Forewarned is Forearmed 12/6/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 10:16-23

In tallying up the numbers for my year-end pastor’s report to the Charge Conference, I discovered that in 1998 I did twice as many baptisms as I did funerals. I don’t know what that means, save for the fact that, in my little corner of Christendom, more people seem to be coming than going. Which feels good, personally….and bodes well, institutionally. It also occurs to me, professionally, that most of you would rather attend a baptism than a funeral. It’s shorter, for one thing. Less sad, for another. And it is always easier to say “hello” to someone coming into the family of God, than “good-bye” to someone who would appear to be leaving it.

Yet, if the truth be known, there is one thing about baptism that is more ominous than obvious. And that consists in the fact that life in Christ (which is what the baptizee is being baptized into) is not always going to be a bed of roses….and that the church (which is going to do everything in its power to encourage, equip and educate said child) is not necessarily going to be able to protect him. For baptism is the introductory rite of discipleship. And discipleship, in its most elemental form, is the act of following Jesus. And Jesus, more often than not, is headed for Jerusalem (geographically), and a cross (theologically). And although there will be a crown on the other side of the cross, there may not necessarily be a crown on this side.

For as much as I have talked about baptism (and from time to time, I have talked about it long and well), I suspect that half the people who come to it, look upon it as an inoculation rather than an induction. “Inoculation theology” begins when grandma (often Roman Catholic grandma) says: “You’d better hustle on down to the church and get that baby done….before something happens.” What grandma means by “something happening,” is: “What if that baby should die, unbaptized….and not be able to go where all good babies should be able to go, in the event that they ‘go’ before their time?” Grandma’s assumption is that baptism will fix that up. One watery inoculation….a few prayers….and the phrase “onto glory” is all but a done deal. Baptism performed. Grace guaranteed. Eternity assured. Sweet little Priscilla, protected.

Which is not how we Protestants look upon such things. We believe that what the church does, sacramentally, does not launch God’s grace….as if it wouldn’t be there, had we not done it. We believe that what the church does, sacramentally, points to God’s grace….which was already there, long before we ever thought of doing it.

But while you are wiping the sweat from your brow and uttering, “Well, that’s a relief,” I would remind you that while “inoculation theology” is out, “induction theology” is in….meaning that baptism is a form of enlistment, to the degree that it would be entirely appropriate to end every act of baptism with the terse liturgical pronouncement: “Now your troubles are just beginning.” No church says this, of course. But the Orthodox church symbolizes it in a rather unique way. Just before the priest admits someone to the sacrament of baptism, he whacks them hard on the chest with his pectoral cross. This is done to remind everyone present that the cross hurts, and one day the baptizee may have to pay a price for taking it up.

Perhaps each baptism certificate….which Janet so carefully letters, and I so carefully sign…. should come with a pre-pasted warning label from some spiritual Surgeon General: “Caution, this water could be dangerous to your health.” My mother always warned me about getting my feet wet. But, to my fading recollection, she never said anything about my head.

Well, we do have a warning to issue this morning. But it doesn’t come from the Surgeon General. It comes from Jesus himself. “Behold,” he says to us (which is a 50-cent religious word for “quiet down and listen up”): “Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves. So be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.” Which would hardly qualify Jesus as an television evangelist. For who would accept an invitation to something that all but guarantees personal discomfort? I mean, who would watch his programs? Who would fund his network? Who would buy his books? There’s not a lot of warm fuzzies in that warning. Which is why I’ve seldom preached it, and my colleagues consistently underplay it.

Still, there it is. So what shall we make of it? Well, we could try to get inside the animals involved, meaning “wolves, sheep, serpents and doves.” That might be interesting, since few of us encounter any of these species on a daily basis.

Who are the sheep? Well, they’re us. Or supposed to be us. At least the text assumes that they’re us. Which may not always be true, given that most of us have a wolf suit tucked away somewhere….which still fits us. It fits us, because it is us. Which tends to confuse Little Red Riding Hood, because sometimes the wolf really is her grandmother….her grandfather….her funny uncle….her philandering husband….or the charming woodsman who rides out of nowhere to come to her rescue. Sometimes the wolf is even Little Red Riding Hood, herself. If the suit fits, acknowledge it….(“Why yes, those are my teeth….my fangs….my fur”).

But let’s assume, for the most part, that the wolves are “out there,” more than they are “in here.” How can they be identified? In my just-concluded class on the Book of Revelation, the wolves came clearly marked as “seven headed beasts, dragons, tempters, temptresses, lions, tigers and bears.” To be a Christian in the Book of Revelation is to feel a little like Dorothy and her helpless friends, wandering through a frightening wood and wondering if she will ever make it safely back to Kansas.

