Author: janie

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Young, Rich, and Rootless

For a rich man, he puts on no airs.  In fact there is a puppy-ish eagerness about him, in the anticipatory way he rides up (on a white horse, no less), tosses his reins to a servant and strides forward with a smile that looks almost shy.  Used to having his way, but well brought up, plainly dressed but shot through with quality, he nods at the disciples with only a trace of condescension and raises a hand in blessing to the Master.

“Good teacher,” he says.  “Thank you for meeting with me.  I have a question to ask you.”

“Am I good?” the Master asks in return.  “Is not God alone good?”

“Well . . .”

“What is your question?”

“Only this.”  The winning smile reappears.  “I’ve heard you speak of the kingdom of God, whose subjects live with the Blessed One.  My heart is stirred.  So tell me please, how may I enter this kingdom?”

rich young ruler

The disciples, naturally suspicious of the rich, can’t help but feel their hearts warm to this guileless young man.  So they are relieved to hear a straight answer instead of a story.

“You know the commandments,” their teacher replies.  “Do not commit adultery, murder, theft, false witness?  Honor your father and mother?”

The young man is nodding.  ‘Yes. Yes.  All these I’ve kept all my life.”  And he’s not lying.  There he stands, his parents’ pride and joy–handsome, obedient, pious, everything a prince of Israel should be.  Commandment five: check.  Six: check.  Seven: ditto.  Eight: likewise.  Nine: absolutely.  Ten: what’s to covet?

“There’s one thing you lack,” the teacher says.  The young man leans forward.  Yes, this is exactly what he came for, to hear this one thing:

“Sell everything you have and distribute it among the poor.  This will be your deposit on the kingdom.  Then come and follow me.”

After the young man departs—and he didn’t argue, just mumbled something about thinking it over–the teacher stares after him for a long while.  What was he thinking? Mark tells us that “Jesus looked upon [the young man] and loved him,” even before answering his question.  Even before the young man turned away from him because he didn’t love enough.  All the commandments he had indeed kept from his youth.

Except the first one.

Meanwhile, the disciples had been discussing the matter among themselves, and have plenty of their own questions. That was a nice kid in spite of all his wealth.  So much more pliable than the usual entitled crowd.  Wouldn’t he have been an asset to the kingdom?  Shouldn’t he have been encouraged?  If you had asked him to follow you first, and then sell his possessions, he could have contributed at least some of his means to the enterprise, couldn’t he?

(Something else that bothers them—the teacher never tells any two people the same thing.  Sell everything, sell nothing, come follow, stay where you are, tell others about me, don’t tell anybody about me—what about consistency?)

He breaks into their arguments: “How hard it is for a rich man to enter the kingdom!”

What?  Why can’t a rich man be saved?  Isn’t wealth a sign of God’s blessing?  If the wealthy can’t get through the door, who can?

“What is impossible for man is possible for God.”

Peter catches on—or so he thinks.  “We did just what you told that man to do—we left everything and followed you?!  It wasn’t much, but–”

“Whatever you leave for the sake of the kingdom,” Jesus told him, “will be yours again many times over: house, family, possessions.  Your father is rich.”

He turns away and contemplates the road ahead of him.  “But you won’t always see it.”

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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Praying to Ourselves

He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and treated others with contempt.  “Two men went up into the temple to pray . . . .              Luke 18:9-10

They never look to the right or left, but walk as though they expect people to get out of their way—an assumption that usually proves true.  They always appear serious or preoccupied, or seriously preoccupied, with the puckered eyebrows and pursed lips of men weighted by affairs.  Their expressions say, Don’t trouble me with your trivial concerns; can’t you see I must prove a dozen opponents wrong before lunchtime?  That look is on their faces when they push through the crowd, looking neither left nor right, to ask the Master a question.  An important question, of course.

