Month: November 2015

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News of the Day

There were some present at that very time who told him about the Galileans whose Blood Pilate hand mingled with their sacrifices.  Luke 13:1

Perhaps they are trying to justify themselves by pointing to someone worse.  “Jesus, did you hear what Pilate did in Jerusalem?  There were these people—from right here in Galilee—there for the feast, and he ordered . . . and he killed . . and the blood flowing down the alter was their own!”  The story may have lost some accuracy and picked up some lurid details on its way up from Judea, but it’s essentially true.

An outrage! Think some of the listeners—mostly the younger ones, like Simon the Zealot, whose lives are a parade of injustices that cry out to be made right.  All too typical, think the older ones, who have seen tyrants come and go.  The only interesting question is, how were those people unlucky enough to put themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time?  What did they do to deserve that?  (It’s not a rhetorical question.)

Jesus breaks into their thoughts.  “’What did they do?’ That’s not the question.  The question is, rather, what about you?  Were those Galileans singled out for punishment because their wickedness was greater than yours?  Not at all, but calamity could fall on you at any time, just like that tower in Siloam that collapsed and killed eighteen people.  Don’t sit around observing this group or that and evaluating their righteousness: you’re not the judge.

“Just the opposite, in fact: you’re in the dock—just like those Galileans and the people rushed by the tower.  It doesn’t matter if your end comes by an unjust act or a freak accident, or if you take to your own bed and never rise out of it—your day will come.  The time to repent is now, before you face a judge much greater than Pilate.”

Ironically—perhaps—he knows he will face Pilate.  And that time is not far off.  His inner circle recognize that distant, brooding look that steals over his face—happens a lot lately—followed by the light, quick beat of his storytelling voice:

“A certain man had a fig tree . . .”fig-tree

A breeze stirs the leaves of the fig tree behind him, as his audience leans in.  No longer a “crowd,” but a diverse group of women, stragglers, professional men, scribes.  These days, there are always a few scribes leaning in, listening closely, ready to lap up incriminating statements.

“He planted this tree himself, right in the middle of his vineyard, and took special care of it.  He expected not just a beautiful tree, or a shady tree, but a fruitful tree.  Wouldn’t you?”

He directed the question to one of the scribes, who nodded uncomfortably.

“But after the tree had matured—nothing.  Sometimes it blossomed, but never bore.  One year, two years, four, six—all it did was stand proudly in the middle of the vineyard, as though just being there justified its existence.

“’Look here,’ the owner said to his overseer. ‘This tree should have been pumping out figs for the last three years, but I’ve never found a thing.  Why should it be taking up valuable space in my vineyard?  Cut it down!’

“’Sir,’ answered the overseer, ‘give it one more year.  I’ll aerate the soil and add some fertilizer.  If nothing happens then, I’ll cut it down myself.’”

The end.

Many of the listeners probably found this rather abrupt.  So . . . what happened after that?  Did the tree stay, or go?  Did the extra TLC make a difference, or not?

But the scribes and teachers of the law got it.  The vineyard tipped them off: why plant a fig tree in a vineyard unless it’s supposed to represent God’s garden, God’s people—Isaiah’s metaphor.  They knew the Song of the vineyard and the owner’s disappointment: He expected it to yield good grapes but it yielded worthless grapes (Is. 5:2).  What more could I have done for my vineyard than I did? (vs. 4)  Only one more thing could be done: Send a mediator who’ll say, “Let me try.  One more year.  One last chance.  Are you listening, you leaders of my people?”

Unless you repent, you will all (small and great, wise and ignorant) perish.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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The Fire Bringer

I came to cast fire on the earth, and would that it were already kindled!  I have a baptism to be baptized with, and how great is my distress until it is accomplished!  Luke 12:49-50

The sun slips; a wedge of light remains above the horizon, and the western sky blazes.  It seems to affect his mood; he steps away from the little flock and confronts the sky.  His face reflects its fervent heat, reminding John (perhaps) of that everlasting moment on the mountain when he seemed transformed into someone else.  (Sometimes John talks it over with his brother James, or ponders it in the night: Did they really see that?  And what did it mean?)

“I’m the fire-bringer!” the Master calls out suddenly.  “Fire is my anointing, my punishment, and my baptism, and every breath takes me closer.  How I burn for it to be over!”

sunset

The people, who were beginning to disperse and drift away, freeze in their tracks as the disciples glance uneasily at each other.  His family, remember, thought he was mad.  Could it be they were on to something?

He strides back and forth on the low ridge that separates his band from the crowd.  “Do you suppose I’ve come to bring peace, as Isaiah says—the Prince of Peace?  Well, not so fast!  First there will be division, even within the same household: son against father, daughter against mother; step-children, in-laws, even husbands and wives.  I was sent to come between: between you and God, surely, but also between you and you! And you and you!”  He points to individuals in the crowd, who jerk back as though stunned.

“Don’t you see the signs?  A cloud in the west brings rain, correct?  A south wind brings a scorcher.  You can anticipate the weather—what about the coming judgment?  It’s right here, standing before you!  Do you have an adversary you mean to take to court?  You, there–”  He seeks out the man who had asked about his inheritance.  “Are you going to drag your brother before the judge?”

The poor man seems transfixed, poleaxed.  He finally manages a timid shrug.