Our wolves, lions, tigers and bears….the ones among which we sheep must walk….come disguised and closeted. They are far more chameleon-like, making them all the more bewildering and all the more dangerous. Somebody should pass a law that, in the presence of sheep, wolves must immediately (and clearly) identify themselves. But nobody has made such a law. Which is why few of us can tell them when we see them.

In that marvelous vision known as the “Peaceable Kingdom” (which we find in Isaiah 65), there is the image of the wolf and the lamb feeding together. Well, let me tell you a story about that. Back in the days of pre-perestroika Russia….when hers was a name that made all of us tremble….the Russians brought an exhibit to the World’s Fair that was entitled “World Peace.” In it was a large cage. And in the cage were a little lamb and a Russian wolf….feeding peaceably together. As an exhibit, it was most impressive. And as the fair unfolded, it was spectacularly attended. One day, however, somebody asked the curator the obvious question: “How in the world do you do it?” To which he replied: “Oh, it’s really very simple. We replace the lamb every morning.”

I am not going to ask you if you heard that. I am going to ask you if you felt that. I suspect you did if you are parents….or remember having been parents….or are still trying to get up enough nerve to become parents. Parents know all about sending lambs out to live among wolves. Nowhere seems safe. No one seems trustable. And you can’t be everywhere….every day….every minute. A parent told me, just last Sunday morning: “If we have to move to protect our kid, we’ll move.” And that parent lives here….where all kinds of parents would love to move, if only they could.

But maybe we could all go outstate….like to Muskegon. Where last week we learned that sometimes the very kids the parents thought were lambs, were really wolves….and it was the parents who cried (with their dying breath): “My God, it’s a jungle out here.” Nobody’s immune. Everybody’s vulnerable. We are all “sheep in the midst of wolves.” Or, as my favorite philosopher, Norm Peterson, once said: “It’s a dog eat dog world, and I’m wearing Milk Bone underwear.”

So….be wise as serpents and innocent as doves. Two more animals. Two more strategies. Let’s start with the serpents.

The Christian faith is not now….nor was it ever….meant to be a battle plan for losers. We were not put here for the sole purpose of dying heroically, so that those who mock us, prey upon us and knowingly make sport of us, might live profitably. Jesus is a practical man. And this little warning reveals his practical side. “Know the wolf culture,” he says. “Not so as to copy it, but to defend yourselves against it.” We may not always be able to beat the wolves at their game. But we darned well better know what their game is….and be guided by a better one.

But what does this have to do with serpents? Well, I’ll tell you. Don’t make this harder than it is. This isn’t rocket science. The serpent being referenced is not some mythical monster or prehistoric reptile. The serpent being referenced is the common, ordinary snake. And one of the things that is more true of snakes (than of any other creature, save a large-antlered Michigan deer in November) is that snakes are incredibly aware of everything that goes on around them. A snake is sensitive to its surroundings because, as a slitherer, its entire body is a live wire of sensations. I am not a zoologist. But those who are, tell me that snakes survive by missing nothing about their environment that could offer a clue as to how to interpret it. Snakes are not so much sneaky, as crafty. “Go learn from them,” Jesus said. “Then copy them.” Which is not an invitation to cynicism, but an admonition to always know what is going on around you.

I would dwell more on that, but I suspect most of you find that part easy. Too easy. And too all-consuming. Craftiness, you’ve mastered. Innocence is another story. So what does it mean?

I am not sure that it means “unspoiled” (although it could). If it meant “unspoiled,” I think Jesus might have said: “Be wise as serpents and innocent as virgins” (given that the words “innocent” and “virgin” are clearly linked elsewhere in scripture). Instead, I think that the word “innocent” (rather than meaning “unspoiled”) means “unjaded.” For when you become crafty….clever…. savvy in the ways of the world….when you get enough experience under your belt so as to be able to spot the wolves a mile away, all the while devising plans to foil them at their game….then you tend to become jaded, cynical, even despairing. It is only a matter of time before people who keep their eyes peeled for the worst, find the worst. Until, eventually, they find nothing but the worst. And the sickest of these people, we call “paranoid.” While the remainder of these people, we call “sad.” For while they can spot all of the dangers, they miss most of the joys. I mean, if warnings are all you ever give to your children….your spouses….your pastors….yourselves….who needs you? But that may be the wrong question. The fact is, everybody needs you. It’s just that nobody wants you.

