Jesus and the Big Apple 3/24/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Luke 19:28-42 and John 1:45-51

If you would believe it, it was a mere 1973 years ago that Jesus woke from sleep, greeted the dawn, attended to the necessities of the morning, and then said (to everyone within earshot): “Friends, let’s go to town.”

Nobody talks about “going to town” anymore. The image has the words “country bumpkin” written all over it. All week long in the boonies….the outposts….the villages….the farms…. herding cattle and mending fences….until, late of a Saturday afternoon, it becomes time to bathe the body, stuff the wallet, saddle the horse, crank the Chevy, and head for someplace with a few more lights and a lot more action.

Today, there is hardly any place where “town” isn’t….and hardly any time when “town” isn’t. I seldom hear anybody talk of “going to town” anymore. Even those who talk about “nights on the town” could just as well be talking about Tuesdays as Saturdays. And to whatever degree “town” be equated with the nearest and biggest city, I am preaching to many this morning who haven’t “been to town” in years.

Not that Jerusalem was as foreign to Jesus as Detroit is to many of us. Depending upon which chronology of his ministry you extrapolate from which gospel, Jesus had been there a few times. Certainly more than two. Probably less than ten. I think it’s fair to say he didn’t go often, and didn’t stay long. Jesus was a northern boy….village boy….“field and stream” boy….in short, a country boy.

Over the past several weeks, I have been working my way through Martin Marty’s A Short History of Christianity, wherein can be found these words:

            In the early years of the Roman Empire, the years when Caesar Octavianus (later named Augustus) was emperor, when Herod the Great was ending his reign in Judea, when Roman procurators ruled the Jews, and when writers of the Augustun Age (like Ovid, Horace and Livi) were flourishing, there was born in Palestine, to a girl in Nazareth, a child who seemed destined to obscurity in the carpenter shop of her husband. He was given a name common in the period, Jesus. Little is known of his early years. When, at about age 30, he began preaching, he was rejected by his own townspeople as a carpenter’s son, and by the urbanites to the south as an upstart from Nazareth.

Those words are both stinging and true. He was “an upstart from Nazareth,” a place from which almost anybody was “destined for obscurity.” Even one of his own disciples reflected Nazareth’s low status by wondering, out loud, how anything good could come from a place like that. And, in all likelihood, nothing much would have happened to Jesus….positively or negatively….had he stayed there.

Come late May, when this year’s clergy retirees assemble on the stage of the Annual Conference at Adrian College, we will be introduced to a man who has served the last 36 years in one church. I am sure he has done good work there. I am equally sure they value him highly there. But there aren’t five of you here this morning who could name his name….or his church’s name. In part, because he prefers it that way. But, also in part, because he never went to town. Truth be told, he pastored longer than Jesus lived. Not that Jesus couldn’t have pastored till retirement, had he but listened to those who said: “Don’t go to town.”

But there were voices….of history, destiny and deity….that counseled otherwise. So Jesus went to Jerusalem….the biggest possible place (we’re talking “population”)….at the busiest possible time (we’re talking “Passover”). And he did not last the week. No, he did not last the week.

But that was not perfectly clear on Palm Sunday. Maybe to him it was. But I am not certain, even of that. For, given my belief that, in the enactment of God’s plan, a measure of flexibility must be granted to history in its unfolding, I have to allow for the possibility that it could (conceivably) have turned out differently.

Certainly, Jesus had an agenda. But he was far from alone. Others had agendas, too. Among his own people….the Jews….one counts at least four groups with four agendas. And as he rode into Jerusalem, each of those groups might have written his script differently, depending upon their ideology.

Some Jews were Zealots….meaning militants….meaning people energized around physical confrontation with Roman authority. Many Zealots were Galileans (meaning northerners). But Jesus, himself, was a Galilean from the north. And there were camps in Galilee where would-be guerrilla fighters were trained and semi-sophisticated weapons were fashioned. One of Jesus’ disciples is never referred to by his birth name without also adding, “the Zealot.” Two other disciples are called “Sons of Thunder” and may well have had leanings toward this group. And the word “Iscariot” (as in Judas Iscariot) is not Judas’ last name. Rather, it is likely a title, identifying him with a society of dagger men or brigands (the “sicarii” meaning a crudely fashioned blade of dagger-like dimensions). What did the Zealots hope that Jesus would do inJerusalem? Polarize and provoke, that’s what the Zealots hoped Jesus would do in Jerusalem.

