Month: April 2016

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Ten for Ten

As they heard these things, he proceeded to tell a parable, because he was near to Jerusalem, and because they supposed that the kingdom of God was to appear immediately.  Luke 19:11

The disciples don’t share in the muttering about going to Zacchaeus’ house—they should eat so well every day.  Comfortable sleeping quarters, too.  And tomorrow, or the next day, or surely no more than three—Jerusalem!  Passover is coming up—a perfect, propitious time for the kingdom to be proclaimed.  Excitement is palpable among them, whether veteran or newbie.  Jesus, who has been talking about money with Zacchaeus (not an evil thing, he says, in its place), suddenly looks over at them and brings them into the conversation.

“There was a man . . .”ten-minas

The noise level in the hall drops at this familiar opening.  They all know what’s coming next.

“. . . a nobleman, who was to be elevated as ruler of his country.  Just before he left to receive his commission from the emperor, he called his ten most trusted servants and gave each of them one mina.”

Peter, James, and some of the originals wonder why he doesn’t say twelve instead of ten, so everyone would know who the trusted servants are.

“The master said, ‘I’m going to be away for some time.  I can’t say how long.  I want you to take those sums I’ve given to you and see what you can do with your share.  We’ll add up accounts when I come back.’”

“So he departed to receive his crown, but the citizens of his country sent a delegation of protest to the Emperor saying, ‘We don’t want this man as our king.’”

A few of the more savvy followers glance at each and nod: the Jewish elders, scribes and Pharisees, obviously.  But why did the nobleman have to go away to become king? Isn’t he right here?

“He was gone for a long time, but eventually came back in state, with all authority.  And he called his servants to him.  The first had increased his master’s money tenfold, and the king was well pleased.  That servant received a commission to rule ten cities.  Another had earned five minas from the one, so he received five cities.  But a third came forward with no additional minas.  His excuse was this: ‘Lord, here’s what you gave me; I kept it safe for you.’

“As the master’s face darkened, he blurted out, ‘I was afraid of you!  You’re a hard man, sir; you ask too much of a poor, lowly slave.  I’m not a gifted investor like the others, but I didn’t waste or spend it.  Here’s what you gave me, safe and sound.’”

“’So I’m a hard man, am I?  Is it ‘hard’ to entrust lowly slaves with rich blessings?  Is it hard to want to elevate them, to lift them from slavery to sonship?  Your own mouth condemns you.  Here–” he said to the steward—“take the mina from this worthless slave and give it to the one with ten minas.”

“Wait!” Simon-called-Peter interrupted. “Do the servants get to keep the money?  That guy already has a lot.”

“’I tell you,’ said the master (and the listeners weren’t sure whether Jesus was talking for himself or for the king in the story), ‘the one who has will be given more, and the one who doesn’t have will lose even the little he was given.”

“That hardly seems fair,” muttered some of the listeners.

“But what about those . . .” began John.

“’As for those enemies of mine, who did not want me to be king?  Their punishment was a long time coming, but the day is finally here.  Bring them here and execute them before me.’”

This is the last parable he would tell before entering Jerusalem.  And it was almost the scariest.

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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The Little Man

He entered Jericho and was passing through.  And there was a man named Zacchaeus.  He was a chief tax collector and was rich . . . Luke 19:1-2

Loser.

That’s what they say about him, as well as, He’ll do anything for a mina, and He’d sell his grandmother for a day’s wages and, I wonder how he can sleep at night?  He usually slept just fine—knowing from experience that empty stomachs stole more sleep than full ones, and goose down suited his bones better than stale straw.

And yet there has to be something missing in his comfortable life; why else would he respond with this thrill of excitement and urgency when he hears the news?  “Jesus of Nazareth is right outside the city!  He just healed a blind man—remember old Bartimeus who always begged in that same spot outside the wall?  Yes, him—he’s walking beside the Rabbi and praising God!”

Not that anyone would directly tell Zacchaeus this.  His few friends seldom hang around the collecting table, but are more likely to show up in the evenings when he is taking dinner at the tavern and might be persuaded to buy them a drink.  Zacchaeus picks up the news while walking to the market where his boy Tobias is supposed to be setting up.  The air is full of news; he plucks bits and pieces like blowing blossoms.  “He’s just entered the gate!” “He’s on the way to the market!”  “I wonder where he’s staying?”

The tax collector’s mind, previously packed with accounts and balances and cuts, blows clear.  He has to see this man.  Previous reports, however intriguing, are just talk; this is the man himself—Messiah they say, less than half a mile away.  Everyone is going to see him.

Me too, he thinks.  I must, must, must—

It’s been years since he ran like that.  All are hurrying, but he runs—robes tucked up, moneybag close to his chest, fine sandals flapping, it doesn’t take long to reach the mob that carries the man inside it, but he can’t see.  Even women block him.

(His small size, they whisper among themselves, accounts for his small heart.)

So near, yet so far—but then an idea pops in his head.  Turning sideways he works his way around the perimeter of the mob and hits the ground running.  Always figuring out a way to get ahead, that’s him.  He even has a tree in mind: the old sycamore just outside the market entrance where the women like to gather.  They are all off to see the parade, so the ground is clear when he charges the tree full-tilt, leaps for its lowest branch and uses his own momentum to swing himself up.  Climbing higher, he finds a steady perch and leans out, panting.  Not bad, for a middle-aged respectable merchant.  A perfect view, and no one will notice him.

sycamore-tree-pano

Now he can see for himself who this Jesus is.  Too bad there are no blind beggars about . . . He’d pay good money to see such a miracle . . . And here they come!  First children, skipping and singing, then strangers clearing the way—the man’s followers, he suspects—and then the man himself, a steady presence in all the tumult.  Zacchaeus recognizes him immediately yet wonders why, because there is nothing especially noteworthy to catch the eye: average height, average looks, average build, ordinary clothes.  What is it about him?