“How do you suppose that will end?” Jesus demands.  “What if the judge sees through your false piety and brings up all those times you rebelled against your father and neglected your widowed mother?  What if he mentions your missing prayer shawl or the Passover feast that cost considerably less than the money you were given to buy it?”  A look of terror comes over the hapless victim’s face, but still can’t seem to move.  Jesus’s tone of voice drops with the light.  “Not as righteous as you think, are you?  My advice: settle with your brother.  Don’t risk the judge.  Do it now.”

As though suddenly unchained, the man starts upright, turns and pushes through the crowd.  Jesus watches him go, then waves a dismissing hand toward the people who remain.  “Don’t bask in your superiority, sons of Israel.  Judge for yourselves what is right.”

Because there will be a judgment.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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To Whom Much is Given

And he said to his disciples, “Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat, nor about your body, what you will put on.  For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing.  Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them.  Of how much more value are you than the birds!”  Luke 12:23-24

Having dropped this bombshell on “the crowd,” he turns to “the disciples.”  They’re probably scratching their heads about his definition of “foolish” and “wise” and what’s worth worrying about.

It’s a matter of heart.  The rich fool’s heart was in his storehouses, ours should be in the Kingdom of God.  We’re living there now—if we could only see the solid walls around us, the sheltering roof over our heads, the rich robes of christ’s righteousness that we wear, the nourishment of doing God’s will (for, “I have food to eat that you know not of” Jn. 4:32)—if we could only live in that reality, our present concerns about this day-to-day reality would melt away.

Easy for you to say, Jesus—you’ve charmed the world into caring for you.  Look how these women follow you around, making sure your clothes are washed and your bread baked or bought.  You live off contributions, but nobody’s going to pay me to make speeches or hold seminars.

And yet . . . we have the same Father.  Isn’t that his point?  The Father knows what we need.  He provides what we need, just as he feeds the birds and decks out the wildflowers.  But not always, right?  Birds occasionally starve, and wildflowers shrivel up and meet the mowing machine. Even people starve sometimes—in page ages, they starved pretty often. What’s the answer to that?

This: “Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”  Some translations read “delight.”  It is his delight to make us heirs of riches beyond our imagination.  It pleases him, like it pleased your mom and dad to put special presents under the tree on Christmas Eve—they wanted to see your face when you found those things in the morning.  The difference is that we asked for those presents.  We chose them and cut out pictures of them and dreamed of them and cleared space in our rooms for them.

The Father is planning to give us something we do not have the imagination or expansiveness of soul to mystery-giftask for.  It’s wrapped in plain brown paper, all but hidden among the other shiny things we think we want.  People have been asking Jesus about present concerns: touch me, heal me, show me a sign, tell my brother to share.  He often grants present concerns, too, for “Your Father knows you need them.”  Our Father made us to need food and clothes—of course he knows.  But the present day is a threshold, like childhood.  Beyond it is the Kingdom in full, where our food will be the will of God and our clothing the righteousness of Christ.  How does that sound?  If we want that, or even if we want to want that, we are in a sense already there.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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The Father’s Delight

And he said to his disciples, “Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat, nor about your body, what you will put on.  For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing.  Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them.  Of how much more value are you than the birds!”  Luke 12:23-24

Having dropped this bombshell on “the crowd,” he turns to “the disciples.”  They’re probably scratching their heads about his definition of “foolish” and “wise” and what’s worth worrying about.

It’s a matter of heart.  The rich fool’s heart was in his storehouses, ours should be in the Kingdom of God.  We’re living there now—if we could only see the solid walls around us, the sheltering roof over our heads, the rich robes of christ’s righteousness that we wear, the nourishment of doing God’s will (for, “I have food to eat that you know not of” Jn. 4:32)—if we could only live in that reality, our present concerns about this day-to-day reality would melt away.

Easy for you to say, Jesus—you’ve charmed the world into caring for you.  Look how these women follow you around, making sure your clothes are washed and your bread baked or bought.  You live off contributions, but nobody’s going to pay me to make speeches or hold seminars.

And yet . . . we have the same Father.  Isn’t that his point?  The Father knows what we need.  He provides what we need, just as he feeds the birds and decks out the wildflowers.  But not always, right?  Birds occasionally starve, and wildflowers shrivel up and meet the mowing machine. Even people starve sometimes—in page ages, they starved pretty often. What’s the answer to that?

This: “Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”  Some translations read “delight.”  It is his delight to make us heirs of riches beyond our imagination.  It pleases him, like it pleased your mom and dad to put special presents under the tree on Christmas Eve—they wanted to see your face when you found those things in the morning.  The difference is that we asked for those presents.  We chose them and cut out pictures of them and dreamed of them and cleared space in our rooms for them.

The Father is planning to give us something we do not have the imagination or expansiveness of soul to mystery-giftask for.  It’s wrapped in plain brown paper, all but hidden among the other shiny things we think we want.  People have been asking Jesus about present concerns: touch me, heal me, show me a sign, tell my brother to share.  He often grants present concerns, too, for “Your Father knows you need them.”  Our Father made us to need food and clothes—of course he knows.  But the present day is a threshold, like childhood.  Beyond it is the Kingdom in full, where our food will be the will of God and our clothing the righteousness of Christ.  How does that sound?  If we want that, or even if we want to want that, we are in a sense already there.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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