A smaller number of Jews were Essenes. For all intents and purposes, they were a group of celibate Jewish monks. And provocation was what they feared most and desired least. So fearful were they of confrontation that, by the time Jesus rode into the city, most of them had left the city. Where had they gone? To create a small, monastic-like community by the Dead Sea….a community today remembered only by the name Qumran….but popularized by the relatively recent discovery of the Dead Sea scrolls. Jesus may have been linked to the Essenes through baptism, given that John the Baptist, prior to his beheading, may have lived among them. Had Jesus encountered any Essenes in Jerusalem, they would have counseled not provocation, but prayer.

The largest group of Jews, of course, were Pharisees. And for as many harsh things as Jesus sometimes said about them, it is a pretty good bet that he numbered himself among them. Coming, as he said, not to overthrow the law but fulfill the law, he shared the Pharisees’ delight in the law, regretting departures from it almost as much as they did. And since it is commonly known that the more cosmopolitan the city, the more sloppy people get with the law, the Pharisees….upon seeingJesus ride into Jerusalem….would have counseled neither provocation nor prayer, but purification (as in “tidy things up and straighten people out”). I suppose one could argue that Jesus’ act of driving the money changers from the Temple, while surprising in its aggressiveness, was a very Pharisee-like thing to do.

And then, of course, there were the Saducees. Jerusalem was full of them. Who, while they were Jews, had learned how to get along with Romans…..gained the trust of Romans….to the point of prospering in spite of Romans. Everybody knows that in hard times, there are people who “get along by going along.” It wasn’t quite to the point of “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” But, concerning the Romans, the Saducees had learned that you could do quite nicely (economically, politically, even religiously) if you didn’t go out of your way to antagonize them. Consider the fact that the Sanhedrin….the Jewish supreme court (which pronounced the initial death sentence on Jesus)….did not lack for Saducees. So any Saducean sympathizers Jesus may have had in Jerusalem would have counseled him not to provoke, not to pray, not even to purify, so much as to placate (“We’ve heard about you, Jesus. In time, we might even rally around you. But for now, don’t make waves.”).

Don’t you see that everybody had expectations of him that morning? But not the same expectations. Preachers understand this. We ride into a new church….meet the committee….read the job description….preach the first sermon….attend the first reception….eat the first cookie…. and then smile inwardly, saying to ourselves: “What a good feeling. From first appearances, it would seem that we are all on the same page.”

Then, one by one, they start to come….into the office….closing the door….introducing themselves (“I just thought you’d like to know a little bit more about me, Reverend”). Which is always followed by the introduction of an agenda: “Well, Reverend, not to take up too much of your precious time….but one of my reasons for coming today is to give you my take on a little situation in our church that probably hasn’t been made clear to you yet. But, given your great beginning and your obvious skills, I just know you’ll want to do something about it, once I give you my reading of it.”

So, who do you listen to? And how much weight do you give to what you hear? Those are the questions that make ministry difficult (even more than “What did I do to deserve this?….Why don’t I feel anything when I pray?….(and) Do you really think I will see my loved one in eternity?”). I think it is fairly common knowledge that my beleaguered and beloved colleague (a mile and a half to the north) is suspended from his pulpit this morning, not because of words (as a writer) he failed to footnote, but because of expectations (as a leader) he failed to meet.

Mike Davis knows the problem. Who is Mike Davis? Mike Davis is the coach of the Indiana Hoosier basketball team (which, on Thursday night, broke a small chip off of my heart, by beating the Dukies….and which, given yesterday’s victory in Lexington, now moves on to the Final Four).

But Mike Davis is the “Rodney Dangerfield” of college coaching, quoted as saying the other day: “I win 20 games two years running and they don’t like me. I win the Big Ten title and they don’t like me. I qualify for the Big Dance my first two years on the job, and they still don’t like me.” Why is that? Because he doesn’t wear a red sweater, throw occasional chairs, and answer to the name of “Bobby.” That’s why. And if those are the primary criteria, he never will meet expectations.

How many marriages regularly bite the dust….not because of anything either partner does, or because of anyone either partner sees….but because there were expectations regarding the marriage that weren’t realized. How easy it is to move from “this hasn’t turned out like I expected” to “you must (therefore) not be the one I needed.” But if you wait until all the expectations are both understandable and acceptable, you will never marry….you will never coach….you will never preach….and you will never go to town.

