Sermon:
April 13, 2003 (Palm Sunday)
Morning Services

Scripture:
John 12:9-22

Nine years ago, on the cover of Steeple Notes, I penned these words: 

Those who lust after accuracy will find scant mention of palms in the Gospels. No mention is made in Matthew, Mark or Luke. “Branches” is all that 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 believe my Sunday school teacher was wrong. Palms is what I remember. Therefore, palms is what they were.

But whenever scripture leaves room for a second opinion, there are those who will press the opening to the uttermost. Which is where Byron Rohrig enters in. Byron Rohrig is a United Methodist pastor in southern Indiana. Having no local outlet for palms readily available to him (and serving a church without the budgetary means to absorb the expense), Byron Rohrig encouraged his Worship Work Area to think creatively. He reminded the members of the committee that the scriptures made no mention of palms, only branches. Palms, he noted, are specific. Branches are generic. The implication being that the people 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 elms that haven’t died yet. We also have apples, pears, cherries and few crabs that haven’t flowered yet. But it is far too early in the spring for these. The frost is barely out of the ground.” 

“Think creatively,” Pastor Rohrig said. “Use your imagination.” So they did. Which is how it came to pass that the First United Methodist Church of Evansville, Indiana launched Holy Week with a marvelous worship experience known as “Pussy Willow Sunday.”

I don’t know where Byron Rohrig is now….where he’s preaching today….if he’s preaching today….but wherever he is, I hope his church can afford the real thing. Because “pussy willows” sound so wimpish. And Palm Sunday is anything but wimpish. It is a day cross-threaded with parading, praising and plotting. It is a day that begins with Jesus saying, “Let’s go to town,” and concludes with his opposition saying, “Let’s shut him down.” 

Although every Gospel writer dresses the stage differently, by the time we get to John, Palm Sunday is a very big deal. John calls the crowd “a great crowd.” How great? Well, consider the following. 

1. It was Passover time.

2. Then, as well as now, it was the ambition of every Jew, no matter where located in the world, to observe at least one Passover in Jerusalem….giving rise to the phrase spoken at every Seder meal: “Next year in Jerusalem.”

3. On one such occasion, a census was taken of all the lambs slain at the Jerusalem Passover, with the number given as 256,000. Allowing for ordinary appetites, if you figure a minimum of 10 people per lamb, you have 2,560,000. And Jerusalem was not then, nor is it now, all that big.

Moreover, John tells us that this was no ordinary year. For word had gone out that Jesus was coming. And word had also gone out that Jesus had raised Lazarus from the dead (technically speaking, a resuscitation rather than a resurrection). And you had to figure that the Lazarus story spread both fast and far. 

Take a look at the words that immediately precede John’s account of Jesus’ entry into the city. I’ll reread them for you. 

The mob of the Jews knew that Jesus was there (meaning, in Bethany….just over the Mount of Olives and round the bend from Jerusalem). And they came, not only because of Jesus, but to see Lazarus whom he had raised from the dead. The chief priests (of the Temple) plotted to kill Lazarus, too. Because many of the Jews were withdrawing from them because of him, and were coming to believe in Jesus. 

To be able to point to a dead man walking is one heck of a sermon illustration. Who wouldn’t want to hear that preacher….see that preacher….meet that preacher….touch that preacher? You have heard the phrase, “the proof is in the pudding.” Well, as long as Lazarus was walking around (“Hey, didn’t you used to be that dead guy?”), Lazarus was the “pudding.” Which means that if you were among those wanting to quiet things down, you had to dampen local enthusiasm for the suddenly-popular preacher. Which could be done by destroying his best sermon illustration. In other words, by killing Lazarus….too (as in: “Let’s get both of them.”). 

Now I know that sounds preposterous. But I didn’t write it. I just read it. And John certainly seems sure of it. And concerning Jesus’ expected arrival, it would explain the excitement surrounding it. Make a list of the things we’ve got going here.

• A Passover holiday
• 256,000 slain lambs, roasting on spits
• 2,560,000 people swarming the city
• Rumors about a dead man walking
• Rumors about his healer waiting
• Death threats on them both
• Temple officials fearful of the Romans
• Roman officials fearful of an insurrection
• And more than a few people armed

Four nights later, in the Garden of Gethsemane, when the praying Jesus is taken into custody by the arresting soldiers, Peter cuts off some guy’s ear with a sword. Leading Jesus to say: “Holster it, Pete.” And leading me to wonder how many of you come “packing heat” to a prayer meeting. 