So….“be innocent as doves.” A dove, don’t you see, is a symbol of the Holy Spirit. The dove is not a dumb bird. The dove is not a weak bird. The dove is not a fragile and endangered bird. The dove, biblically understood, is a bird that reminds us that God is very much at work in the world….our world….this feisty, fleshly, jungle-like, wolf-infested world….doing God only knows what. Which means just what it says, don’t you see….that when we think we know everything….and much of what we know is bad….we are saved by what we don’t know….what only God knows….and may be trying to reveal. But we can’t see it. Because we look through snake’s eyes rather than dove’s eyes. And you know where snakes tend to hang out…..versus where doves tend to hang out….don’t you?

I wrote this sermon up north (where I went for a day to write it, along with half of next week’s). Thursday morning, I am in my favorite Elk Rapids coffee shop having a “morning special.” That’s eggs (scrambled), bacon (lean), hash browns (extra crispy), toast (whole wheat), and several cups of coffee (all for $3.85….the cheapest way to a heart attack in northern Michigan). There are only two other people in the place. Both are old-timers….regulars….born-and-bred northerners. They are the kind of people who hate “fudgies.” And, as a 12-year irregular who shows up once every other month, I am just one step removed from a “fudgy.”

So they talk, while I listen. One of my best skills is eavesdropping. And this is what I overhear.

Yeah (says one to another), they make a lot of money down there….move up here….build a huge house….install security lighting all around the perimeter….and then they go outside at night and complain that they can’t see the stars.

Mental note to myself: “Ritter, no security lighting. Ever.”

It’s the serpent, you see, that tells me I need security lighting. For security lighting is savvy….crafty….clever….wise. But it’s the dove, don’t you see, that tells me I need the stars.

And correct me if I’m wrong. But this is star season, is it not?

Note:  I am indebted to the usual biblical sources for scholarly commentary. But I acknowledge a special debt to Peter Gomes and his publication Yet More Sundays at Harvard.

The Bigger They Are… 10/18/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: I Samuel 17:1-11, 31-40, 48-51

Last Wednesday evening, shortly after darkness descended on the cradle of the Confederacy, the San Diego Padres (great name….“Padres”) adjourned to the clubhouse to celebrate their first National League Pennant in fourteen years, having just achieved it by dispatching the talent-loaded, heavily-favored and seemingly-all-but-invincible Atlanta Braves. Directly ahead, however, waited an even more ominous foe, the Bronx Bombers from the Big Apple (which sounds a whole lot better than merely saying “The New York Yankees”).

But if they were frightened, the Padres weren’t showing it. For in addition to momentum and Tony Gwynn, they had biblical precedent on their side, which surfaced in the words of their champagne-soaked president, Larry Lucchino. Said Larry (from beneath a shower of bubbly): “We feel a little like David going in, ready to sling a few stones at Goliath.”

Well, as a lifelong student of The Book, I appreciated his reference. And as a lifelong hater of the Yankees, I hope he’s right. So let the stones fly. Let the Giant fall. And let the San Diegoans, who already enjoy the best weather in North America, have (at long last) a championship to go along with it.

Interesting, isn’t it, that a baseball executive can evoke images of David and Goliath and all of us know what he is talking about. Jews know. Christians know. Agnostics know. Illiterates know. For the story transcends its setting and transplants a culture which is ignorant of….and (in some cases) hostile to….its origin. Which gives me pause when I consider that I have never preached it. But, better late than never.

The story is a heroic tale, featuring an underdog (who is as unlikely as he is undersized), going up against a foe (who is as fearsome as he is formidable). No way can the underdog win. Except he does. Which doesn’t happen very often. After all, the surest way to go broke is to buck the odds rather than bet them. But when the mini rise up to smite the mighty, how sweet it is.

The story, of course, comes out of Israel in that period where the issue was nothing less than the creation of a monarchy. “Can we find a king? Can we stand a king, once we find him? And if we find a king we can stand, can the king stand?” As you know, there were only three great kings of the monarchy….Saul, David and Solomon. And this is the story of how public sentiment began to slip away from Saul and swing toward David.

For Saul was up against it. Or, more to the point, Saul was up against the Philistines. There they were….fourteen miles west of Bethlehem….poised on one hill. And there Saul’s troops were…. looking across a valley….trembling on another hill. Whereupon a very large warrior emerged from the ranks of the Philistines and shouted across the valley:

Look, let’s save a whole lot of time and spare a whole lot of blood. Let’s go man-to-man instead of army-to-army. I’ll come from this side. You send someone from your side. We’ll meet in the middle. One of us dies. One of us lives. And the winner takes it all.