He, presently laying hands on a paralyzed child, does not look up when they approach.  And they try very hard not to stare when the little boy jerks and shouts and, after some anxious testing of his limbs, joyfully skips away.  They repeat the question in what passes as a respectful tone, but he ignores them while accepting the incoherent thanks of a weeping father.  With a start, they realize it’s the local tax collector.  They didn’t recognize him at first, because the man is on his knees, wringing the master’s hand and befouling it with tears and slobber: “Lord, Lord,” he says, with a devotion uncomfortably close to blasphemy.

The Pharisee delegation shifts uncomfortably, glancing at each other while carefully controlling their facial features until—finally!—the tearful father is dismissed.  The Master gives them his attention at last.  But instead of answering their question (they know he heard it!) he begins one of his infuriating stories.  It goes like this:

Supposedly a Pharisee and a tax collector went up to the temple to pray (as if tax collectors prayed!) and the Pharisee took a center position and prayed to himself (to himself? A slip of the tongue?) congratulating himself on being a righteous man (a vile misinterpretation of our gratitude to God for our good works!)

Meanwhile, the tax collector (again glorifying these traitors and lowlifes) stood deep in the shadows and beat his breast, unable even to look up toward the heavens as he pleaded for God’s mercy.  (And quite right, too.  When is this renowned teacher going to get around to answering our Important Question?)

“I tell you, that man went down to his house justified, rather than the other.”

justified

What?  Who went down justified?

The delegation look at each other with dawning comprehension followed by outrage.  That’s it: any conclusion as wrongheaded and skewed as that one indicates a serious moral imbalance.  Why even ask a question, much less wait for an answer?  Puckered eyebrows and pursed lips still in place, they gather up their robes and turn away—

And almost smack into a wall of rowdy children rushing in the opposite direction.  Led by the formerly paralyzed boy, the kids run up shouting but are seized with shyness when they come close, standing in a ragged half-circle around the Master.

A handful of women—the mothers—rush up and are taken with the same halting shyness.  Then one of them, with a baby in her arms, boldly takes a step forward.

“Please sir.  Our children are all well, praise the Blessed One, but could you still . . . just place your hands on them?  Could they have your blessing?”

If wristwatches were around back then, the disciples would be looking at them and saying, “No time.  You’re supposed to be at Simon’s house in twenty minutes,” or “Not now.  You’ve had a long day, sir . . .”

Or that’s what they would be saying, but they might also be thinking this: Kids.  A blessing of the Lord and all that but we’ve learned not become too attached until they’re closer to adulthood.  Like a flower of the field they flourish, and then too often gone.  Accidents take them, defects, diseases–sometimes in a single night.  They need to prove their worth . . . “And besides, we must get to the next town before dark–”

He stops the protests with a wave of his hand, then beckons to the mother with the baby.  “Let them come.  These are subjects of the kingdom.  For I tell you–” This to his disciples, who are acting like his handlers: “the only way to enter is like a little child.  Or a humble tax collector.”  He raises his eye to the righteous delegation, now silhouetted against the sunset:

“. . . and everyone who humbles himself will be exalted.”

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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Kingdom Coming

Being asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God would come, he answered them, “The kingdom of God is not coming with signs to be observed, nor will they say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or ‘There!’ For behold, the kingdom of God is in the midst of you.”    Luke 17:20-21

“All right,” the Pharisees confronted him: “John told us to repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.  You say the same things.  It’s been a couple of years now—when can we expect this kingdom to appear?”

He answered, “If you’re looking for a sign in the heavens or a door on earth, you’ll be disappointed.  The fact is, the kingdom is already here.”

Always with the cryptic answers!  His followers grin and nudge each other when he leaves the inquisitors and rejoins them, but after a few yards down the road, his first words wipe the grins from their faces: “your generation rejects me.”

Who–Us?  We who dog your steps and hang on your every word?

“One day, very soon, you’ll long for days like this, when we walked together along the road.  You’ll hear someone say, ‘Look, there he is!’ or ‘Look over here!’  Pay no attention to them.  These are the days of the Son of Man, but there will also be a Day.  And when that day comes you won’t mistake it—it will flash from east to west, north to south, and take everyone by surprise.