You see what I mean about Palm Sunday not being a day for the wimpish? If John can be believed, there is high drama here. But there is also high danger here. This is anything but a Sunday school picnic. Although there are children present (very much like a Sunday school picnic). What did we just sing, mere moments ago? 

Into the city I’d follow the children’s band,            
Waving a branch of a palm tree high in my hand.

Children have always been a part of Palm Sunday. In part, because children are exuberant and irrepressible. But more than that, they offer something of a security blanket. Most people will not knowingly hurt little kids. So if you are orchestrating a demonstration where there is likely to be opposition, send the kids out first. People thought that then. Some people think that now. Today, in the Middle East, it is often the children out front throwing rocks and bottle bombs. Because it is in the nature of humanity to grant children immunity. Meaning, children are less likely to be shot. So put the kids out front. 

Meanwhile, Jesus rides into town on a donkey. Which has nothing to do with long distances or weak legs. I’ve been there. In terms of grade, the Mount of Olives is not steep. And in terms of miles, the village of Bethany is not far. Jesus could have walked. Everyone else did. 

Rather, his choice of an previously-unridden colt is a stage prop. Because if John was right….and if the multitude was large….it would have been impossible for Jesus to speak to them. Nobody would have been able to hear him. Today, Jesus could ride through the Temple gates atop a sound truck. But in his day, he didn’t even have a bullhorn. 

So if he wanted to communicate anything to the crowd, it had to be visual. From the minute they saw it….the little donkey, I mean….they would have begun to murmur: “Zechariah.” Not because Zechariah was the name of the donkey. But because Zechariah was the name of the prophet. What prophet? The prophet who had written that when the King came….the expected King….the messianic King….the King who would bear the stamp and inherit the mantle of David….that King would come that way (on a farm animal). Listen to how Zechariah puts it: 

Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion,            
Shout aloud, O daughter of Jerusalem,            
Lo, your king comes to you,            
Triumphant and victorious is he,
Humble and riding on an ass,
(Yea) on a colt, the foal of an ass.                                                            (Zech. 9:9)

Clearly, this is a staged entry. And Jesus is, at this point, the stage manager. Jesus is saying: “The one you are looking for, hoping for, praying for, it’s me.” Which really isn’t so strange, especially to those who recall his first sermon in his hometown church. That’s where he read the ancient expectations describing the long-awaited deliverer and followed it with a one-point message. The point being: “It’s me.” 

Palm Sunday reads like a claim to fame. But what it is, is a claim to authority. “I have come to be your king. I have come to establish my kingdom.” And when they see that colt, they hear that message. True, they misread the word “king.” They also misdefine the word “kingdom.” Little do they know that his kingdom will have more to do with reconciling everybody than with killing anybody, given that in the great card game called World History, many have mounted the throne dressed as the King of Clubs, but few have mounted the throne dressed as the King of Hearts. 

But when Jesus rides into that city….that day….that way, it is almost as if he knows what people want. He also knows he can’t be what they want….can’t do what they want….can’t deliver what they want….and may end up dead because of the misunderstanding concerning what they want. But he is willing to risk it anyway. Because if you are going to claim people’s lives, you’ve got to begin by commanding their attention. 

A pastor goes to a new church, rolling into town with a vision. But what that pastor needs to understand is that those people already have a vision. And the pastor is not going to replace theirs with his (hers) until a connection has been made, a relationship built, and a trust earned. 

You have to meet the people where they are. Sure, the people who comprised the Palm Sunday crowd didn’t fully get it. But Jesus spent his entire ministry with people who didn’t fully get it. And spends it still. When measured against paragons of discipleship, Jesus wasn’t preaching to a lot of winners there. But when measured against paragons of discipleship, Jesus isn’t preaching to a lot of winners here, either. And while he closed the day weeping over the city (because of their shortsightedness), never did he say: “I shouldn’t have come.”  Those people, oppressed for the entirety of their biography (and for centuries of their history), were simply viewing Jesus through the narrow lens of their experience. But we all do the same thing….viewing Jesus through the narrow lens of our experience, I mean. 

“How much do Mommy and Daddy love you?” we ask a three year old. And the child stretches baby arms to their limit and says: “This much.” True, indeed. But vastly more. Which the child can’t express now because of arms too short. And which the child can’t understand now because of years too short. 

