Scripture:
Luke 18:31-34
Luke 19:28-39

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.