Month: September 2015

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Teach Us to Pray

Now Jesus was praying in a certain place, and when he finished, one of his disciples said to him, “Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples. And he said to them, “When you pray, say . . .” Luke 11:1

Luke mentions Jesus’ prayer life more than any of the gospels. Jesus prayed continually, sometimes all night. This probably wasn’t unusual for a holy man; the Baptist was known for prayer as well, and it would have been natural for a holy man’s disciples to seek instruction on prayer from their mentor. How did John pray? What did he teach his disciples? And what about the prophets of old, or the revered rabbis between Old and New Testaments? Wouldn’t it be interesting to have a comparison of the ways they prayed, and pick and choose from the best?

Interesting, yes; instructive, probably not. There is no training on prayer in the Old Testament; only plentiful examples of, from Moses and David and Asaph and Solomon and nameless writers of the Psalms (also known as God’s prayer book). Our instruction waits for the Master himself, and we can be grateful to the disciple who asked. But even more grateful to Jesus for answering.

praying hands

This is his prayer. It’s not only what he asked, but what we should ask in imitation of him. As a godly mother or father takes their toddler’s hands and puts them together and frames the thoughts in the minds of their little one, imagine Jesus doing the same for his followers, who don’t realize how immature they are. And for us:

Father:

(One mind-blowing word to start with: no YWHW, no Blessed One, no El Shaddai or Yahweh Sabbaoth—just “Father.” He’s used that term a lot; perhaps they are used to it by now. But NO one in the old days referred to God that way. Jesus is the only one who has a right to, and now he is quietly, clearly, passing that right on to us.)

Hallowed be your name.

(Devout Jews would have been fully on board with this, but does it seem strange that “hallowed” follows directly after “Father”? Did the terms seem mutually exclusive to them? Probably not as much as to us, because this was, as the saying goes now, a “paternalistic society.” Fathers naturally got respect, whether or not they deserved it. But respect is not “hallowing.” Within a few words we are plunged into the paradox of a holy being infinitely removed from us, yet immanently near. Our God was always like this; a still, small voice in a consuming fire, who spun the universe out of love and is calling people into that love. “You will be my people and I will be your God” now condenses into one simple word: Father. But still hallowed, still vast and holy and so far above us that the only way to him is through the one who is now folding our hands to pray.)

Your Kingdom come.

(Yours, not ours. The disciples would have nodded happily at this because of the kind of kingdom they expected. They were in for a shock. And so are we, when our kingdom plans don’t match up with his.)

Give us each day our daily bread,

(Of course; this is the food prayer we are accustomed to making around the dinner table, and one the disciples would have been familiar with. But we seldom realize how deep it our need just for simple necessities.)

and forgive our sins—

(That one might have raised a few eyebrows: What, just by asking? No penance, no sacrifices, no rending of garments?)

—for we ourselves forgive everyone who is indebted to us.

(Wait—just like that? What happens to justice? Who pays the debt?)

And lead us not into temptation.

(That’s reasonable, for any honest man will admit to being tempted. The trouble is, they don’t always recognize temptation when they see it. And we don’t either.)

This way to pray would have caused some startled looks among them. But they probably didn’t catch, at the time, how revolutionary and re-orienting the prayer was. We have the opposite problem: from countless repetitions the payer has lost its potency for us. But it’s just as revolutionary. And re-orienting.

We may cheerfully agree that his Kingdom is not ours, even while building church kingdoms and family kingdoms and career kingdoms for ourselves. The gloss added by Matthew—Your will be done—implies our will is hereby dethroned.

We’ve given it up. We also given up he right to take credit for earning our bread, just as we can take no credit for the motion and maintenance of every cell in our bodies. And we can’t earn forgiveness either; it’s an unpayable debt that must be canceled, as we are required (not asked, but required) to cancel the petty debts owed to us. As for temptation, it lurks in even in the most hallowed places and stretches its jaws for us when we are feeling most pious. We are not the mature self-determining creatures of fond imagination; we are willful little children who continually need to be straightened out.

