poor man's red carpet treatment. Some of the people even got so carried away that they took the coats off their shoulders and the shirts off their backs, spreading them on the road with the branches. These were offered as testimony to the devotion they had for him, and the hopes they had in him. One trusts that Jesus was moved. One suspects, however, that he was apprehensive.

It was quite a morning, then. And it is quite a morning, now. One which we have gathered to remember. And one which we have gathered to relive. Hopefully, exuberantly. For, as Holy Week moments go, Palm Sunday was never meant to be one of the cerebral ones. Instead, what we have is religion-on-parade ... or faith-with-a-public-face. Worse yet, what we have is a throw-caution-to-the-winds expression of religious devotion. Which reads well. But which strains credibility.

Today, when Christians go public, it is (more often than not) with slogans attached to bumpers of automobiles. Along with the T-shirt, the bumper sticker has become the primary means by which people communicate with each other. We put messages on the front ends of our bodies and on the rear ends of our cars. Did you ever notice how many bumper stickers carry religious themes? They range from the traditional "Do you know where you will spend eternity?" to the more avant-garde, "In the event of the Rapture, this car will be empty." Between services, Todd Menig told me of yet another one which reads: "God loves you; the rest of us think you're a jerk." But the bumper sticker that has remained with us longest is the one that urges us to "Honk if you love Jesus" ... a clear-cut invitation to express religious enthusiasm, if ever there was one.

But, for as many times as I have seen it, I have never honked. Which has nothing to do with a lack of love for Jesus. Nor does it have anything to do with a reticence to publicly express my enthusiasm. As anybody who has ever watched me sing will testify, I can put as much energy into "loving the Lord" as anybody around.

I suppose my unwillingness to honk reveals a measure of smugness, coupled with a dash of theological sophistication, which makes it hard for me to identify with groups for whom "bumper sticker religion" is a way of life.

But it's even more than that. I find myself wondering what the lovers of Jesus do besides "honk." I remember Don Strobe's desire for a bumper sticker that would read: "Tithe if you love Jesus. Anybody can honk." Which calls to mind Kenneth Wilson's observation: "What I want most on the highway from one who loves Jesus is a safe, cooperative method of driving. But, alas, I have yet to find a bumper sticker that reads: `Drive Courteously If You Love Jesus'." To which Wilson adds a telling point when he says: "Sometimes it is easier to make noise than progress."

But before we smugly dismiss the horn blowers for Jesus ... or distance ourselves from the Palm Sunday merriment makers ... let us give them their due. Maybe ... just maybe ... we have been too hard on them. For they have (in spades) the one thing that many of us lack. I'm talking about the fact that they are free enough ... and spontaneous enough ... to act on their natural impulse to give praise.

Most of us aren't. Including me. Which probably surprises you, given that I hold back relatively little of myself when standing before you ... or preaching to you. In describing me to others, most of you use words like "energy" and "passion." Which, I suspect, are accurate descriptions of me up here ... doing this. But put me in the congregation and you'll see a more subdued version of the original. I am not into greeting 23 of my nearest neighbors during the Ritual of Friendship time or clapping my hands in time to the music, whether it be played or sung. In fact, when rhythmic clapping begins in response to lively music, I press my palms together with the best of you. But my initial reaction is: "How long am I going to have to keep doing this?"

It's a matter of temperament for some of us. Who we are. Who we aren't. Who we'd like to be. I'll tell you who I'd like to be. I'd like to be Roberto Benigni. He's the Italian guy who won the "Oscar" for best actor last Sunday night ... his film being the incredibly beautiful "Life Is Beautiful." Actually, he won a pair of Oscars. But it was his response to the first one that triggered my envy. Upon hearing his name called, he leaped to his feet ... threw his arms in the air ... skipped across the tops of the seats ... bounded to the stage ... squeezed Sophia Loren so tightly that parts of her may be crushed for life ... and then gushed (in half-English, half-Italian) about "this being a moment of colossal joy," wherein he wanted to "kiss everybody and die in this ocean of generosity." This being the same man who once bear-hugged the Pope, kissing him over and over, while calling him "Babbo" ... or "Daddy." Leading the Pope to say: "You are very Italian."

I'd like to be him. But I'm not him. Who I am is that other guy who came up to get his Oscar ... one of the lesser Oscars ... shortly after Benigni. And, in expressing his gratitude, this gentlemen (whose name I've forgotten) began: "Inside, I feel like Roberto Benigni." And the audience sighed with wistful self-recognition. Public revelers, we're not. Not because we don't have it in us. But because we have a hard time getting what is in us, out of us.

