Month: July 2016

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Lord, Look at Me

And immediately, while he was still speaking, the rooster crowd.  And the Lord turned and looked at Peter.  And Peter remembered . . .  Luke 22:60b-61a

The deed is done, the words said—

Those words, crowding my mouth, clamoring to get out,

and where did they come from? What secret sniveling ghost of my heart chose that moment to break out,

Deck itself in phony outrage and deny, deny, deny?

Or could that be the real me, turned inside out, a pocketed pimp exposed in his quivering skin, who will sell out—

NO! When I said it, it was true: “I’ll go with you anywhere,

even to death.”  And you said—

And you turned—

And you looked—

Oh, that look, that spears me like a fish,

That pins me to me, and to you,

That burnishes the bond between us,

That lets me know you will never let go.

in qualm or quiet, in doubt and death, in courage and cravenness,

Oh Jesus, please look at me.

remorse

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The Devil’s Sifter

Then they seized him and led him away, bringing him into the high priest’s house.  Peter was following at a distance.  And when they had kindled a fire in the middle of the courtyard and sat down together, Peter sat down among them.  Luke 22:54-55

Within the hour, Simon “the Rock” feels like a handful of sand.

Of course he had the best intentions—he followed the flaming torches and flashing swords out of the garden, through the twisty city streets, past the temple complex and all the way to the High Priest’s house. John caught up with him* but didn’t speak; no words can push past their thudding hearts.  Their breath came hard and fast as they rushed uphill toward the Palace of Herod Antipas.  The high priest’s house nestles beside it like a chick under a hen’s wing.

It’s much more than a house—it’s also a council chamber and judgment hall, where the Sanhedrin meets and theological disputes are hammered out or hammered on.  As the guards hustle their master through the portal, Peter and John step up their pace before the iron-ribbed gate swings shut.

“Wait,” murmurs John.  He hurries forward and speaks to the gatekeeper–who, after glancing Peter’s way, shrugs and holds open the gate for both of them.  Once in, John disappears, leaving Peter in the courtyard.  John has connections in Jerusalem, even within the priestly class—his mother’s relations.  That’s one reason the sons of Zebedee sometimes give themselves airs and drop  names and make asses of themselves—though they are decent fellows most of the time.

Peter tries to look like he belongs.  The night has turned chilly and some of the household servants and hangers-on have gathered around a fire.  Pulling his cloak around him, he wanders over and joins the circle, ears open for useful information.

Any hopes that his master has been seized by mistake, or that he is some sort of diversion, are soon dashed.  Messiah is the main event; all the servants are talking about him.  And the gist, Peter soon realizes with alarm, is not favorable.

“After that grand entrance, all he’s done is talk.  When will he act?”

“My mother tried to get close to him, to heal her bad hip.  But she was turned away.”

“The signs are dried up, they say.  I’ll bet they were just tricks all along.”

This is ominous.  These are ordinary people, the kind of who flock to Jesus, love him, know he is on their side.  If the ordinary people start to turn against him . . .

“You there.”  Peter looks up to meet the narrowed eyes of a servant girl.  “Didn’t I see you with him in the temple court?”

It strikes like a javelin, cleanly thrown: raw fear.  It invades and occupies him; takes over his voice, hands, heart.  “Me?  I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Every face turns to him: young old, thin, round, all hollow-eyed in the firelight; judging, accusing.  He glares back, hitching his cloak tighter as though it could protect him.  Best to bluff it out, bide his time, wait for an opportunity—to do what, he doesn’t know.

The servant girl is called away and a butler arrives, brisk and officious, rubbing his hand to warm them.  What news? they ask him.

“It doesn’t look good for the Galilean.  He won’t even answer to his own defense.  They keep threatening to take him before Pilate, but he doesn’t even opens his mouth.  Sanhedrin’s next.”

“What’s–”  Peter clears his throat.  “What’s the charge?”

