Author: janie

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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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Watch Out

But watch yourselves, lest your hearts be weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and cares of this life, and that day come upon you suddenly like a trap . . .”  And every day he was teaching in the temple, but at night he went out and lodged on the mount called Olivet.  Luke 21:34, 37

As night spreads its dark wing, master and followers spread their blanket rolls on the Mount, where other Passover pilgrims have made their camps and built their cooking fires.  The clamor of the city has ceased; only the occasional bleat or bray disturbs its majestic stillness.

Some of the disciples fall asleep immediately; others lay awake for a time, disturbed by the Master’s talk of earthquakes and celestial upheaval and being hauled before magistrate.  Sleep stealthily overtakes them, though—except for one.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

He lies awake, stomach churning, mind roiling.  What has he got himself into?

In the beginning, I never questioned him.  Who would?  He spoke so beautifully, prayed so graciously—back then, he even smiled once in awhile.  And the signs! And the healings!  My own sister cured of a malignant growth on her neck, her life restored, better than ever.  The day he looked at me and said, “Come.”  The greatest day of my life, that.  Wrapping up an extra cloak and pair of sandals, with a blessing and a kiss from Mother.  I was off on a great adventure.  Like stepping into a beautiful story—for all the heat and dust of those days.

What days: passing out neverending bread and fish on a hillside, feeling the raging sea fall flat at a single word, watching blind men see and lame men leap up from their pallets as the crowd shouts “Glory!”  Going from place to place in advance of him, the children would run out to meet us and city elders give us an audience to proclaim in the center of town: “The Kingdom is at hand!” 

I loved being his feet and voice those days; the wide-eyed little boys, the maidens blushing when they met my eyes, the prominent men—who used to barely spare me a glance—moving aside to give me their seat.  We were going somewhere then.  And when we entered Jerusalem, I thought we had arrived.  I thought my heart would burst wide open.

But now, he seems determined to throw it all away.  Why?  What’s happening? 

Thinking back, I see the signs.  Those weird predictions about falling into the hands of evil men, and getting killed.  Well, that’s coming clearer now: he’s asking to get killed.  And they say the chief priests are looking for an excuse to do it.  They won’t have to look long.  The things he says, the claims he makes—outrageous, when you think about it.  He talks like he’s the Blessed One himself.  In the flesh!  Will Yahweh stand for that?  The healings have stopped; been months since we’ve seen one, or any other sign.  Except for Lazarus, of course.*  But that . . . I see how that could have been a trick.  Staged.  Only a few people need to be in on the plan—one last sign before entering Jerusalem.

But then there was that fig tree he blasted, right before our eyes.**  Not like him.  Not the kind of sign he usually performs.  In fact, it looked like the work of a . . . darker power.

Remember what the Pharisees said, back in Galilee?  “He casts out demons by the power of the Prince of demons”?

Could it be that—No, I’ll not believe it.  He’s not a demon, but . . . it could be he’s being used by them.  He told a story, something about a man cleansed of an evil spirit who becomes prey to seven other evil spirits . . .

He’s mad.

That’s the explanation; strange that in darkness the truth emerges plain as day.  He’s lost his grip on reality; his mind has given way.  Could there be any other explanation?  Like King Saul, evil spirits have possessed him; he acts and speaks irrationally.  He even said—I remember now—he said he would come back to life after three days!  That must be why he staged that gaudy trick with Lazarus: three days in the tomb, and the man staggers out alive.  But he wasn’t really dead—couldn’t have been; I see that now. But Jesus will be, if he keeps up this agitation.  And he’s deluded himself that he won’t stay dead.

But he will. And . . .

So will the rest of us.

Oh.

Will we be accountable too?

Why not?

What’s to stop the temple police, once they’ve arrested the leader, to come for the followers?  Yes, of course—they’d want to strangle the whole movement, nip it in the bud.  Cut off the master, then go after the inner circle.  Strike the shepherd, slaughter the sheep.

His skin turns clammy, as he lies under the pitiless, cold-eyed moon.

I’ve given you the signs, he says.  Indeed.  I see the signs, even if no one else does.  It’s up to me to act.  I’ve a widowed mother to think of, and sisters, not to mention myself.  How will I make my way back, and what will I live on until I can get established back home?  I must think this through, I must provide, I must . . .

Judas turns his head.  The Master is still awake, sitting up, his head bowed.  Praying.  He does that often; in fact Judas wonders if he ever slept more than an hour at a time, anywhere other than a boat in a raging storm (Madness—madness!)  Look at me, Judas thinks.  I loved you once; perhaps I love you still.  You made my heart sing and my feet dance; you bent down to make me great.  Was it all an illusion?  Master—

Look at me.