Into the city Jesus came….as if to confirm, once again, Bill Coffin’s wonderful axiom that “you can’t save the world from a safe address.” And his entrance excited enough people so as to bring their song-singing, coat-throwing, palm-waving, hosanna-chanting behavior to the attention of the fearful, who said: “Teacher, stifle this disturbance….or (in short) shut these people up.” To which he replied: “I suppose I could do that. But if I did, the very stones over which we are strolling will scream. So I won’t….shut anybody up, I mean.”

There are those who say we shouldn’t make a big deal out of Palm Sunday, given how things turned out. They are joined by those who say we shouldn’t make a big deal out of Palm Sunday, given those who turned back. But I would point out two things.

1.      Jesus gave those revelers permission and encouragement to do exactly what they did, and say exactly what they said.

2.      In spite of the fact that they may have misunderstood the eventual nature of his kingdom, they were cheering the right king. We haven’t always, you know.

* * * * *

For years, I was a night person. Read at night. Wrote at night. Did my most creative thinking at night. Sometimes stared at the television, late into the night. Those days are done. I am no longer comfortably nocturnal. Which is why I couldn’t care less if Letterman moves one way and Koppel, another (even though I am “into” Koppel more than I am “into” Letterman). There was a day when I was a Tonight Show junkie. Currently, that means Jay Leno. Before him, that meant (help me here)….that’s right, Johnny Carson. And before him (to whatever degree life existed before Johnny Carson), there was (more help please)….you’ve got it, Jack Paar.

But I doubt that any of you remember the night Jack Paar said to his New York studio audience: “I want to introduce you to a man who has been in all the news as well as on the cover of all the major magazines, because he has liberated his people from a tyrant and a dictator.” And upon seeing him, the audience rose as one….clapping….cheering….standing on the seats…. dancing in the aisles….raising a din that seemed as if it would never die. And who was it all for? Fidel Castro, that’s who it was for.

We don’t always get it right, do we?

But they did….lo those 1973 years ago. To be sure, they may not have known everything he would do….everything he would be….everything he would offer….and certainly not everything he would ask. They may not have had the most scholastic or panoramic view of his kingdom. And they probably didn’t know even a fraction of “the things that would make for peace,” let alone see “heaven opened and angels ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.”

But, praise God Almighty, they had the right guy. Oh yes, my friends, they had the right guy.

Note: My calculation that Palm Sunday took place 1973 years ago is based on the assumption that Jesus was born in 4 BC and died in 29 AD. My description of Zealots, Essenes, Pharisees and Saducees is taken from a number of sources, most specifically Jim Fleming of the Jerusalem Center for Biblical Studies and Thomas Cahill in his relatively-recent book entitled Desire of the Everlasting Hills. There is some question about the equation of “brigands” in 29 AD with Zealots who were historically referenced in 66 AD, but there is little doubt that Jesus was aware of informal revolutionaries who resisted the dominant oppression. Meanwhile, Martin Marty’s status as a historian is all but unassailable and his A Short History of Christianity is a good refresher course for any preacher who hasn’t plowed through the material since seminary.

The reference to my colleague “a mile and a half to the north” relates to a clerical suspension based on charges of plagiarism (a story that has made its way all the way to the venerable pages of the New York Times). A Fred Craddock audiotape recalled the Jack Paar/Fidel Castro story. And Peter Gomes (Memorial Church, Harvard) gave me additional justification (as if I need any) for making a “really big deal” out of Palm Sunday when he wrote:

            When we have our own palm procession here, the Memorial Church is transformed from its usual frosty decorum into a splendid chaos, where there is movement, noise, a little confusion and a lot of action. And it is wonderful when intelligent people don’t quite know what to do. When there is a spectacle and you do not participate in the spectacle, even then you are a part of the spectacle. A church school pupil once told me that he liked this service better than any other because there was a lot going on. He didn’t exactly know what was going on, but there was lots of it and he liked it.

On Spending Palm Sunday at Some Nice Little Place in the North

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Luke 18:31-34, 19:28-39

The last time I was sick enough to require an antibiotic, I remember the doctor’s stern warning: “Take the whole bottle….every last capsule….even if you feel better halfway through….which you probably will. It’s the only sure way to prevent a relapse.” I obeyed, but found myself offended.