For others, the issue is one of discernment. We have lost confidence in our ability to know the praiseworthy when we see it. We take packaged tours so that our guides will tell us what the highlights are. "If it's Tuesday, I must be having the time of my life in romantic, fun-filled Belgium." We are not all that certain as to whether we should like a play, a movie, a book or a restaurant until we read what a reviewer has to say. We know what our instincts tell us. But we don't have enough experiences against which to measure our instincts.

I remember the night Kris and I were invited to an old Victorian house for an intimate evening of chamber music. Which was wonderful. Or so I thought. But what did I know? I had little or no experience with chamber music. So I clapped when everybody else did and I remained seated until everybody else stood. Fortunately, over a gooey chocolate torte at the afterglow, I overheard someone say that this was the finest chamber music program he had ever heard. So I felt better. What if I had gushed over it, only to learn that it wasn't very good?

But if there are those of us who can't tell a praiseworthy string quartet when we hear one, how much more will we trust our ability to discern a flesh-and-blood Messiah when we see one? So we are tempted to withhold even religious judgments until we see how Jesus stacks up against other messianic alternatives. Which is why undergraduate courses in the academic study of religion are booming, while college chapels, even on Palm Sunday, are empty of students.

But beyond temperament and discernment, I believe some of us hold ourselves back out of a fear of commitment. If I become too excited, I might become too invested. I remember a scene from a novel where a divorced man and a divorced woman ... each with children and scars from previous marriages ... pause under a porch light to share a first kiss. And the 42-year-old woman (for whom this moment is like remembering ancient history) says to herself: "If I let this go even one second longer, I'm gone."

And we know what she means. What if we get involved too fast ... too deep ... and can't pull back from any lover ... up to and including Jesus?

You remember Andrew Young. He is a man of many talents and a wearer of many hats. Across the years he's been a clergyman ... a civil rights leader ... a United Nations delegate ... and the mayor of Atlanta. But he's also been a father. For whom raising most of his children was easy. Until his youngest daughter came along. But let him tell it.

She has always been the unpredictable one. While my other children were exceptional students, she made it a point to just get by. When my other children focused on solid career goals, she was the one who wanted to be an actor or a dancer. When my other children paid homage to my stern fatherly admonitions, they only made her eyes flare in passionate rebellion.

Which was manageable ... until the night she came home and announced she wanted to work for a human rights organization in Uganda. Whereupon commenced the following daddy-daughter dialogue.

Do you realize that Idi Amin has created havoc in Uganda?

Yes.

Do you understand that there is no longer a stable government in Uganda?

Yes.

Are you aware that anybody can do anything to you in Uganda, and there will be no way to take recourse against them?

Yes.

And you still want to go to Uganda?

I am going to Uganda.

Which is how it came to pass that Andrew Young, one of the most powerful men in America, stood and watched his youngest daughter board a plane for one of the most unstable parts of Africa. Three days later, addressing a conference of 500 preachers, he told them her story, before adding: "I wanted her to be a respectable Christian. I never expected, even for a moment, she'd become a real one."

* * * * *

But, friends, that's what this week is all about. Becoming a "real one" ... follower of Jesus, I mean. Not that we haven't been one up `til now. But where Jesus is concerned, there's always the invitation to go further. Beginning with this spur-of-the-moment parade ... beginning in Bethany ... rounding the bend ... descending the mountain ... crossing the river ... and entering the gates.

As parades go, we could just as easily sit this one out ... given the issues we have with temperament, discernment and commitment. Besides, this parade is poorly located. This parade is headed into the city, where some of us haven't gone in years.

But I am willing to bet that one of the reasons you stir on Palm Sunday, show up on Palm Sunday, and sing with gusto on Palm Sunday, is because you know that where he is going is better than where you are now ... that what he is offering is better than what you have now ... and that what he is asking is better than the agenda you have set for yourselves now.

Virginia Owen teaches English at Texas A&M. Not so very long ago, she gave her students the assignment of writing an essay on the Sermon on the Mount. Since Texas A&M is in the Bible Belt, she figured she could get away with a biblical topic. To her surprise, what she got back was not unbelief, but anger. Someone wrote: "The Sermon on the Mount is stupid." Someone else wrote: "This is the dumbest thing I ever read." Still another wrote: "This assignment made me feel bad because the Sermon said I had to be perfect. No one is perfect."