But the Master’s head never turns, and his wakeful disciple can’t escape the impression that Jesus knows he is there, and even knows these tempestuous thoughts blowing through his mind.  He has that way about him—the way of magicians and charlatans, of making you think they can see into your very soul.

But it’s a trick.  It was all—all—a trick.

Silently, stealthily, with no announcement or fanfare, Satan steals into his heart.

 

*Only John records this miracle, but it was a significant factor in the chief priests and scribes deciding they could no longer wait to eliminate Jesus; see John 11:45-53 and 12:9-11.

.**Luke does not mention Jesus cursing the fig tree; Mark and Matthew do.  Matthew records that the tree shriveled immediately after Jesus cursed it, while in Mark’s account the tree withered that same afternoon.

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Beautiful Stones

And while some were speaking of the temple, how it was adorned with noble stones and offerings, he said, “As for these things that you see, the days will come when there will not be left here one stone upon another that will not be thrown down.”  Luke 21:6

The city is never more glorious than at sunset, when thick golden beams fall upon its marble and gold.  From the Mount of Olives, where they are headed, it was the crown of creation: “Beautiful in its loftiness, the joy of the Earth.”*   Deep in its crevasses lie squalor and grit and grime, like any other city.  At Passover, the holiest celebration of the calendar, the filth intensifies with all the bleating, screeching, and bawling of sacrificial stock.  A day in Jerusalem at Passover was like wrangling in a cattle pen.  But from the temple rises majestic and cool on Zion’s Mount, the solid stuff of legend, the gleaming dream of the ages.

“What beautiful stones,” a disciple murmurs, walking backwards for a few steps so he can take in the magnificent view.

“What massive buildings!” exclaims another.

To tell the truth, they have begun to feel somewhat proprietary over all of it, for once their Master claims his crown, they might well be governors and administrators.  The Kingdom is coming; its capital is before them.  Surely they would come to know it well, from the Procurator’s palace (good-bye to Rome!) to the meanest twisty street, as they went about the business of Setting Things Right—which they feel supremely qualified to do.  Isn’t this what the Master has been preparing them for?

Jerusalem-the-golden

“Yes,” he says.   “Beautiful stones, massive buildings.  But listen—can you hear it?  The screams of women and children, the clash of swords and whir of arrows?  The day is coming when not one of those alabaster slabs will be left upon another.”

His words fall like a slab—large, flat, and crushing—upon their expectations.  One can almost feel the dry dust rising from it.  They look at one another, dismayed, and Peter finally asks: “Master . . . when will this be?”

The last light of day thickens as the sun pauses on the horizon—and so does he, stepping off the road.  Other pilgrims on the road look his way as though they would love to linger, but all hurry past, anxious to get to their lodgings in Bethany or Bethlehem before dark.

“Don’t be deceived,” he says to his disciples.  “Many will tell you the hour of triumph is at hand, but time must first have its say.”

Then he begins to speak of terrible things: of retribution falling on them personally, of being dragged before rulers and magistrates (but won’t we be the rulers and magistrates?!), of betrayal by those closest to them, of being put on the spot by those demanding an account.  “But don’t prepare a defense for that time, for I will give you words to say.”

(But Lord, where will you be?)

Then he speaks of even worse things: the holy city surrounded by armies, pressed in and destroyed, nursing mothers slaughtered, massive stones scattered like pebbles, “until the time of the Gentiles is fulfilled.”

(But Lord, what about your Kingdom?)

Even worse: conflict spreads to the heavens, where sun, moon, and stars flash angry signs at each other—and on earth, roaring seas, shaking land. The inhabitants of earth will collapse from terror, but as for you: “Lift up your heads, because your redemption is near.”

(But Lord . . . )

“You know when summer is coming,” he says, nodding toward a nearby fig tree: “Buds swell on the on a frosty morning, and in the next few weeks the tender green leaves unfurl on every branch.”  He steps over to the tree and strokes a limb—caresses it, really, as though it were his own creation.  For a moment he seems absorbed in the pattern of a single star-shaped leaf, plucked from the branch, twirled in his fingers like a street dancer.  With such, scripture says, guilty Adam and Eve tried vainly to cover themselves.

“You want to know when the kingdom is coming.  I’ve given you the signs.  It will happen in this generation; watch for it.  From now on you are on alert.  Your lives will never be the same, so don’t behave as though they were.  The Kingdom is not a continuous celebration—not yet.  It is a call to arms, and continual vigilance, and unceasing prayer.