Relapse! The very word is offensive. But I, of all people, should know better. “Relapse” is the stock and trade of my professional life. People relapse all the time. They relapse into doubt…. into sin….into depression….and into dysfunctional ways of doing and thinking, as they play out scripts written for them two or three generations in the past. Which brings me to temptation. For temptation is yet another thing into which people relapse.

Shortly after I came here, I preached a trio of sermons on the temptations of Jesus in the wilderness.

·      Turn stones into bread (feeding yourself and anybody else who is hungry).

·      Defy gravity, and throw yourself to the ground from the pinnacle of that building (proving that God will not let you be bruised or broken).

·      Swear your allegiance to me (and, by so doing, control the destiny of the nations).

Who made those offers? The Devil made those offers! The Devil without? Or the Devil within? That’s it….you’ve got it.

Interestingly enough, all three of Jesus’ temptations were to power rather than sex. Which makes me wonder why we, when talking about our temptations, always see it the other way around. Just asking.

At any rate, after 40 days, Jesus left the wilderness. And the Tempter left Jesus. But did the Tempter leave Jesus for good? Personally, I think not. Consider some interesting words from the Letter to the Hebrews. In scholarly circles, the author is known for his “high Christology,” meaning that he gives us an image of Jesus that is exalted and elevated. He puts Jesus on a pedestal, calling him the new “high priest” of Israel.

Yet listen to how he answers those who claimed that Jesus was not quite like ordinary men. He says: “No, in all ways he was tempted as we are tempted.” And when the writer says “all ways,” he means just that. He means that Jesus faced temptation on as many different fronts as I face it. And he means that Jesus experienced the “dogged persistence of temptation” as I experience it. Howard Thurman once wrote: “I do not think that Jesus dealt with temptation once, conquered it, put it behind him, and went on triumphing in the light of his conquest, never to be bothered again. I think that every battle Jesus won, sooner or later had to be re-won.” And I think that Howard Thurman was right.

Modern-day theologian Paul Tillich was fond of saying that he “wrestled with demons every morning of his life.” Another Paul (the apostle, this time) would say a clear “amen” to that, as would any dried-out and recovering alcoholic who knows that “having this thing licked” is an idea that is only one glass from rebuttal.

In fact, it is hard to read the gospel without becoming aware of the fact that Jesus, himself, seemed attuned to the incredible persistence of temptation. Jesus talked about the link between the eye and the deed….between sin as an “entertained idea” and sin as an “accomplished act.” In one of his harsher judgments, Jesus made the suggestion that “if your eye (which is often the point of entree for temptation) causes you to sin, pluck it out.”

We talked about that in my Men’s Study Group. Most Wednesdays, we get between 45 and 50 guys down in Thomas Parlor. When I talked about the command of Jesus to “pluck out the eye that offends (by even the merest hint of a lustful look),” somebody said: “Ritter, if we all did that, you’d be preaching to a roomful of blind guys.”

All of which calls to mind that colorful, Methodist, circuit-riding preacher from the days of frontier America, Peter Cartwright. Cartwright used to ride into a settlement or village, Bible in hand, crying at the top of his lungs: “I smell Hell here.” But one wonders, how did he know? Who told him? Who tipped him off? Was it something in the air that he smelled? Or was it something in himself that he smelled? “I do battle with the demons every morning,” said Tillich. And if you but change the time of day to fit your schedule, I think you will find that he speaks for you. I know he speaks for me. And I suspect he speaks for Jesus.

With that in mind, let me suggest that Palm Sunday follows what I choose to call the “fourth great temptation of our Lord.” I am not alone in this conviction, but I will make my case without help. Drop back with me, the better that we might look in on Jesus in Jericho. In the company of his disciples, Jesus has just spent several days there. Delightful place….Jericho. One of the oldest cities in the world, it has a history that goes back 11,000 years. It is a spring-fed agricultural oasis, located on the infamous West Bank of the Jordan. One locates it just above the spot where the Jordan River empties into the Dead Sea. The climate is warm and dry, supporting the growing of much citrus fruit….including some of the largest oranges I have ever seen. It was at the Battle of Jericho that the first Canaanite city fell to the Israelites. Today, it is a lovely town where mostly Arabs dwell. It is also biblically famous because the Jerusalem-Jericho road was the scene of the most famous mugging in history, and Jericho was also the home of Zacchaeus, the moral midget (sometimes identified as a tax collector).