Virginia Owen summarized the reactions of her students as being something other than intellectual skepticism and sophistry. Instead, she believed their reactions to be nothing more than examples of collegiate hedonism. The kind of hedonism that wants to be served ... that wants pleasure in all things ... that sees sacrifice as stupid and the disciplined life as useless ... that knows nothing about loving the neighbor, much less the enemy ... that can't comprehend the idea of sacrificing for a higher goal, let alone giving one's life in order to find it ... and that is totally unfamiliar with an extending ethic like the "second mile," a demanding ethic like the Ten Commandments, or an absolute ethic like the Sermon on the Mount.

But maybe ... just maybe ... when we take a second look at the preacher and peddler of this "alleged foolishness," we will see how attractive he really is, and how much sense he really makes.

Once upon a time ... before I came here ... and before Matt Hook appeared on the scene with his wonderful way with teens ... I used to teach Confirmation. And on one particular Monday (in preparation for my class on Tuesday), I previewed a videotape. The subject was 18^th century England in the days of John Wesley. I figured it could teach my kids a little bit about our Wesleyan origins. In one particular segment, a contrast was being depicted between the boring lifelessness of a Church of England worship service and the charismatic electricity of Wesleyan open-air preaching. And to depict the latter, the camera had recorded scenes from a countryside revival. But the revival (as presented on the screen) was not a re-creation of one that took place in the 1750s. Instead, it featured live-action footage of a British revival that had occurred, just the previous year. The people were Methodists. The preacher was a Methodist. He had a wonderful stage presence. But I thought his methodology was just a little bit hokey. For he would thrust his fist forward ... punching the air ... calling out to a crowd that numbered in the thousands:

"Give me a J"

and they gave him a "J."

"Give me an E"

and they gave him an "E."

"Give me an S"

and they gave him an "S."

"Give me a U"

and they gave him a "U."

"Give me an S"

and they gave him another "S."

"What does it spell?"

"Jesus."

"Who do you love?"

"Jesus."

"Who will you follow?"

"Jesus."

I thought to myself, the kids will laugh this right off the screen. But since the history of the period was well depicted by the rest of the video, I decided to show it anyway. I introduced the tape. I drew the blinds. I doused the lights. I started the machine. And I sat down to watch. Things were rolling along pretty good. Eventually, the evangelist appeared. "Here it comes," I thought, and sat back to await the derisive laughter.

"Give me a J"

The kids looked at each other, looked at me, and then looked back at the screen as if to say: "What in the world is this?"

"Give me an E"

This time, nobody looked at anybody. But nobody laughed, either. They were strangely quiet and modestly intrigued.

"Give me an S"

Wonder of wonders, two or three of them gave him an "S."

"Give me a U"

And five or six more gave him a "U."

"Give me an S"

Would you believe the whole darn class, 22 teenagers strong, forgot their inhibitions and gave him an "S."

* * * * *

And still Jesus comes ... this time, for those who missed him the first time.

Riding into the city, in the hopes that someday we will recognize him for who he is, rather than who we want him to be.

Riding into the city, until all who dwell within shall finally understand the things that make for peace.

Riding into the city, until the day shall come when all God's children shall have mothers who are old enough ... fathers who are committed enough ... teachers who are good enough ... politicians who are honest enough ... neighbors who are caring enough ... streets that are safe enough ... and hopes that are bright enough.

Riding into the city, until Jew and Roman ... Israeli and Palestinian ... Serb and Albanian ... not to overlook young and old ... black and white ... male and female ... gay and straight ... saint and sinner ... .rich man and beggar man ... collectively embrace each other and weep for their common humanity.

Riding into the city, until horns shall honk and rocks shall sing, in defiant mockery of every Christian tongue that is silent.

Midway between the old Jerusalem that was and the new Jerusalem that is to come, Jesus rides into Birmingham.

This is Palm Sunday!

This is no day for pussy willows or panty waists.

My friends, give me a "J!"

Note: I am indebted to Susan Ager for her "sidebar" on Roberto Benigni, as concerns the nature of his papal audience. I am also aware of a slight sermonic distortion in describing the flow of the Palm Sunday parade from Bethany to Jerusalem. While Jesus did go round a bend and down a mountain, he did not cross a river so much as he crossed a brook. The Kidron flows through the valley that separates the Mount of Olives from the wall of Jerusalem. But even allowing for the ravages of time, it never was a river. Today, it is but a few feet wide and filled with no small amount of refuse.

For those who were not present for the actual delivery of the sermon, let it be known that at the conclusion, the congregation (at each service) let forth with a resounding "J."