Which sounded good, until Saul’s army looked more closely at “Mr. Big Mouth.” Which wasn’t his name, of course. His name was Goliath. And he was one big dude. How big? Well, it’s hard to say. Biblical measurements (at least in this narrative) are far from precise. They range from cubits (which represent the distance between the elbow and the tip of the index finger), to spans (which represent the distance between the thumb and the little finger of the extended palm). Depending upon who’s doing the measuring, cubits and spans vary greatly. I’ll go into that more fully on Wednesday night. But for now, let the record show that Goliath had girth to match his mouth. I’ve got a trio of commentaries on my desk that put him at 9’6”. And I’ve got a fourth commentary on my desk that puts him at 6’9”. Ironically, I think the latter commentary is correct….which puts Goliath in the same league with Grant Hill (albeit a bigger, meaner, and better padded 6’9” than Grant Hill).

Much of the padding was body armor, which (if we translate the word “shekels” correctly) weighed in at 125 pounds, 15 ounces. But who’s counting? What is important about the description of Goliath’s armor is not how thickly it covered how much, but what it failed to cover at all. Meaning that the one part of Goliath’s body lacking armor was his forehead. But the text doesn’t tell you that. You have to read between the lines to figure it out.

But on with the story. Goliath thundered. Saul’s army trembled. And everybody tried to figure out how to keep from volunteering or getting volunteered. You know how that works. Lots of you are masters at it. But then David saved everybody’s day (and everybody’s hide) by saying: “David, here….reporting for duty.” Which blew everybody away. Because he wasn’t very old. He wasn’t very big. He wasn’t very experienced. And he wasn’t even a member of the regular army. What he was, was a lute-playing, lullaby-singing shepherd….whose only previous military experience was as a sandwich carrier and message bearer (linking his daddy at home with his brothers at the front).

“You are just a lad,” Saul said (when David volunteered). And, indeed, he was. Which troubled Saul. And which embarrassed Goliath, once he saw who Saul was sending. I mean, if you are figuring to kill somebody, it kind of taints your victory if the kill comes too quickly….or too easily. After all, if all that stood between the Yankees and a World Series title were the Tigers, they might not even show up.

But Goliath showed up….insulted everybody in sight (including David, Saul, Israel and Israel’s God)….and then waited for his opponent. Who came, in time. But when David arrived, he came totally without soldier suit, spear, sword, snub-nosed revolver, or sub-machine gun….because (well, we will return to that in a moment). But he did have a slingshot, five smooth stones and a good aim. Which he used to stun the Giant….knocking him down….knocking him out….but not necessarily knocking him dead. Which shows how much you know (or don’t know) about the story. David didn’t kill Goliath with a slingshot. David killed Goliath with a sword. What he did with his sword is called decapitation. Which was not very nice. But which was very final. Ironically, in the original version of the Jack and the Beanstalk tale, the Giant did not die when Jack cut the beanstalk out from under him, but when Jack cut his head clean off him.

So there you have it. A story for the ages. And a story for the sages. Was it true? Sort of. But who requires absolute accuracy? Still, for the historical purists among us, it is twice suggested (II Samuel 21:19 and I Chronicles 20:5) that a Jewish warrior named Elhanan (one of David’s heroes) slew Goliath. Which means that there were either multiple Goliaths (which was unlikely), or that David’s tribal name was Elhanan (again, unlikely), or that followers of David may have borrowed a story belonging to another Jewish warrior and applied it, retroactively, to their king (considerably more likely).

But don’t get all worked up about that. Israel certainly didn’t. While he was still a young man, David looked heroic and performed heroically. So whether he did this deed….or someone else did this deed….once the deed was done it seemed David-like. And so it has been attributed to him ever since.

What interests me today is neither the “who” of the story, nor the “how” of the story, but the meaning of the story. Which changes, I think, from place to place and from people to people. So what I want to do in the time remaining is address a trio of questions:

            1. Why does Israel love this story?

            2. Why do children love this story?

            3. Why might you love this story?

Israel loves this story because it depicts her experience as a nation. Israel, the underdog. Israel, the undersized. Israel, the nation which has no business being here, but is. Meaning that Israel must have been watched over….or watched out for. By God. Or by somebody. Time after time, Israel was broken into….broken up….broken off….broken in pieces. The quintessential Israeli question begins: “How close did we come to not being here?”  And the answer always begins: “Well let me tell you a story.”