“I establish my word with you.  These stones will crumble to dust, but my words will never pass away.”

On to the Mount of Olives, their camping place.  All are troubled; one is deeply disturbed.

*Psalm 48:2

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Offerings

Jesus looked up and saw the rich putting their gifts into the offering box, and he saw a poor widow put in two small copper coins.  Luke 21:1

The day was stretching toward its end; soon the trumpet would sound and the gates of the city would swing ponderously shut.  The Teacher starts through the courtyard, past a little cluster of sheep being herded toward the pens, past anxious sinners hoping to get their sacrifices done before the Passover feast, past Levites and scribes with their studious, self-important air who eye him narrowly as he goes by with his handful of disciples.

At the entrance to the courtyard he pauses.  A temple collection box stands here, a receptacle with a trumpet-shaped opening where drachmas, shekels, rians, and minas clink and rattle against its bronze sides all day long.  A rich man drops in a handful of coins, followed by a pair of Pharisees, each of whom delicately pull back their long flowing sleeve to drop a half-shekel.  Whether by chance or practiced technique, each coin makes an identical silvery chime as it strikes the bronze horn.  The two press on, apparently deep in conversation though a close observer might have caught a furtive sidelong glance from one of them, to see if anyone had noticed.

Someone had; the Pharisee caught his eye and blinked, startled.  Then he gathered his dignity about him and hurried on.

“Beware the scribes,” the Teacher said.  “They love to walk around in their long, flowing robes and nod at widoweach other gravely in the marketplace.  They love to score the head tables at banquets and front seats in the synagogue.  They make sure to settle estates in their favor, leaving widows the short end, and then they spout long eloquent prayers in the temple court for our edification.  Their reward is waiting—only it’s not a reward.”

His eye rests upon a poor woman, obviously a widow, who approaches the steps of the courtyard with the kind of habitual deference that circumstances have forced upon her.  No one spares her a glance as she reaches out a hand and drops two copper coins in the box.  The sound they make is a tiny, tinny clack.

“They give out of their wealth,” said the Teacher.  “She gives out of her poverty.  And in the end, it’s more than all of them.”

As the woman turns to go, back to whatever hovel or crowded corner she calls home, she happens to glance their way.

He gazes at her, a complex look that she afterwards remembers differently—sometimes as a smile, sometimes as a nod, sometimes just a searching glance.  It turns her inside out, leaves her both exposed and cleansed.  She feels no special righteousness, bringing her little offerings.  She fears the Lord, that’s all—she takes him at his word, whatever her circumstances.  She doesn’t expect him to notice her; no one else ever did.  Until today.

She gave out of her poverty.  Don’t we all?

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Here Come the Grooms

There came some Sadducees, those who deny that there is a resurrection, and they asked him a question, saying, “Teacher, Moses wrote for us that if a man’s brother dies, having a wife but no children, the man must take the widow and raise up offspring for his brother.  Now, there were seven brothers . . .”  Luke 20:27-29a

“Let us try,” say the Sadducees.  “We have a question that’ll make steam come out of his ears.”

They are the political class, the priestly class, the church-and-state party, the ones who understand how the world really works.  They’ve seen messiahs come and go; these days, the so-called anointed ones are mostly zealots or country boys who saw a vision once.  Under clever questioning they fall apart, and then head for the caves if they know what’s good for them.  For the gallows if they don’t.

“Teacher.”  The teacher looks up; there stand two priests and a Levite, quietly but elegantly dressed in their ecclesiastical authority. “We have a question, if you can spare a moment.  As you recall, Moses wrote for us that if a man dies childless, his nearest brother should take the widow and beget upon her heirs to the dead man’s estate.

“A very curious case came before us some years back: the oldest of seven brothers took a wife, but died without producing an heir.  So the second took her, but also died childless.  Then the third, then the fourth, and so on until all seven had married this woman in turn but left no children.

“So we were wondering: in the resurrection–” the Sadducee’s voice embraced that word with subtle but obvious sarcasm–“whose wife will she be, after legally marrying all of them?”

A little group of scribes nearby glare at the challenger: they recognize a trick question even though they can’t answer it, and it touches on a sore point.  Scribes and Pharisees believe in the resurrection; Sadducees do not.  The teachers answer will put him on one side or the other: which?

“The people of this age,” he begins, “may be duty-bound to marry.  But there is another age, and those resurrected to it” (take that! think the scribes) “will find they have no reason for marriage, for they will never die again and will not produce offspring.  They are like angels in the new age—children of God by the resurrection.”