While Zacchaeus is trying to figure this out, the man stops.  And looks up into the tree.  And sees him.

Here’s what it is about him:  a lightness, a spaciousness, somehow contained in a personality both massive and majestic.  And also, somehow . . . merry?  As though the two of them share a joke.  And the joke is, Zacchaeus doesn’t feel self-conscious at all.  He is only conscious of the man . . . who knows his name!

“Zacchaeus,” the man says.  “What are you doing up there?  Come down—I’m staying with you today.”

The ten-year-old he once was could not have scrambled down any faster.  The little man bows, snaps his fingers, sends a boy to the house to tell the servants to get ready.  The murmurs begin at his back—not only from the prominent but also from the plain.  He barely hears them.  By the time they reach his house Jesus has his whole life story.  As they walk through the gate, Jesus has his heart.  And as they pass through the courtyard, Jesus has it all.

“Look, Lord.”  The loser pauses at the door.  “Half of all my goods I give to the poor.  And anyone I’ve defrauded I’ll pay fourfold.”

The followers look at each other, remembering another rich man who couldn’t give it up.  Is this man serious?  Obvious a shady character, a slippery sort—everyone knows the type.  Could the Master see through him?

No, the Master sees him.

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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What It Takes to See

And taking the twelve, he said to them, “See, we are going up to Jerusalem, and everything that is written about the Son of Man by the prophets will be accomplished . . .”  Luke 18:31-32

They are getting close to Jericho, as far south as their journey would take them.  Jerusalem is close, just over the horizon.  Anticipation glows like an ember in the pulsing, gripping moment before it bursts into flame.  Then he says,

“Let me tell you one last time what will happen when we get there.  The prophets wrote of it, Isaiah foretold it: the Son of Man will be delivered to Gentiles, mocked, scorned, slapped and spat upon.  After whips have drained the vitality from him they will take his life, but not for good—on the third day he’ll rise to life again.”

The words fell like rocks, hard and smooth and impermeable.  Their minds turned rocky, slow and dense.

They did not understand.

His words made no sense.

They could not see.  Comprehension reached out, fingered the hard surface, fell away.

By morning it seemed like a bad dream, and the journey was back on course.  When you live through many days that are governed by the same routine, your mind accepts it as habit, half-consciously expecting that all future days will continue like these.  First sunrise, then breakfast, after which they gather their few possessions.  Then on the road again, followed by the hangers-on and joined by the passers-by.  By the time the walls of Jericho (fabled in song and story) rise before them, the usual “great crowd” has developed.

Meanwhile, outside the city another routine day is going on as usual—hot and crowded.  And for Bartimaeus, dark.  Always dark.  The blind beggar had felt his way to this same spot outside the wall ever since he was a child.  His parents used to bring him, but they are long gone.  Most of his childhood friends, too; they’re either dead or living on outside his comprehension.  His beggar friends come and go, because begging is a short-lived trade.  As for a wife–who would have him?  The only stable presence in his life is his alms box.

For him days pass like beads on a string, rounded and sullen and mostly alike–but this morning he feels a crackle in the air.  It isn’t just the noise.  Wedding crowds and funeral crowds and the occasional stoning crowd have their recognizable character, but this is different: a rush, as though the day were breaking loose from the frame it is stretched upon and curling toward the center.  “What is it?” he asks the crowded air.  “What’s going on?”

The voices come back, overstepping each other like excited children: “Jesus of Nazareth is passing by!”

Who hasn’t heard of Jesus of Nazareth?  They say he’s Messiah, coming in a triumphant procession of healings and preachings and signs and wonders.  Oh, the things they say!  The news bubbles up in Bartimaeus like a fountain.  His voice, so long wrung dry of things to say, breaks out feebly.

“Son of David!  Son of David!  Jesus, Son of David, wait!”

Where does that come from?  They say he’s Messiah, the great King, the restoration of the glorious throne of Israel, heir to the giant-slayer, the sweet singer, the man after God’s own heart—“Son of David, stop!”

Hush, they’re saying.  You’re making a scene.  People are staring at you.

That doesn’t matter.  He’s been crowded into silence all his life by the fault of not seeing.  He is a turd in the road, a blot on the landscape, an occasion for charity from more fortunate men.  But now everything inside of him gathers itself up, hopelessly, desperately—he is Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus, standing now on unsteady feet, his voice ringing out, “Have mercy on me!”

The tumult collapses from those words like scaffolding.  In the sudden quiet, voices that had previously hushed him now come back, passed hand over hand from the center of the crowd.  He’s calling for you.  Get up.  Come forward.

He takes one uncertain step, then ablind mannother and another, belatedly realizing he’s left his stick behind.  And his alms-box.  Step after step, hands outstretched and fingers spread, he feels the crow both pulling back from and directing him, with a nudge here, a touch of the shoulder there.  Until he finally comes to the glowing, living center.

“What do you want me to do for you?” says the center.

“Lord–” For there is no other way to address him—“I want to see.”

“Then see,” says he.  No touch, no breath, just words.  As simple as, Let there be light.  This is what it takes to see: his words.  And his open, empty eyes flood with light.

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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