Just when we thought there was no hope (and no way), God delivered us from the deluge….from the famine….from the Pharaoh….from the waters of the sea and the sands of the Sinai….from the Canaanites, the Ammonites, the Jebusites, the Hittites, and the Girgishites….from the giants….from the Germans….and from the Jordanians. Against all odds, God made a way for us through the waters (and through the wall) so that we might claim, conquer, inhabit and rule a good land…. a broad land….a land flowing with milk and honey (albeit the only piece of land in the entire Middle East with nary a hint of oil beneath it).

But we almost blew it….almost lost it….almost forgot it….almost turned our back on it….almost had it taken away from us. Which would have happened, were it not for a slew of unlikely heroes, including a man on Social Security named Abraham, a man on the lam from the law named Moses, or a man one step removed from puberty named David.

You get the picture? Of course you get the picture. Israel loves this story because Israel has lived this story. And lives it still….to this very day. What is impossible for Israel to conceive (in 1998) is that, to many parts of the world, Israel is beginning to look more-and-more like Goliath and less-and-less like David.

In a related passage we will examine Wednesday night, Israel is out wandering in the desert. As a people, she has not yet reached the Promised Land. But she is close….close enough to send spies. Which she does. And the spies come back, saying: “Wow, it’s wonderful there. It’s fruitful there. Grapes grow as big as watermelons there. But don’t get your hopes up, ‘cause we’ll never be able to go there. For the land is full of giants. Compared to them, we look like grasshoppers” (Numbers 13:33). At least that’s what ten of them said. But two others issued a minority report, saying (in effect): “Grasshoppers or not, we’ve got a chance.” Which they did. Which they took. And which paid off.

So much for Israel. Let’s turn to the kids. Why do kids love stories like this one….featuring great big giants and little boys who fell them? Because kids live this story, too….that’s why. To be a kid is to live in a land of giants. Kids walk around undersized, trying to fill roles that are too big for them (in a world that is too big for them).

In that vein, I love the little subtlety in the story wherein David tries to walk in Saul’s armor. But he can’t. The stuff is too big and too cumbersome. The suit doesn’t fit him….because the responsibility doesn’t fit him. And notice what David says next. He doesn’t say: “I am too small.” Instead, he says: “I have never practiced”….meaning: “I have no experience at this.” Which is lovely, don’t you see? Because who among us has not, on occasion, been thrust into a role for which we have had no experience. It’s happened to me. And every time it happens, I find myself saying: “What am I doing here? I don’t belong here. Nothing I’ve ever done….ever tried….ever learned….has equipped me to be here.” Which is when I either run like holy hell or pray to holy heaven (which is what David did….at least as I read it).

Even though I am 58 years old, there is still a child in me that feels like a pigmy in a giant-infested world. To this day, I have occasional nightmares which find me waking in a cold sweat because of a great weight sitting on my chest….which I cannot outrun, overthrow, shake off or otherwise subdue. There are giants in my life. And not all of them are friendly. Which brings the matter home to those of us who are neither children nor Israelis, but adults (more or less). What does this little tale have to do with us? I suspect it depends on where we place ourselves in the story.

Some of us identify with Goliath. At least we should. For most of us are “the giant” in somebody else’s world….to whom we seem bigger than life and more ominous than death. We are oversized. They are undersized. Our desires control their destinies. Our actions shape their futures. Our words manipulate their emotions. When we smile, they sing. When we frown, they tremble. When we jerk, they dance. When we sneeze, they run for cover.

It both surprises and undoes me whenever I discover that somebody is afraid of me. Because I don’t have it in me to hurt a fly. But it doesn’t have to “be in me”….you see….if it’s in them. Sometimes people create Goliaths where none exist, and I become the product of their imagination.

Last Wednesday night, I had dinner in Colorado Springs with a colleague from Texas. In the fourth year of his present assignment, he still feels uncomfortable….uneasy….unable to change anything. He believes that little will improve (in his church) until he preaches three funerals…. for three men….all of them, over the age of 75….and each of them named Goliath. They’re out there. Or at least he thinks they’re out there.

Which means that he identifies with David. As others of us do. Undersized. Underarmed. Yet finding a way to use some unique gift.…some unrecognized talent….some “fruit of the spirit”…. to level the playing field. If I can’t subdue you with five smooth stones, perhaps I can subdue you with five stunning sermons (or with something else that I can sling under your skin or into your heart). If I can’t outbox you, outlast you, outshout you or outspend you, maybe I can outlove you….which is how several of my heroes have brought giants to their knees.

