First United Methodist Church
Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: Luke 19:28-44
March 20, 2005 - Palm Sunday
If you were present at last Tuesday’s meeting of our Administrative Council, you heard me talk about a strange little phrase, “Paying the rent.” Which, when I use it, has nothing to do with dollars that are mailed to the landlord, but everything to do with expectations that are satisfied for the congregation. “Paying the rent,” in this instance, has to do with preachers and the degree to which they are willing (or unwilling) to tailor the work they do to the tasks the congregation wants to have done.
Congregations have expectations, don’t you know. A few of which are written down in some kind of job description or letter of understanding. But most of which aren’t….written down, that is. Instead, they exist silently (often, secretly) in the minds and hearts of parishioners. “Rent” being the word that management theorists use to describe those expectations that are hard to find and harder to figure, but lie in wait to trap the preacher who neither finds nor meets them.
I have a friend in the ministry who has been successful every place he has served. Except for one place….where the “rent” got him. It was a small church, early in his ministry. “How’s it going?” I asked over lunch. “Less than wonderful,” he mumbled through his burger. It turned out that in his church were a number of retired men who met every morning for coffee, just down the street from the church. The locale was a little café on the main drag. They wanted him to join them. Not daily, mind you. Weekly would have been enough. But he didn’t. In part, because he didn’t like coffee. And in part, because their chats over coffee coincided with his time in the study. And what did coffee have to do with ministry, anyway?
Never in seminary had he heard that coffee in the café was a part of his job. The district superintendent, in appointing him, hadn’t said it was part of his job. The Pastor-Parish Relations Committee, on the night he was introduced as their new minister, hadn’t said it was part of his job. Because it wasn’t. It was “rent.” And, at that period of his life, he was too young to see it and too stubborn to pay it. So it wasn’t very long before everyone, including him, began humming traveling music. And he was gone. Long gone.
When I was introduced to the committee at Nardin Park (25 years ago), every member of the committee spoke at least once during the two-hour meeting. Except for the chairperson, a retired cardiologist, who mildly unnerved me by the utter lack of interest he seemed to be taking in anything that appeared to be happening. Finally, when the night was all but ended and the deal all but done, the district superintendent said: “Before we pray our way out of here, does anybody have anything else they would like to ask Bill (or, for that matter, Kris)?” At which time the chairperson turned to the superintendent….not to me….and said: “Reverend Ritter does understand, does he not, that the senior minister of Nardin Park Church always leads the 7:30 a.m. Saturday morning Men’s Bible Study?” To which I broke in and said: “He does now.” Whereupon my first Saturday, I found five guys around the table and learned that they met 52 Saturdays a year….unless Christmas fell on a Saturday (and some wondered why we should take a break, even then). Except for vacations, I was there every Saturday for thirteen years. Over time, the original five grew to twenty-nine. But those early years I chalked up to “paying the rent.” Because in the beginning, that’s what it was.
Every job has rent. Last Tuesday night, a lawyer who has just become managing partner in his firm said that his first rent-related experience in his new role was his discovery that all of the subordinate lawyers expected him to pick up the check at lunch. He’s not sure how he feels about that. Actually, he thinks he’d like to change that. But while he’s waiting and calculating, he’s paying. Because it’s hard to re-map the territory until you know the territory.
Clergy….at least clergy who are savvy….know a few things about rent. First, rent will never consume more than eighty percent of your job. So even if you pay it all, you will still have twenty percent of your time to do anything you want….and move the needle in any direction you want. Second, if you give people some new things they haven’t seen, they’ll forgive some of the things they expected of you, but didn’t get from you. And when that happens, your way of doing things will become the new rent that, down the road, your successor will have to pay. And third, ignorance of a church’s expectations is no excuse. What you don’t know….even if nobody tells you….can hurt you. As every husband has discovered (in every marriage that has ever been), you are just supposed to know certain things. What things? Those things that (in wifespeak) “I shouldn’t have to tell you.”
But what happens when ministers are sent to a church, having been giving marching orders that differ from the desires of a congregation? I am talking about marching orders that come from a denominational official or district supervisor. What happens when a minister is sent to close a church, merge a church, or change the ministry of a church from one that caters to people who used to live there but don’t any longer, to a ministry for people who never previously lived there but do now? Suddenly, there is a bishop demanding rent….a superintendent demanding rent….a Conference, Synod, Diocese or even Archdiocese demanding rent. In that case, who does the preacher (or priest) satisfy first….or satisfy most….when the various parties cannot be satisfied equally?