The scribes suck in their collective breath at this.  They picture the resurrected life as something like this life, only longer.  Maybe forever.  But he speaks as though it’s a different quality, a different kind of life altogether.  As children of God?

“Moses himself knew that the dead are raised—what did he hear when he encountered the burning bush? I am the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.  The patriarchs were still alive to God, as they are now.  He is not the God of the dead, but of the living.”

Image processed by CodeCarvings Piczard ### FREE Community Edition ### on 2016-01-13 18:06:09Z | http://piczard.com | http://codecarvings.com

After a stunned silence, one of the scribes speaks up.  “That was very well put, Teacher.”  And it went in a direction we didn’t expect.

As for the Sadducees, they have no follow-up questions.  No more questions at all.  They bow stiffly, gather up their robes and take their leave.  And when out of earshot, they ask each other how he could know such things.  “He speaks with authority,” one says, unconsciously echoing a long-ago observation from the Galilean hills.  “Maybe . . . he speaks the truth?”

But no.  That can’t be.  Their world is not for shaking.

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The Denarius Question

So [the scribes and chief priests] watched him and sent spies, who pretended to be sincere, that they might catch him in something he said, so as to deliver him up to the authority and jurisdiction of the governor.  Luke 20:20

“Let us devise a question that will trip him up,” say the Pharisees.  “We’ve been dealing with him since the beginning and we’ve figured out where his weaknesses are.  It’s the followers who hang on his every word—they expect him to set up the new kingdom with himself as the king.  You’ve heard them shout “Son of David!” at him, haven’t you?  That may not be his plan—some of the things he says seem in direct contradiction to it—but who knows what his plan is?  He’s notoriously hard to pin down . . . But anyway—let us choose someone to ask a political question, and watch how he squirms.”

The chief priests, elders and scribes agree that tripping up Jesus of Nazareth will be trickier than they first thought.  Accordingly they allow the Pharisees to devise a question and a questioner: young Jacob, a promising student from the provinces with the proper fresh-faced country demeanor.  They even role-play the teacher’s possible answers so that Jacob will be able to counter each one.

Next day, as the teacher is again in the temple court, holding forth while the priestly class stands on the sidelines observing and noting, here comes Jacob—the very picture of earnest rabbinical zeal.  “Please, Rabbi—I have a question.”

The teacher pauses, nods at him to go on.

“It’s troubled me for some time, so I rejoiced to hear of your arrival.  Your reputation precedes you—I know you’re a faithful teacher from the Blessed One, and you’re not swayed by the latest fad.  Nor do you—forgive the expression—suck up to the elites.”

The priests and elders steal glances at each other.  That was a Pharisaical jab at them, but well played—just the right mix of deference and defiance.  And now for the hook:

“Sir, please tell me.  Is it lawful for us to pay taxes to Caesar, or not?”

Zing!  The trap sounds even better spoken than when they’d planned it.  If he says Yes, his peasant admirers will soon be up in arms, not to mention the Zealots among his own followers.  If he says No, word will get back to Pilate himself, who will kindly save them the trouble of dispatching the troublemaker.  Either way—

His eyes are upon Jacob’s Pharisee friends: serene, even amused.  And not very comfortable. “Do any of you have a denarius?  Show it to me.”

caesar

Tobias, the ranking Pharisee, bristles at the way the man orders them about.  But yes, he has a coin and everyone, following the teacher’s lead, is looking his way.  He lifts his hand and beckons to Jacob, who obediently trots over and takes a denarius from him.

Once the coin is in his hand, the teacher studies it as though he’d never seen one before.  He flips it gracefully, a whirl of gold.  He knows how to command attention—they’ll give him that.

Holding the denarius between thumb and forefinger, he raises it, face out.  “Whose inscription do you see?”

“Why . . . Caesar’s, of course,” Jacob mutters warily.  They hadn’t anticipated this resopnse.

“And whose face?”

“The same.  Caesar’s.”

“Then–”  He tosses the coin back to Jacob, who fumbles the catch.  “Give to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.  And give to God the things that are God’s.”

“But . . .”  Jacob is flailing around for a follow-up question, as none of his prepared ones seem to fit.

“There’s your answer,” the teacher says.

Awkwardly, Jacob bows, then turns to give the coin back to Tobias.  The temple delegation has already begun their retreat, followed by the Pharisees.  He has to run a few steps to catch up with them.