But most days, none of this fits. I am neither Goliath nor David….neither giant nor hero. Who am I? I am a buck private in Saul’s army, cowering on yonder hill….hoping that it won’t be me….knowing why it can’t be me….slipping deeper into the crowd….all the while saying: “Would that there was someone who would go in my place….fight in my place….and (if need be) die in my place.” Which sounds cowardly, I know. But it’s also honest….and Christian.

For there was one, wasn’t there, who once went forth for me….lonesomely (as the song says) into that valley, where the shadow is longer than that cast by Goliath, or by Grant Hill for that matter. He, too, went without arms or armor, while I watched from the safety of an adjacent hill.

And he emerged victorious, although I scarcely knew it at the time. Or understand it, even now. But had he not gone where he went….had he not done what he did….I’d still be camped with the cowards, sleeping with the grasshoppers….with the giants calling out during the day, and crushing me by night.

Note:  Readers of the text may quarrel with my assertion that Goliath died from decapitation (by a sword) rather than concussion (by a stone). After all, verse 50 of chapter 17 suggests that the stone was sufficient, even though verse 51 adds: “Then David ran and stood over the Philistine, and took his sword and drew it out of its sheath and killed him.” The issue is resolvable only when one understands that there were two narratives stitched together to form the present story….one early and one late. The early narrative includes verses 1-11, verses 32-40, verses 42-48a, verse 49, and verses 51-54. Later additions include verses 12-31, verse 41, verse 48b, verse 50, and verses 55-58. Most everyone agrees that verse 50 (supporting death by stoning) belongs with the latter source….meaning that death by decapitation was clearly the position of the earlier narrative.

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.

Negotiating the Demolition Derby

(A Sermon for Graduates and Confirmands)

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures:  Matthew 7:24-27, I Corinthians 10:23, Philippians 2:1-5

Seeing as I no longer have kids of my own at home, it’s nice to have four next door. I am serious. I’ve got four great kids one house to the north of me. Two of them are in grade school….two, in middle school. Three of them are boys….one is a girl. They have taken me to school as their guest on “Special Visitor Day.” They have sold me more cups of lukewarm Kool-Aid than I ever knew I needed. And I even enjoy the footballs, soccer balls, baseballs and tennis balls that come flying across the yard, especially when accompanied by the phrase “Catch this one, Dr. Ritter.”

But they’re not here this summer. In their house, I mean. Their house is being remodeled on the way to being doubled. So they have moved out to a rental house a few blocks away.

But they were back last Tuesday evening. They were in their rooms….on the second floor…. calling to me through open windows: “Hi, Dr. Ritter. Good to see you, Dr. Ritter. Have you missed us, Dr. Ritter? Betcha can’t guess what we’re doing, Dr. Ritter. We’re demolishing our rooms. Our dad said we could.” And so they did….with great relish. They were having a wonderful time, finding the act of demolition to be one of the coolest things in the world. Obviously, their folks figured: “Hey, it’s all going to be redone anyway. Why not let them have at it….crayons on the walls….hammers on the walls….whatever on the walls.”

While you ponder the parental wisdom involved, let me hasten to add that these are great kids. They have respected property before. They will, no doubt, respect it again. But for one night, they were given carte blanche to go a little wild and be a little reckless.

I can identify with that. In my Steeple Notes letter, I told about the time I participated in a one-day work project with a group of Methodist Men from Newburg Church. They were going to tackle several construction projects on an inner city house. But one of those projects, building a new porch, required demolishing an old porch. Which task they assigned to me. And with a sledgehammer in one hand and a crowbar in the other, I was a one-day wonder. What’s more, I had a blast. And I was 35 years old at the time.

My sermon title talks about a demolition derby. Which, for all I know about it, is something of a car race. Except you drive old cars that have already taken a beating….and have been rebuilt (in strategic places) so they can take an additional beating. Which means that you win a demolition derby, not by having the fastest car (none of these cars are fast), but by having the most durable car. The theory being: “If you can’t beat ‘em, hit ‘em.”

Which may not sound like fun now, but I’m willing to bet it was fun once. I’m talking about the days of your youth, when you went to the amusement park, paid your quarter (or dollar) and rode the dodge ‘em cars. There you were….out on that floor….connected to an electrified grid in the ceiling….seated behind the wheel (long before you were old enough to drive, legally). And you had two choices as the driver. You could try to steer around everybody. Or you could try to steer at everybody. For while you could log more distance steering around people, you could have a lot more fun steering at them.