But Jericho is also the scene of a rather famous fork in the road. As Jesus and the disciples are walking the road that leads out of Jericho, they approach the fork. One road goes north to Galilee. The other goes south and west to Jerusalem. Now I don’t know how you identify temptation, but I know that a fork in the road is as good a place as any to find it. Consider Jesus’ alternatives.

Shall I go north to Galilee? There are good reasons to do so. I love it there. They love me there. My home is there. I have done good work there. I can be safe there. And my disciples would prefer that we return there. They have told me so. My mother, who sometimes thinks I am mad, would prefer I go back there. She has told me so. My father is dead. The family business may be suffering. There are people who depend on me in Galilee. God depends on me in Galilee. I could do good things for God in Galilee. If I go home now, I can live in a place where I am known. And from all corners of that region, people will come to me in search of whatever comfort I may be able to give.

If I go north, I am pretty much assured that I will live a normal life and die in my bed. And I can use the additional time. After all, there is this strange power that seems to emanate from me, the potential of which I am only now beginning to understand. And whatever that power may be, there are people who seem to want it. Isn’t that reason enough for going to Galilee? What could be wrong with that?

Of course, I could go south to Jerusalem….and almost certain glory. My people need a leader. They cry for one. Some of them just cry. Perhaps this thing is bigger than me. Perhaps this is the voice of history drafting me. If drafted, shall I run? If elected, shall I serve? Vox Populi, Vox Dei….the voice of the people and the voice of God….how do I tell them apart? Could they be one? They have been before. Besides, who will step forward if not me? My nation does not lack for people who are primed to draw the sword against Rome. I understand what they feel, given that the same hot blood of nationalism also runs through my veins. But others possess less patience and discernment than myself. I should know. Do I not have within my closest circle of twelve, two who are called “Sons of Thunder,” and one who is connected to that group of insurrectionists sometimes called “The Dagger Society”? And if, in the process, a little glory were to come my way, is that always bad? What can be wrong with glory if it comes by accident rather than quest? 

To which the Devil said: “Right on. Don’t worry about it. Give them what they want. Be the Messiah that they want. Feed them. Dazzle them. Lead them. If things get a bit bloody in the beginning, you’ll be able to work things around to your way of thinking, once the victory is won.” Whereupon Jesus may well have said to the Devil:

You know, that makes sense. I could get into that. And a part of me would like to. But something about it just doesn’t fit right.

To which I think the Devil said: “Gee! That’s too bad. I could have made you a star. You would have been great. They would have loved you in Jerusalem. But now all bets are off. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if they turned on you.”

And that conversation, whether it occurred or not, contains hints of a third alternative.

I can go south to Jerusalem, all the while being who I am….and, more importantly, refusing to be who I am not. I can go to Jerusalem letting the chips fall where they may, even though (at the end of the day) I may find myself numbered with the chips.

And those are the choices:

·      I can go to Galilee and die in my bed.

·      I can go to Jerusalem and die in a palace.

·      Or I can go to Jerusalem and die on a hill.

It is so simple to see things in the rearview mirror, and so difficult to see things when they are still in front of you. It is especially hard to see them when standing at a fork in the road. Because the fork in the road is always where decisions are most agonizing. The fork in the road is the place where one is forced to do the pro-ing and con-ing….the on-the-one-handing and on-the-other-handing….which is the stuff of life. And the fork in the road is always where the Tempter is, because he (she) is always at the point where one is forced to separate the bad from the good….the good from the better….or the better from the best. And there will always be people who will help you rationalize any choice you make.

Not all that long ago, it was late of an afternoon in this very sanctuary. The sun was slanting. The room was filling. Doris was playing. A soprano was singing. A camera was waiting. A couple hundred hearts were beating. One young man’s blood pressure was rising. And two mothers were nervously twisting their handkerchiefs.

Suddenly the song ended. The soprano sat. The organ swelled. The adrenaline surged. The bridesmaids walked. The people rose. And for one last time, the father looked at his daughter and said: “I just want you to know that you don’t have to go through with this.”

“You don’t have to go through with this.” Somebody should have said that to Jesus (at the Jericho fork). But people did say that to Jesus (at the Jericho fork). “Don’t go,” they said. “Veer north,” they said.

You wouldn’t have to ask me twice. At least that part of me that buys into the Michigan bromide that the “road to salvation” begins on any northbound ramp of I-75. The way we talk about the “north country” gives us away. “By the time I pass West Branch….Clare…St. Helen…. Roscommon….Grayling….all the stress has drained from my body, even as life oozes back in….pore by grateful pore.”