Meanwhile he’s puzzling over the teacher’s answer, and while reaching out to Tobias, it strikes him like a douse of cold water.

“Oh!  I see it now: what bears Caesar’s image lawfully belongs to Caesar, but that which bears God’s image . . . namely us, of course.  Brilliant answer!  Did you notice how he gets right to the heart of the Law, about loving God with all our heart, soul, mind, and–”

“Thanks.”  Tobias snatches his denarius back, his voice curling with sarcasm.  “We hardly need your instruction to see that.”  They walk on in a sour mood while young Jacob holds back, looking toward the teacher.  What a way he has, of making old things seem new.  He would be worth hearing again, for sure.

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The New Song of the Vineyard

And he began to tell the people this parable: “A man planted a vineyard and let it out to tenants and went into another country for a long while . . . Luke 10:9

vineyard

He’s raised his voice just loud enough for them to hear—the delegation of elders, chief priests, scribes.  Almost as if they can’t help themselves, they turn to listen.

The story is simple: a man plants a vineyard.  He rents it out and leaves the province to attend to matters elsewhere.  It’s an arrangement not unknown among priests and the Levites who  own land outside of Jerusalem entrust their fields to local farmers while they tend to their duties in the city.

“When the time came, he sent a servant to the vineyard to collect his share of the produce.  But the tenants beat the servant and sent him away empty-handed. He sent another servant, and another after that.  But in every case, the tenants treated the owner’s servants shamefully, and sent them away with nothing.”

What a way for tenants to behave!  How would they expect to get away with that?  Some of the teacher’s stories make sense, but this one is completely outside human reasoning.

“Then the owner of the vineyard said, ‘What shall I do?  I will send my only son; perhaps they will respect him.’  But when the tenants saw him, they said to themselves, ‘This is the heir: Let us kill him, to the inheritance may be ours.’  And they threw him out of the vineyard and killed him.  What should the owner of the vineyard do then?”

Listening hard, the elders, priests, scribes and Pharisees begin to suspect a trap.  There he goes again, speaking of a father and a son (my Father; my house); is he implying that they are the spiteful tenants?

And speaking of vineyards, it’s almost impossible for the learned among them to block out a passage of scripture.  It steals upon them unbidden, a song of supreme disappointment:

I will sing about the one I love, a song of my beloved’s vineyard;

My beloved had a vineyard on a very fertile hill.

He broke up the soil, cleared it of stones, and planted it with the finest vines . . .  (Isaiah 5:1-3)

Yahweh expected good grapes from them and got worthless grapes.  But that was in the old days, when Israel practiced the most blatant idolatry and refused to learn the lessons their God continually tried to teach them.  It led to exile—they lost everything and had to sojourn in a foreign land before Yahweh allowed them to come home again.  Lesson learned: now they were a people obedient to the law—rigorously, relentlessly.  No idols in the temple, no wild orgies to Astarte, no high places sanctified to Baal.  They are better than their ancestors.  Do you hear that, Jesus of Nazareth?  Better.

No better, he seems to be saying.  For, what should the owner do?  “He will come and destroy those tenants and give the vineyard to others.”

“Surely not!” a voice among the scribes cries out.  At least some of them have no doubts at all: this parable is against them.

And so is the teacher.  He is looking directly at them, now; no pretense of speaking only to his closest followers.  “You don’t think so?  Do you recall the psalm which testifies,

The stone the builders rejected

Has become the cornerstone?*

Of course they do.  And they know how it continues: This is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes.

The teacher continues, “Everyone who falls on that stone will be broken to pieces, and when it falls on anyone, it will crush him.”

This is intolerable.  No longer is it “my” (as in my house, my Father)—now it’s me.  For what else does he mean by this “cornerstone,” except himself?  Like a stone he stands among them now, like the massive building blocks that still lie around the temple complex, rejected by the builders for some imperfection, but too much trouble to move.  Careless pedestrians have tripped and broken bones over them, and unfortunate souls have been crushed to pulp when they came between a slipping stone and a faulty pulley.

That’s the obvious object lesson.  But who would do such a foolish thing as to reject the Lord’s clearly anointed Messiah?

The chief priests, scribes, and Pharisees, now looking on with stony faces.

The fans, the crowds, who have set their hearts on their own expectations,

Even the disciples, the inner circle, who don’t suspect how shallow their loyalty really is.

“You’ve walked over it, around it, past it, but now it lies in the middle of your path.  It won’t move; if you fall on it you’ll be broken, but if it falls on you you’ll be crushed.”

The only thing to do, it seems, is climb up on it and take a stand.

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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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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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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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