Demolition! It fascinates all of us. Even the oldest among us. Which explains why we all tuned in our television sets on the day they imploded Hudson’s. Someone said that the television coverage of that event drew the highest ratings of the month….to watch a building get blown off the face of the earth. And what of those charity fundraisers where, for five dollars or five hundred dollars, they’ll give you a sledgehammer and let you take a swing at a brand new Jaguar?

In controlled settings, demolition can be great fun. But in uncontrolled settings, demolition can be painfully fast. Picture this scene. You are out on the beach. You spend virtually all day sculpting a sand city. You’ve got your castle….your tower….your moat….your fort. You’ve got roads and houses. You’ve got rivers and bridges. You’ve got water flowing in and water flowing out. It’s magnificent. Everybody on the beach says so. Except for the bully….who runs at it….jumps on it….and, just like that, it’s history. Five hours to create. Five seconds to cream.

Then there’s the museum masterpiece, valued in the millions. One talented artist, with paintbrush and palette, pours everything she has into its creation. But one slasher….with one knife….hidden in one trench coat….using one swift arm motion….turns creation into destruction, just like that.

I was talking about these ideas with my daughter (Julie) over long-distance telephone. Which led her to come up with this one (not because she’s lived it, but because she’s seen it….plenty). A family works with a daughter for 17 years, nurturing self esteem and coaching confidence. But it all comes undone when she falls in love with (and is misused and dumped by) one rotten boyfriend halfway through her freshman year.

Demolition happens. And when you are the demolishee, rather than the demolisher, demolition hurts. I wish I could tell you that because of your relationship with Jesus Christ….because of your membership in a Christian church….because of your familiarity with Christian scriptures…..and because of your companionship with Christian friends….nothing hurtful will ever happen to you. But I can’t. It will. There is no immunity….even for the friends of Jesus. And if you read the New Testament long enough, you will discover that there is no immunity….especially for the friends of Jesus.

One of the problems with growing up is that life forces you to learn that. When you are a little kid, you can be on an outing with your parents….one that requires a lengthy car ride. And, at some point, it gets very late. Then it gets very dark. And you get very tired. So what do you do? You find some room on the backseat….or on the floor of the backseat….and you go to sleep. With maybe a little discomfort. But with absolutely no worries. That’s because there are people in the front seat. You figure that they will know how to stay awake….where to go….when to turn….when to get gas….how to pump it….how to pay for it….in short, how to get where they are going. And if you don’t wake up, that’s all right. Because when the car finally stops, they will lift you from it (even if it means slinging you over their shoulder like a sack of potatoes). Then they’ll carry you up to bed. And should you wake up and mutter “Where are we?”, they’ll say: “Don’t worry, we’re home.” And, at that moment, that’s all you need to know. Or care to know.

Well, I hate to tell you this. But those days are pretty much over. You are the people who are about to be in the front seat. There is no blanket protection. And, from time to time, there may even be demolition. Two years ago, in the best graduation speech I ever delivered, I invited you to remember one of the first songs you ever learned. I am talking about the one with the hand motions.

            The eensy weensy spider climbed up the water spout.

            Down came the rain and washed the spider out.

            Out came the sun and dried up all the rain.

            And the eeensy weensy spider climbed up the spout again.

Well, that’s the nature of rain. To come down, I mean. Just when your “climb up the water spout” has a good head of steam, you will be set back, held back, pushed back or flushed back. That’s what happened to one spider, two little piggies, and the unfortunate guy in today’s Bible story who built his house on sinking sand. It happens.

So what would I say to you this morning? Three things. All of them short. All of them simple. None of them easy. What are they?

1.     Watch out for yourself.

2.     Take care of each other.

3.     Hang with Jesus.

First things first. Watch out for yourself. It has occurred to me, on more than one occasion, that while Jesus told his friends to be trusting, he never told them to be dumb. “Be innocent as doves,” he said. But he also said: “Be wise as serpents.” Serpents, in biblical shorthand, means snakes. And how are snakes wise? That’s simple. They know what to watch out for, and what to stay away from.

The other day I was driving down Chesterfield when a kid about 13 or 14 rode his bike right out in front of me. Not as in “darted” out in front of me. But as in making a big, slow, lazy loop in front of me. A “dart” would have been careless. A “slow, lazy loop” was stupid. He didn’t know I might be there….didn’t care I might be there….and figured, even if I was there, I would look out for him. Right….this time. Wrong….some time.