Theologian and novelist Fred Buechner lives part-time on the top of a small mountain in Vermont. He claims that it is not uncommon for houseguests to come for weekends in the summer and fall instantly in love with his place.

Inevitably (he says) we will be sitting on the terrace looking at the hills turn lavender as they are apt to do toward evening. Suddenly, and without warning, one of my guests will say: “There’s just one thing I don’t understand. Why on earth do you ever leave this place?”

Well, as the owner of just such a place, I sometimes ask myself the same question. The answer, in part, suggests itself. I leave to make a living so that I can continue to afford the kind of place one never wants to leave. But there’s more to it. I leave because it is too early in my life to withdraw from so much of my life. I leave because there are needs in me that cannot be met there….drives in me that cannot be fulfilled there….truths in me that cannot be expressed there….and callings in me that cannot be answered there. I leave because there is more to the world than beauty and more to my soul than tranquility. I leave because there is still a restlessness that ferments inside me. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I call the restlessness “God.” On Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, I call the restlessness “nervous energy.” But on most days (including Sundays) I call the restlessness “vocation.” I leave to carry out my vocation. And I leave because the idea of never leaving sounds like a denial of everything I am about.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t begrudge anybody moving there. Neither do I begrudge anybody moving to Florida or Fairfield Glade….Arizona or Acupulco….Bayport, Bay Village, Bay Harbor, or even Bayview. No, I don’t begrudge that at all. What I begrudge are people who do not live where they move….give where they move….sweat, toil, care and bleed where they move….and who stop listening for God (lest anything difficult be asked of them) where they move. I am talking about people who “pack it up” one week and “pack it in” the next.

Listen to this from Olive Schreiner:

I sometimes find myself thinking what a terrible thing it would be if, when death came to you, there stood by the foot of your bed, not your family and loved ones, not the visual reminders of crimes you had committed, but, instead, all of the visions that had come to you in life….visions that you had consistently thrust into the background. And there, as you lay dying, they gather around you one last time with large and reproachful eyes, saying: “We came to you. Only you could have given us life. Now we are dead forever.”

Or this, from a remorseful Russian rabbi named Susya.

Last night I dreamed I had died and stood with my soul before the Gate of Heaven. A voice rang out: “Susya, while you were alive, why were you not a David?” And on my behalf, my soul replied: “Because there was not created within me the great skills of a David.”

Then the voice continued: “Susya, while you were yet alive, why were you not a Moses?” Again my soul made answer: “Neither was there created within me the enormous ability of a Moses.”

Once more, the voice was heard, saying: “Susya, while you were yet alive, why were you not a Susya?” And my soul and I were silent….and very much ashamed.

I suppose that whatever else Palm Sunday is about, it is about Jesus being the best possible Jesus. Which meant, for him, going southbound on I-75, down the ramp that leads to the city.

You don’t have to understand it. But you have to admire it. And were you to tag along with it, it would be nice. For his sake. But, more so, for yours.

An elderly patient in a frayed flannel robe shuffles back and forth in a hospital corridor. His is the aimless movement of one who has outlived his time, and most of his functions. Then, a name is called. His name. He stops and turns toward the sound. Which, as it turns out, is coming from a nurse’s aide who is pushing a cart loaded with crushed ice and water pitchers.

The old man waits, leaning against the wall. When the aide reaches him, a mumbled conversation ensues. Focus now (if you will) on the old man’s face….as first disbelief….then joy….and finally, determination, register there. He is being drafted to help distribute pitchers of ice. Need has saved him. Mercy (in a starched pink uniform) has just earned an honorary degree in psychology. The old man still shuffles. His hands still tremble. And the efficiency ratings for ice distribution drop drastically for the rest of the afternoon. But, in his eyes, you can tell….can’t you….that he has been touched by grace.

The hospital aide fears for his stamina. Pointing down the corridor, she says: “We’ve got to go clear to the end of the hall.” To which the old man replies: “Honey, I’d go to the end of the world with you.”

Which is why….at every fork in the road….I keep falling in step with Jesus.

·      Still not certain of my motives.

·      Still not clear on my destination.

But I have come to trust his leading, don’t you see. And I find that the one thing I can’t be without is the pleasure of his company.

Note:  I am indebted to Howard Thurman’s classic treatment of the temptations of Jesus for the general direction of this sermon. Carlyle Marney also chipped in with his marvelous story about the elderly man and the ice pitchers.