In February of 1993, my bishop sent not one, but two superintendents to my living room in Farmington Hills to convince me to come here. And in answer to my question, “Why me?”, they actually had a pair of specific ideas about what the Conference expected me to do once I got here….and why I was just the person to do them. But when I met the Staff-Parish Relations Committee….and a very good committee it was (thank you, Dale Parker)….neither of the things the superintendents wanted me to do surfaced as something the committee wanted done (or even thought needed doing).
But let’s elevate this discussion one notch higher. What happens when your marching orders come from the highest level….from the God who calls you rather than from the bureaucrats who appoint you or the congregants who pay you? More to the point, what happens when the preacher does his or her “thus says the Lord” thing? Hey, I have seen it happen. I’ve even seen it work once or twice. But I’ve also seen it get preachers crucified.
Which brings me nicely (and finally) to Jesus….who came to Jerusalem with expectations running rampant. But when he couldn’t meet them….or, truer to the text, wouldn’t meet them….it was curtains for him. You might even say that death was the price he paid for non-payment of rent. But let’s go back and reset the stage, the better to retell the story.
It’s Passover time. And Jesus, ever true to his Jewish tradition and rabbinic calling (yes, I believe Jesus more closely resembles a Jewish rabbi than a Baptist preacher), says to his friends: “Let’s eat Passover in Jerusalem.” This was no mere “slipping into town for a simple supper.” His entry into Jerusalem was what Harvey Cox calls “high drama staged as street theater, with his message so unmistakably clear that no one could miss it.” Cox continues:
With consummate and brazen cheekiness, Jesus was announcing that the reign of God was beginning. With the obvious corollary being that the reign of Caesar was drawing to a close. He did this by mimicking a well-known Roman custom, namely the triumphal entry into a conquered city.
The Romans had perfected the art of dazzling and intimidating triumphal processions. Work with me here. First, the conquering ruler of a vanquished city would march in on horseback, accompanied by his troops, followed by wagons overflowing with booty and prisoners (shuffling in chains) bringing up the rear. Second, the parade would be welcomed by cheering crowds who had been rousted out of their houses by Roman soldiers and herded into the streets with instructions to “make a lot of noise if you know what’s good for you.” Third, there would be speeches by local dignitaries welcoming the Romans….speeches that were more than likely written by the Romans (“Here, read this….and sound sincere”). Fourth, the Roman conqueror and his entourage would then proceed to the local temple to offer some kind of sacrifice to the local deity honored or worshiped there. It was as if they were saying: “Just because we have conquered you, we are not going to strip all of your beliefs and traditions from you.”
Seen in the light of a typical Roman takeover extravaganza, Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem was both a mockery and an insult. Riding into town, not on a prancing horse (like a warrior would), but on a donkey (like a peasant would), was Jesus’ way of mocking Roman authority. He was accompanied, not by armed legions, but by unarmed civilians (including more than a few children), almost all of them out-of-towners. And the Jews who welcomed him did so, not with speeches written by Romans, but by shouting an all-too-clear title….calling him “Son of David” (as in “Hosanna, Son of David”), thus anointing him as the legitimate heir to the throne that had been established in that city hundreds of years before. Then they waved royal palms, the political equivalent of “Jesus For King” placards. After which he fulfilled the rest of the formula by entering the temple, though not to offer sacrifices, but to throw out the money changers.
To a Roman, it was an outright “in your face” act of rebellion. And to a militant Jew (of whom there were plenty standing at the ready) it was a silent but stagy invitation to riot: “The Messiah is here. Now’s our day.”
Except Jesus then did a most unexpected and amazing thing. He turned the messianic assumption inside out, rewriting (as it were) the entire messianic script. The standard expectation was of a liberator who would deliver his people from foreign oppression, topple the present ruler, ascend to the throne and drink the sweet wine of victory. To which Jesus said (in effect): “Force is never the way to peace.” And in the great poker game called history, the King of Hearts will trump the King of Clubs….will trump the King of Diamonds….will trump the King of Spades (those three kings otherwise known as “Might, Money and Mortality”) every time out.