“Good question.”  The butler glances his way, gives him a second look.  “Wait—haven’t I seen you before?  Aren’t you one of the man’s followers?”

It happens again: something takes hold of him.  “No!  I just got here.  Don’t know him.”

The butler doesn’t look convinced, but has more important things to attend to.  After a moment he goes back inside, promising to keep them informed.  Peter shrinks back but holds his place by the fire.  Most of the circle ignore him, but one, a lowly stable hand by the look of him—a nobody–keeps staring.  Peter tries to stare back but the youth won’t relent.  Minutes pass, people come and go.  Through the open doors of the house he hears voices raised, tempers rising.  Something is about to happen.

The stable hand bursts out, “I know you were with him!  I saw you—and besides, you talk like a Galilean.”

He jumps to his feet, the very picture of indignant outrage.  “Curse you, boy!  By all that’s holy, how many times do I have to say it—I don’t know this person you’re talking about!”

He stalks toward the gate.  Already the darkness has begun to lift, giving way to a pearl-pink glow of dawn.  A small crowd is crossing the courtyard from the other side—guards with spears, and among them—

rooster

A jaunty, familiar sound pierces him through: a rooster’s crow.

A face in the passing crowd turns toward him.  The Master eyes bore into his, uncovering the wretch that has always lived there, who once said to him, “Lord, depart from me!  I’m a sinful man!”

Lord, never depart from me! For I’m a sinful man . . .

 

*John includes this detail in his own gospel account.

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Time Closes In

And he came out and went, as was his custom, to the Mount of Olives, and the disciples followed him.  Luke 22:39

He leads the way back toward their camping place on the Mount of Olives, but then turns aside in the little valley between the outer wall of Jerusalem and the crown of the hill called Gethsemane.  “Stay here for a while,” he tells them, adding this strange instruction.  “Pray that you may not be put to the test.”  Then he walks on alone—they know not to follow—and darkness obscures him.

gethsemane

For a moment, no one knows what to say.  “Well,” Peter remarks at last, “That was strange.”

“Remember what he taught us to pray,” John says: “’Lead us not into temptation?’  Big things are about to happen, and we must be ready.”

“All right then.”  Peter takes the lead, as usual.  Spreading his hands, he looks up to heaven, closes his eyes, and speaks in the singsong lilt of a cantor in the synagogue, “O most high and exalted God, the Blessed One of Israel, hear our prayer!  Keep temptation from us and let us . . . let us walk always in the way of our Master, the Messiah who comes from you.  And train our hands for battle that we may bend a bow of bronze and triumph over our enemies.  The LORD is my strength and song, and he had become my salvation! Amen.”

“Talk about making a show of your prayers,” teases his brother Andrew.

“As fine as any Pharisee!” laughs James.

“He didn’t even look at our swords,” Simon yawns.

The yawn spreads like fog through their ranks; it had been a long day.  “We should take turns praying,” John suggests, as he squirms out a more comfortable place for himself against a rock.  “Who wants to be next?”

After a pause, Bartholomew speaks up: he who hardly ever says anything.  “I will.”  His droning voice puts some of them to sleep, and when it ends John give a little start: oh, my turn.  He begins, but loses his train of thought a few times and fills in the gaps with holy words.

One by one they drift away under the stars.  Satan haunts them—and taunts them—

Deliver us from evil.

They are put to the test, but since they never took his harder sayings very seriously before, they are ill-prepared to resist now.  Only one or two, before losing consciousness, thinks to wonder, Hey—where’s Judas?

* * * * * * * * * * *

Meanwhile, only about a stone’s throw away, the Son of Man rises unsteadily to his feet.  He wipes his forehead with a corner of his cloak.

It comes away bloody.