The good news is, he’s our Father. He’s more than willing to straighten us out, and desires more than any earthly father to give us good things. To give us the best: our daily bread, our daily pardon, and that kingdom he’s building.

Pray this prayer continually, and you will be reoriented.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Distracted, Worried, Upset

Now as they went on their way, Jesus entered a village.  And a woman named Martha welcomed him into her house.            Luke 10:38

She has only herself to blame.  “You invited him,” her brother reminds her, leaning against the door frame.

“Yes, and . . . ?  Would you rather I didn’t?  Should I just take, take, take from him, like almost everybody in this town, and offer nothing in return?”

“Well . . .” her brother glances sideways into the center room where all the people are.  “You have a point.  Can I do anything?  Draw some water, or . . . pluck a chicken?”

“It’s not your job.  It’s that sister of ours.  You go do your host duties—has everyone had their feet washed?  Do we need more rushes on the floor?  Oh, and drop a word to her while you’re at it.  There’s plenty for her to do.”

An hour passes.  The bread is mixed and rising, dates are pitted, olives pressed, coriander seeded.  She sends the hired girl out with stuffed grape leaves to hold everyone over until dinner’s ready—late, of course—and keeps on working, with one ear open for appreciative comments from the common room.  Instead she hears nothing among the murmuring voices but kingdom talk.  Men!  Always nattering on about the future or the theoretical, and where would any of that be without the here and now and dinner on the table?  The grape leaves were an improvisation when it became clear that the meal was going to be delayed.  A few handfuls of leftover barley, some raisins, a touch of lemon and ground clove . . . not too bad, she thought.  But from the way they appeared to be shoveling them down with no break in the conversation, her appetizers might as well be grass.

“Is the lamb back from the butcher’s yet?  Then go get it!  Tell him you’ll wait—hurry him up!”  When she tries to start a fire in the outside grill, the flint refuses to spark.  Angrier with every scrape.  Mary’s the best fire-builder, no question.  It takes a certain mindlessness—or patience, to put the best light on it—to coax a flame from dry tinder.  Anxiety is not conducive.

The boy is back from the butcher’s with a bleeding haunch of lamb.  “Here—” she hurls the flint at him— “You light the fire!”

Brushing off her hands, beating them against her skirt, she stalks into the common room: right—smack—dab—into the center, where Jesus is holding forth among all those clueless men, with cow-eyed Mary as close as she can get, gazing up at him.

She checks herself at the last minute.  Rather than grab her sister by the cowl and drag her back to the kitchen, she steps up with a respectful, though exasperated, bow and a sideways nod to the startled assembly.

“Lord–as you see, we have many mouths to feed, and my sister has left me to do it all alone.  Please tell her to do her duty.”  And then, “Don’t you care?”

Did she say that?  Certainly she’s been thinking it.  He surely knows she’s been slaving in the kitchen all afternoon, and unlike his gaggle of self-important disciples, he surely knows why.  She’s angry with Mary, yes, but as he turns his eyes on her she recognizes the truth: she’s also angry with him.  Furious, in fact.  He knows everything, doesn’t he?  He sees the injustice, he feels the burden, and—

The fact is, he doesn’t care.

Not the way she would like him to.

“Martha!

“Martha . . .”

The first Martha gets her attention; the second beckons her to the inner circle, where Mary is—a circle by invitation only, but everyone is invited.  Everyone: not just the gifted or the brilliant, or the knowing ones, or the striving ones. But you can’t come bearing gifts—not even appetizers or condiments or a perfectly roasted rack of lamb.  Those are good things, but the Lord doesn’t care how you distinguish yourself.  But “Seek ye first . . .”  And after the lamb is devoured and forgotten, you’ll live on in the Kingdom.

martha

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for the original post in this series, go here.