Your parents worry about you, you know. Because you have a tendency to be dumb in the way I just described….by thinking that you are invincible (you’re not)….and by lazily looping and loping your way through life, figuring that everybody else is going to watch out for you (we’re not).

Which is why older people sometimes say to you: “Why don’t you use the head you were born with?” Except the “head” they are talking about is not the “head you were born with.” You were born with a head for numbers and letters. You were born with a head for dancing and singing. You were born with a head for trusting that people are generally good, choices are generally easy, and that nothing will hurt for very long (because there will always be somebody to kiss your boo-boo and make it better). The “head” that adults criticize you for not using is a head that you have to develop. It is the one that reasons: “I can make some decisions that will do me a lot of good. I can make some decisions that will do me a lot of harm. And the day will come, much sooner than I ever thought it would, when no one will stop me from making any decision (including decisions that will do me harm).” Which is why the apostle Paul said to the Corinthians (more than once): “You can choose to do pretty much anything. But not all choices are helpful. Nor will they build you up.”

Watch out for yourself! Take care of each other. The worst sin of teenagers….in that it is virtually universal among teenagers….is that you have a tendency to be obnoxious to each other. You criticize each other. You belittle each other. You talk about this one to that one, and about that one to this one. You cause pain by what you say to each other, or about each other. And you expend precious little worry over whether any of the stuff you say is true. You claim that friendship is important to you. But it is often unsafe in your hands. Your gossiping ways and cutting tongues are outgrowths of your own insecurities.

So I would encourage you to wake up and recognize how much you need each other. Life is too hard to attempt it alone. And the world is already too diced and cubed to further fracture the circle. For God’s sake….and for yours….build more bridges than you burn. And learn….if you learn nothing further….to be kind.

Watch out! Take care! Hang with Jesus! I am not talking about wearing a bracelet with four initials (or even writing with a Cross pen). Although if you need a visual reminder, by all means wear one (or use one). I am talking about keeping company with Jesus and his friends….hanging out where he hangs out….and where they hang out. Not that you can’t find him anywhere. But why not start with the obvious? I mean places like this one.

Did you ever hear it said that dogs, over time, begin to look like the people who own them? And did you ever hear that married people (over time) begin to look like each other? I don’t know about any of that. But there is one thing I do know. I know that the longer people hang out with Jesus, the more they begin to look like Christians.

Let me drive my point home with a football story (which, now that girls are playing football, may finally be gender appropriate). None of you kids will remember Bud Wilkinson, but he was one of the greatest football coaches who ever lived. We’re talking Oklahoma Sooners. We’re talking Cotton Bowl appearances. We’re talking national championships.

I recently read that Bud Wilkinson had a unique way of working with his quarterbacks. During the season, he had his quarterback move from the dorm into his house and live with his family. The coach and the quarterback became like father and son. They lived together, ate together, rode to practice together, studied films together, diagramed plays together, and discussed football together. When asked why he did this, Bud Wilkinson answered: “Because if that young man spends enough time with me, he will begin to think like I think. Then, when he gets out there on the football field, he will know what I want him to do.”

If you don’t see the point of that, you’re probably not as bright as I think you are. But if you need me to make the connection for you, here it is.

So if there is any encouragement in Christ, any incentive of love, any participation in the Spirit, any affection and sympathy, complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfishness or conceit, but in humility count others better than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus.  (Phil. 2:1-5)

So….Corey, Heather, Elizabeth, Ben, Brendan, Evan, Elisabeth, Patrick, Nicole, Amanda, Ashley, Tisha, Amanda, Elise, Matt, Tyler, Amy, Marlee, Chris, Jessica, Marin, Danny, Laura, Kathryn, Nick, Jordan, Anna, Patrick, Lindsey, Sam, Erik, Travis, Jenna, Nolan, Hilary, Blake, Neil, Bob, Bill, Kenneth, Megan, Brianna, Miranda, Brooke, Katy, Marty, Bobbie, Jamie, Anne, Sam, Ashton, Mark, Sam….

Watch out.

            Take care.

                        Hang with Jesus.

                                    And build something of your life.

After all, we do work for a Jewish carpenter. There’s that….and, I hate to be the one to break it to you….but you’re soon going to be too big for the dodge ‘em cars.

Note:  This sermon was preached, with slight variations, for a graduate recognition service at one hour and a Confirmation service at another. The names listed above belong to the 53 confirmands. At other services of the morning, I inserted the names of several graduates and/or members of the congregation.

I am indebted to my Pennsylvania colleague, Eric Ritz, for the anecdote about Bud Wilkinson.