We suddenly realize: we have never observed him at prayer before.  He prays all the time—hours every day—but this is the only private prayer we are privileged to hear, and it’s deeply disturbing.  There has never been a clash of wills between these two, and indeed, this is not exactly a clash.  But it’s a conflict, an offsetting, where two wills don’t quite line up together.  What has he been asking?  If you will, do not pour out your cup of wrath on me.  Over eons of time that cup has been poised and ready: “the wine foams . . . surely all the wicked of the earth must drain and drink down its dregs . . .”* Ps. 75:8  All the wicked of the earth crowd around him and pull him away from his Father; the separation has begun, and so has the bleeding.  It’s blood from a torn heart.  Nevertheless:

“Not my will, but yours . . . .”

(Here I am—the one the prophets wrote about—I have come to do your will, O God.**)

The bright-faced boy in the temple, the emaciated Son in the wilderness, the Teacher at the well, rejoicing in unknown food, the Anointed One who has resolutely set his face toward Jerusalem—all meet here, where the paths of justice and mercy cross.  A mighty heart clenches and wrings out blood, a mighty mind recoils then returns.  Once again the wills line up, but it takes every ounce of strength Messiah has.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Standing, he goes to seek out his disciples.  He’s not surprised to find them sleeping, nor to see the distant flicker or torches emerging from the eastern gate: distant, but ever closer.  He nudges the nearest sleeping body.  “Get up.  You wasted your time in sleep when you could have been in prayer.”  One by one, they sit up and rub their eyes, pushing themselves off the ground.  “Temptation is coming—in fact, it’s almost upon us.”

The rattling of swords and hiss of resin torches is upon them: a detachment of the temple guard together with a few servants, led by . . .  It is all too much to take in at first: in a daze, the followers see Judas approach and kiss their master on the cheek—a common greeting after a brief separation, but with a sinister taint they can smell from yards away.  Then a scuffle; swords flash in the torchlight; Peter seizes a blade from Simon and leaps forward with an earnest, unpracticed swipe.

Shouting, scuffling—a scream as one of the servants clutches the side of his head.  Above the din, one clear, authoritative voice:

“No more of this!”

In the fraught silence the Master bends down and picks up a scrap of flesh from the ground: an ear.  Taking a step toward the sobbing slave he touches the man’s shoulder to steady him, then matches the ear to his bleeding wound.  Torn tissues and veins leap at his touch, eagerly knit themselves back together: Let it be.  The Master lightly traces the rim of the ear as though pleased with his own work, before turning to the stunned guards.

“Geared up for battle, are you?  As though I were a violent criminal?  You could have taken me yesterday, or the day before, while I was teaching in the temple courts, but I see you had to wait for your dark time.”

He walks toward them, holding out his hands.  Abruptly remembering what they have come for, leap forward, tie his hands and hustle him away, ignoring the followers who remain behind in shocked silence.

After a moment, Peter casts a furious glance around him, drops the sword, and hurries after the flickering torches.  John hesitates, then follows.  The others, now in near-total darkness, scatter—almost as if they had planned it ahead of time.  It is a plan, but not theirs.*  All they know is stark terror.  Only Judas is left—the only one who has nothing to fear, and yet has never felt more fearful.

He never looked at me!  Not once, even when speaking to me.  Why didn’t he look?

 

*Strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered. Zech. 13:7

** Heb. 10:9

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Setting the Table

Then came the day of Unleavened Bread, on which the Passover lamb had to be sacrificed.  So Jesus sent Peter and John, saying, “Go and prepare the Passover for us, that we may eat it.”  Luke 22:7-8      

The next day was Passover and no plans have been made.  Or so it seems.  While they are still on the mountain, yawning and stretching, the Master sends Peter and John into the city with instructions to follow a man carrying a jar of water on his head, who would lead them to a house with a room to spare.

Of course, it all falls out as he said.  While following the man with the jar, Peter and John glance at each other and smile; such predictions no longer surprise them.  They secure the room, a furnished upstairs chamber big enough for all thirteen of them, and spend the rest of the morning at the market.  They take particular care with choosing the lamb, as all good Jewish men do, feeling all over for lumps and scars.  Finally Peter says, “He’ll do,” and hands over the purchase price.  The lamb is led away to slaughter.