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The Neighbor Question

And behold, a lawyer stood up to put him to the test, saying, “Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?”            Luke 10:25

One of those “wise and learned” people, whom Jesus has just praised his Father for hiding things from, speaks up now.  The question, we’re told, is intended as a test—not necessarily to trip Jesus up, but perhaps to examine him on his teacher bona fides.  It may have been a question used in rabbinical school to qualify students for the next level: academic in nature. “What must I (or you, or anyone) do to inherit eternal life?”

Jesus refers to the law.  He always refers to the law (“I did not come to do away with it” (Matt. 5:17), because the law sketches a reality much broader than even its scholars suspect.  In the so called Sermon on the Mount, he broadens it by exposition.  Here, he uses a story—a story that has saturated the common vernacular so that everyone knows what a “good Samaritan” is, even if they’ve lost sight of the particulars or the origin.

Everyone knows, and the “go and do likewise” would be implied even if it wasn’t stated.  This is how we are supposed to act toward our fellow men, and a Unitarian could preach that message as heartily as a Fundamentalist.  An Evangelical could go a little deeper: This is how we express our love to God.  But deeper still: This is how God expressed his love for us.

Jesus, as rejected as any Samaritan, comes upon me lying by the roadside, beaten and robbed by the merciless bandit Sin.  Though the legalists and the hedonists have passed me by, he stops.  Coming down from his secure perch, he cleanses my wounds with oil and wine, covers me with his cloak of righteousness, carries me to a place of refuge, and entrusts his church with my care: “Provide her with companionship and encouragement and meaningful work until I come back.  I’ll make it up to you, and then some.”

Who is my neighbor?  Once we understand what our own Good Samaritan has done, we shouldn’t even have to ask the question.

good Samaritan

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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The Advance Team

After this the Lord appointed seventy-two others and sent them on ahead of him, two by two, into every town and place where he himself was about to go.  And he said to them, “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few . . .”         Luke 10:1-2a

This enterprise isn’t just for a hand-picked inner circle.  Excitement is spreading through the ranks—he’s chosen a whole division to send out!  Seventy-two, to be exact (though some manuscripts give the number as seventy, like the seventy elders chosen by Moses).

Who are these ambassadors?  Young and unmarried, or older, with grown children?  They are not even specified as men—could women have been among them?  Not likely, but interesting to consider.  Their mission is more specific than that given to the twelve: they are to go to the towns where Jesus himself is headed on his way to Jerusalem, as a kind of advance team: scout the places that will receive him, cross off the places that won’t, heal the sick, and announce the coming kingdom–which they can say, with authority, is near.  Coming to your town!

They are so eager, pressing in to hear the instructions, exchanging glances with their journey-partners, clutching their travel bags (Oops!  He just said not to take a bag—where can I ditch this?).  Oh, the stories they’ll tell, the wonders they’ll do!  Don’t you love being the bearer of news, whether good or not so good?  This is that, in spades.  This is news of the epoch, the fulfillment of the ages, and we are in on it.

Suddenly his voice turns stark and sends a chill down their backs:

“Woe to you Chorazin!  Woe to you, Bethsaida!  And you, Capernaum–”

What’s he saying?  Those are towns that have seen his work—in fact Capernaum is where it all began.  Bethsaida is where he set out to walk across the water, and where, on a hillside a few hours’ walk from its walls, he fed the 5000.  Have these smug little Galilean towns grown blasé about it all, too casual perhaps, as though Jesus were their hometown boy who’s gotten a little above himself?  If you listen carefully, his claims do sound rather extravagant: “Whoever rejects you rejects me, and the one who rejects me rejects him who sent me.”  Meaning the Blessed One who is over all now and forever, amen.  That seems to put Jesus on overly familiar terms with God Himself, but then, God doesn’t seem to object.  So put that aside.  With anticipation, with eagerness, with that thrill that is equal parts fear—

Here we go!