Ellsworth Kalas writes: “When I became a Christian as a boy not yet eleven, it was kind of a Palm Sunday for me. If palms had been available that autumn evening in Iowa, I would have looked for a place to spread them. But as wonderful as that moment was, and as deeply as I felt it, I had no idea of all that was to follow. That night, Jesus was my king. But I had no idea of the wonder or extent of his kingdom….the beauty I would see there….the comfort I would find there….the friends I would make there….or the price of membership I would be asked to pay there.” 

Nor did I. The Lord’s expectations have sometimes been high. And the Lord’s demands have sometimes been harsh. But I didn’t know that when I was confirmed (on Palm Sunday, no less). I was prepared for them progressively. And while the Lord’s joys have also been great, I was prepared for them progressively, too. Very little of what I have come to call “my faith” was apparent when I made my first public response to Jesus. Speaking personally, I take comfort in the fact that the Lord does not condemn the Palm Sunday crowd….either for the nearsightedness of their vision or the exuberance of their enthusiasm. Told to muzzle his compadres, Jesus said: “Can’t. Won’t.” Leading his enemies to lament: “Too late. The world’s gone mad.” Not mad as in “angry”….but mad as in “bonkers.” 

When I was confirmed, knowing next to nothing about Christianity, I was nonetheless happy. And nobody said: “Billy, shut up.” 

When I was ordained, knowing next to nothing about ministry, I was nonetheless happy. And nobody said: “Rev. Ritter, shut up.” 

When I was married, knowing next to nothing about husbanding, I was nonetheless happy. And nobody said: “Darling, shut up.” 

And when children were born to me, knowing absolutely nothing about parenting, I was nonetheless happy. And nobody said: “Daddy, shut up.” 

In all of those instances, it took years to plumb the depths of my happiness. Which is why I say to you on Palm Sunday that it may take years to understand the power in this hour. 

In the wake of last week’s terrible storm, a fellow living just north of here lost a whole slew of trees. Both his front yard and his back yard resembled a war zone. So he went out to buy a chain saw, spending top dollar for one that promised to turn even the largest trunk into a pile of kindling in a matter of minutes. 

Next day, he took it back to the store, claiming that he barely got through one tree in a matter of hours. So the salesman said: “Once in a while, these things come from the factory dull. I can fix that. Come back in half an hour, and I’ll have it sharpened up for you.” 

Man comes back, picks it up, takes it home, only to return a second day saying: “It’s worse than before. I worked twice as long, labored twice as hard, but couldn’t even cut twice as much.” 

So the salesman said: “Don’t panic. Sometimes it’s in the technique. I’m talking about things like the leverage of your body, the extension of your arms, the angle of the cut. Here, take this manual with you. Read it carefully. See if things don’t improve.” 

Day three. Same man. Same store. Same displeasure. Leading the salesman to say: “Before you turn this in, let’s go back out to the shop so I can see for myself what isn’t right.” So out to the shop they go, where the salesman checks the oil….checks the fuel….adjusts the throttle….gives three or four quick tugs on the cord….(imitate the sound of an engine). Leading the purchaser to cry: “Good God, what’s that noise?" 

* * * * * 

It’s Palm Sunday, my friends. We may not be sharp. We may not be learned. And, truth be told, we may not have read the manual. But where there is noise, (by God) there is power. 

Note: For those not familiar with First Church, Palm Sunday is a very big day. Swarms of children parade and sing. And the service closes with a congregation-wide distribution of branches, the singing of “The Palms,” and much exuberant waiting. When the liturgical calendar was adjusted to eliminate Passion Sunday (on the fifth Sunday of Lent) and combine it with Palm Sunday (thereby suggesting a somber ending to a jubilant morning), we resisted the change. We still celebrate Passion Sunday one week previous. And we also hold services each night of Holy Week (including a very dramatic and well-attended service on Maundy Thursday). 

I do not have the faintest idea where Byron Rohrig is now, nor do I recall the publication in which I first read his story. But I am virtually certain someone in the Internet circle will find him and tell me. 

Clearly, the Gospel of John mentions “palms” by name. But John is the only Gospel writer to do so. 

As concerns the census of slaying lambs at Passover (256,000), I have simply reported what the much-acclaimed interpreter William Barclay has written. Until I stumbled on that little factoid this year, I had never heard it. One also has to contrast John’s account of a “great crowd” with Mark’s attempt to soft-pedal the triumphal entry, thereby perpetuating the concept of the “messianic secret.” 

The idea of Jesus serving as his own stage manager comes from W. M. Macgregor, as quoted by Arthur John Gossip in the Interpreter’s Bible. The observations of J. Ellsworth Kalas come from his book, New Testament Stories from the Backside.