The time is drawing near.  They can feel it.

The whole city feels it, perhaps—or at any rate, there seems to be more than a Passover hush slowly stealing over it as sunset approaches.  A band of turquoise light shimmers on the western hills.  Families gather, pilgrims find their furnished rooms, lighted windows blink on in the darkening streets.  Familiar scriptures and responses ride the soft wind:

Why is this night unlike other nights?

Youngest sons ask their fathers and fathers give the prescribed answers: hopefully, longingly, routinely, tiredly, as each is inclined.  But in some of those houses, at least, there’s a heightened anticipation in the familiar words: the Kingdom is coming.  Messiah is here!

In the upstairs room, every required detail of the feast is followed to the letter as the Master takes over the function of family head.  Does the youngest disciple ask the questions?  Probably, though later they won’t remember the details, even though this meal is the last of the old order.  What they will remember is his declaration:

“I’ve longed to eat this meal with you before I suffer.  I will not eat it again until it’s fulfilled in the Kingdom.”

They hear “Kingdom” loud and clear.  “Fulfilled in the Kingdom” at last!  The other part—“before I suffer”—goes over their heads.  As usual.

But then he says something truly surprising.  Picking up the unleavened bread, made ceremoniously in a kitchen purged of yeast, he says, “This is my body, given for you.  Do this in remembrance of me.”

(This is a radical departure from the ritual; what next?)

Picking up his cup, he said, “This is the new covenant, sealed by my blood . . .”

(Blood?)

cup

“. . . and I see the hand of my betrayer on the table.  Woe to the man who brings about my predetermined death.”

Judas snatches his hand off the table, his face blazing.  How does Jesus know?  But of course he would; how had Judas ever imagined otherwise?  He casts out demons by the prince of demons, correct?  And by the prince of demons he divines the future.  Every other hand remains on the table; as the followers stare stupidly at each other.  One of them snaps, “Don’t look at me—I wouldn’t do such a thing!”  One by one they begin to argue over supposed accusations.

The room is entirely in shadow but for splashes of lamplight.  Judas glances toward the head of the table.  The Master’s face is turned away.  Maybe he doesn’t know who, only what.  Anyway, this is as good a time as any, now that the meal is almost done.  He made a deal; now it’s time to deliver.  In the dark, he slips away.

Meanwhile the argument among the disciples has shifted, as it often does, to determining which of them will be most prominent in the coming kingdom.  Matthew touts his administrative skills, Peter sets himself forth as a natural leader, Simon the Zealot cites his experience as a point man, James and John (who have already done some not-so-subtle politicking for places of honor*), quietly lean in on the left and the right,.  All, it seem, have an opinion of what will be needed and his unique ability to supply.

“Enough!”  The Master slams his cup on the table, cutting off the debate.  “You talk like Romans, with all their elaborate authority structures.  All of you wish to be masters and lords.  Gentiles do that—they lord it over the underlings while pretending to be their benefactors.  Listen to me: you shall not be like them.”

The followers maintain a sulky silence as the women come in to clear the table.  Swift and silent as shadows, these women have become so familiar as to be almost invisible.  They have followed all the way from Galilee, providing food, washing clothes, risking their reputations for the privilege of serving the Master.  Mary, and Salome, Joanna—always near, listening, absorbing, anticipating needs before they are spoken.  His eyes follow them out of the room.

“So who is the greatest?” he asks: “the one who sits at the head of the table, or the one who serves?  Surely, you would say, the one at the head of the table!  And yet, my mission is to serve.  Don’t worry—you’ve not come all this way with me for nothing.  You will receive your kingdom after I receive mine.  As we sit around this table now, so I will one day welcome you to a royal throne.  In fact—can you see yourselves on twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel?”