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The seventy-two returned with joy, saying, “Lord, even the demons are subject to us in your name!”  And he said to them, “I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven . . .”       Luke 10:17-18

The troops return after their short-term mission trip, all bubbly with excitement.  You could say they were successful; in fact, they’re jumpy as kids: Master, you won’t believe–  Wait’ll you hear–  And then we said–  And the demon was like–  and the people all–  And all we had to do was drop your name . . . Like, wow!satan's fall

He’s got to be smiling.  Not at the news, because it’s not news to him.  Of course the demons submitted to you.  Of course they recognized my name.  Satan and I go way back: I saw him fall from heaven, as sudden and bright as a lightning flash.  He was doomed ages ago; don’t be afraid of him or his minions.  They are like snakes and scorpions to trample underfoot (says the One who will soon be bruised on the head).

But that’s not the most important thing.  That’s not what matters most.  Don’t get a big head over ordering screaming demons around, because the only reason you can do that is because there’s a book in heaven that includes your names.  My father has claimed you; you belong to Him, and any power he gives you is for his glory, not yours.

And that is reason enough for rejoicing—it’s the best.  Throwing back his head and spreading his arms wide, he laughs.  They are startled; he laughs even louder.

“This is so like you, King over all—to bypass the learned and the self-important, the posers and the dominators, and share your power with peasants.  It’s like the prophets predicted, like my mother and old Simeon saw: sending away the rich, welcoming the poor, turning nobodies into somebodies, upsetting the apple art—it’s so like you!  You’ve hidden your salvation from kings and shown it to shepherds on a hillside; withheld your Spirit from the learned and poured it out on the great unwashed.  So it pleases you, Father, and so it pleases me.”

Turning to his disciples, who may have looked a little stunned at this outburst, he smiles again: a gentle, companionable, welcoming smile.  “Do you know, have you any idea, how the prophets—Isaiah, Jonah, Elijah himself—longed to see this day?  Open your eyes and ears: it’s here.”

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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Turning Point

When the days drew near for him to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem. And he sent messengers ahead of him, who went and entered a village of the Samaritans . . . But the people did not receive him, because his face was set toward Jerusalem.  Luke 9:51-53

“How long must I put up with you?”

The literal answer is, not very.  The days are coming to an end, rounding off to a period.  He sets his face (ESV) toward Jerusalem.  The NKJV adds “steadfastly.”  NIV: “resolutely set out.”  HCSB: “determined to journey.”  The sense of the Hebrew is something like “stiffened his face,” as if pushing against the force of a hurricane.  From now on, the narrative will be about this journey to Jerusalem and what happened there: a wandering teacher and his little band of disciples on their way to . .  . not change the world, but realign it.

road-to-Jerusalem

The world responds as it always does, in two basic ways.  First, outright opposition, as demonstrated in Samaria.  We don’t like you and we don’t like where you’re going; all Jerusalem-bound pilgrims need to choose another route.  Bible commentators comment on the socio-political backstory of the hostility between Jews and Samaritans, but there’s always a backstory.  My mama was a Christian fanatic, my dad was a drunk, my wife stole everything I had, God dealt me a rotten hand and I don’t need your Jesus.  Or perhaps: my life has been a dazzling success and I have everything anyone could want, so I don’t need your Jesus.  Go away.

He goes away, brushing aside the generous offer of the sons of Zebedee to call down fire on the transgressors.  That fire will be for next time—this isn’t the Judgment.

Then there are those who are attracted to him, but not enough.  They find something else that needs to be done first, whether family obligations, social duties, work or play.  They don’t get it—all those things can be accommodated if one first takes up residence in the Kingdom.  But half-baked plans to move there sometime won’t do.  All in, or all out.  That’s what he demands, and that’s what he is.  He has set his face, and will not look back until . . . Well, not ever.  Not. Ever.

(Neither will the twelve, though they don’t know it yet.  They don’t know they will scatter like sheep and despair of life itself, but they are all in because he called them, and he will see this through.)

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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