The strange thing about Palm Sunday is that, for the congregation of the long-suffering, it started out just like everybody expected it would, but ended up like nobody expected it would. Which is why those who started out waving, ended up not buying. It reminds me of Carl Levin who, in his first Senate campaign, spoke for an hour, passionately addressing himself to every conceivable issue. Finally he said: “Well now, enough of me, let’s have your questions.” And a voice from the rear of the room said: “Who else is running?”
Well, at last look, that city….this city….our city….any city….had better listen up. For God has not sent any other candidates, nor has God articulated any other platform. Which is why Palm Sunday is not simply about one small ride there and then, but about one great dream here and now. And the church is the stable for that rider, as well as the keeper of that dream. It brings to mind the little kid who crawled into his parents’ bed after an hour of fitfully trying to fall asleep in his. “What are you doing here?” his father asked. In response to which the kid said: “I want to sleep in your room because there aren’t any good dreams in mine.” My friends, any church worth its Palm Sunday salt ought to know what those dreams are and how to articulate them.
Which brings to mind the lady, tired of living alone, who went into the pet store to purchase an antidote to loneliness. She settled on a parrot, figuring it could talk to her. Except it didn’t. So she went back and asked the owner what was going on. And the owner said: “Why don’t you buy a mirror? Parrots like to look at themselves.” So she did, only to come back a couple of days later complaining that the mirror hadn’t done the trick. So he owner said: “Why don’t you buy a little swing? Parrots like to swing while they look at themselves.” But the swing didn’t work either. Several days later, the owner of the pet shop said: “How about if I sell you a ladder? Parrots like to climb. Maybe then he’ll talk.” But rather than climb, the parrot died. Totally distraught, the lady reported the bird’s demise to the owner of the pet shop. Not knowing quite what to do next, he said: “Didn’t the parrot say anything before he died?” And the woman responded: “Well, yes, just before he died he said: ‘Don’t they sell any food at that pet store?’”
Well, we sell it here. Which is why people are instinctively drawn to Palm Sunday services. Not just because they like music. Not just because they like children. Not just because they like parades. And not just because they want a palm frond to take home and put over the dresser mirror until it yellows, hardens and cracks. Rather, they come because they know that the food this solitary rider delivers to the city is not so much the food of survival, but the food of salvation. And they know that some day….maybe even this day….he will reenact his famous ride. Only this time it will all be different. The impossible will happen. Meaning that we will take him in….hear him out….get it right….and finally implement some of the things that make for peace.
* * * * *
Palm Sunday, one more time. I know there are people here today because the word is out that (on Palm Sunday) this is the place to be. And I suspect there are people here today because the word is out that (on Palm Sunday) I am the sight to see. Which makes me worry and wonder each year: “If I wake up and don’t feel it, should I fake it?” Except I always feel it, even when the skies are dark….the weather, cold….the news, bad. When I heard Sharon Ulep sing “The Holy City” as the introit (especially when she went for the B-flat at the end), I stood there with my wife and both of us had tears rolling down our faces. Once again, I was pumped. Because Palm Sunday, while fall-out day for many, is re-up day for me. As it is for the lady who, every year, leaves here with tears in her eyes saying, “This is my Easter.” Not because she’s flying to Florida between now and next Sunday. And not because she disrespects next week’s assurance that she shall one day dwell with Jesus in the skies. But because what she wants even more….even now….is a renewed invitation to fall in step with Jesus before she dies.
So let’s not fast-forward the calendar.
He is not dead yet.
She is not dead yet.
The guy (still in his thirties) who wants me to make sure we sing “The Palms” at his funeral is not dead yet.
We are not dead yet.
It is far from over yet.
So look alive, church.
To your feet, church.
Your king is here, church.
Give thanks and sing.
Note: I am indebted to Harvey Cox for his detailed description of Roman victory parades. You can read the details in his book, When Jesus Came to Harvard. As for the parrot story, I don’t have the faintest idea where I got it. So to some unknown contributor, “Thanks.” As for the guy who wants me to make sure we sing “The Palms” at his funeral, I think he is in his thirties. But, better yet, he is nowhere near dead. The fact that I am sixty-four adds a note of irony to his request.