At this, each man perks up and adjusts his tunic, entertaining the same picture of a great hall—perhaps in Herod’s own palace!–dressed in understated finery while the nation comes before them (including every Pharisee who once looked down his haughty nose and every tax collector who stuffed his purse at their expense).

“But watch out–” the Master says.

Turning his head toward Peter, he speaks in a peculiar tone that doesn’t quite sound like him, “Simon!  Simon, you should know that Satan has asked to sift you all like wheat.”

What now?  His words have been tugging them like a shifting wind, first one direction and then another.  Again they look at each other, each assessing the weaknesses everywhere except in himself, as the Master goes on:

“But I have prayed especially for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail.  And when you have recovered, encourage your brothers.”

Ah.  Peter figures it out.  The Master is in one of his cryptic moods, where he likes to throw things a little off balance to see if they’re paying attention.  This is some kind of test, but the response almost makes itself:  “Lord, I am ready to follow you anywhere, whether it be to prison—or even to death.”

“Really? The truth is somewhat otherwise: before the rooster crows tonight you will deny, three times, that you even know me.”

Peter’s openmouthed protest doesn’t make it past his lips.  Unlike some of his master’s prophesies, This one is uncomfortably specific.  Turning to the other disciples, Jesus is now saying, “Remember when I sent you out among the towns last year, and told you to take no provisions?  Did you lack anything?”

They shake their heads, recalling the generosity of those households where they brought the god news: “Not a thing.”  “They treated us like royalty!” “We received the best every household had to offer.”

”That won’t always be the case from now on,” he replies.  “A time is coming when you won’t always be received as heroes.  You would do well to provide for yourselves wherever you go—even, if need be, sell your extra cloak to buy a sword.”

Simon the Zealot glances at Thomas.  Their eyes light up—finally, the moment has arrived!  At a slight nod from his partner, Simon springs to his feet and runs to a corner of the room where their supplies are piled up.  Rummaging among his equipment he pulls out something with a metallic clang.  “Look, Lord! Two swords, at your service!”

In the darkness it’s hard to judge the Master’s expression, but his voice is full: sadness, hesitation, irony, perhaps even a touch of laughter.  “That’s more than sufficient,” he says.  “And now it’s time to go.

“It’s time . . .”

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The Deal

Now the feast of Unleavened Bread drew near, which is called the Passover.  And the chief priests and the scribes were seeking how to put him to death, for they feared the people.  Luke 22:1-2

The next day, the eve of the Passover, the Master and his followers go into the city and make their way toward the temple complex as usual.  Cheerful cries and greetings accost them, but that’s not all.  Very noticeable today were the hard looks from the elites: Pharisees passed with their noses in the air and scribes delicately moved their prayer shawls aside to keep them from contamination with the Nazarene and his little coterie.  Near the temple, two priests observe them with angry glances, muttering to themselves as they pass by.

Judas sees their dilemma—how plain everything appears to him now!  The priestly class wants to arrest the troublemaker but don’t dare, out here in public.  The crowds would run riot and their Roman overlords come down hard on the whole city.  Judas glances back, notices the priests have turned aside and are walking along the wall toward the southeast corner of the complex.

Suddenly it comes to him, what he can do.  Must do.

Murmuring an excuse to the nearest disciple—Little James, he thinks—Judas peels away from the group and follows the two priests, fighting traffic until he breaks free of the throng pouring through the eastern gate.

He has an offer in mind: I’ll show you how to arrest him quietly, in exchange for . . . But shouldn’t he do this for nothing, as his patriotic and spiritual duty?  No—that would be ideal, of course, but there are considerations. Judas2 He’ll need a nest egg to get back home, start a new life.  As for the others, well, they’ll have to look out for themselves.  They’ll survive.  What he’s doing is best for them, too.  Really, best for everyone, even the whole nation.  Even, perhaps, the Master himself.

Perhaps—probably?—they won’t kill him, seeing how deranged he is.  And even if they do . . . sometimes the one has to die for the sake of the many.  It’s for the best.  All for the best.

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