“They forget—you forget—that the day of the Lord is the day of the Judge.  Did Pharaoh’s army in day-of-the-lordMoses’ time expect the waters to drown them?  Did the people of Sodom and Gomorrah look for fire from the sky?  They were going about their lives, eating and drinking and making plans, when doom overtook them.  The day is unexpected, and unavoidable.  Judgment is certain and surgical—as sweeping as a scythe, and yet as precise as a needle.  It will puck out or cut down, whether in a crowd of thousands or the dark and quiet of a bedroom.”

“Where will this happen, Lord?” they ask, uneasy.

“Where do you see the vultures gathering?” is his less-than-reassuring reply.

But—

He told them a parable to the effect that they ought always to pray and not lose heart.  Luke 18:1

Until that day of judgment comes, we have a righteous judge.  Neither the future day of doom nor the present day of injustice should overwhelm us:

“Suppose you’re a poor widow whose creditors keep gouging you for the last sliver of your livelihood, down to the cloak you sleep in.  Suppose the only arbiter in your village is an unjust judge (note the oxymoron) who has no respect for either God or man.  What will you do?  You will wait outside the court every day, and when the door are open you will go inside to plead your case, again and again.  And yet again.  What other option do you have?  And in time the judge will dispense justice, even if he doesn’t want to, just to make you shut up and go away.

“Now consider: if even an unrighteous judge can dispense justice, won’t the most righteous judge of all do the same?

“If a poor random widow can gain a time-server’s ear, won’t the elect be heard by their Elector?

“The real issue is not God’s faithfulness, whether as judge, provider, or Father. The issue is you, and whether you believe him.

“What other option do you have?”

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On the Border

On the way to Jerusalem he was passing along between Samaria and Galilee.  And as he entered a village, he was met by ten lepers who stood at a distance and called out, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us . .  .” Luke 17:11-19

Remember: he’s on his way to a specific destination, though he seems to be taking a very roundabout route.  And remember, when he first “set his face” to go there (Luke 9:51), his way was barred—not by Pharisees and scribes, who are his most outspoken critics, but by Samaritans, who didn’t like where he was headed.  That was some time ago—no telling how long.  He’s been here and there among the Galilean villages, probably even across the Jordan to spend some time among the Decapolis (Ten Cities).  Soon he will cross the Jordan and head southward through Perea.  From then on, his route will be more direct.

The mention of the border reminds us he wasn’t wanted in Samaria.  Most of us don’t want him—until we need him.

Suppose the crowds have thinned out here.  Suppose Jesus has stepped up the pace, and his followers are hurrying to keep up.  They’re being watched by a party of ten, gathered “at a distance.”  Suppose those ten lepers are not there by chance–they knew he was coming, and they found a favorable position, and they need to be heard.

Remember the first leper Jesus healed?  “Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean” (Luke 5:12).  I am willing, he replied.  Of course he is.  He touched that one; he doesn’t have to touch these ten.  His voice wills; his stance wills, his very stillness in the moment before he speaks is full of willingness.  He has poured out willingness over the months of his ministry, in all he does and says.  All he says now is, “Go show yourselves to the priest.”

The priest is a necessary link in the healing process, dating back from Israel’s wilderness days (see Leviticus 14).  At least nine of these men know that the priest had to officially pronounce them clean before they could re-enter society.  Good sign, yes?  Like, Jesus could already visualize them as clean?  Nudging one another, anticipating their dreams fulfilled, they obey him.  Perhaps a quick consultation about the whereabouts of the nearest priest—and they’re off!

He says go, and they go.  The leprosy goes, too: even the microbes hear his voice.  Stealing glances at each other, they see the ugly sores dry up, the white patches shrivel.  Skin appears—glorious skin, supple, springy, bronzy-gold with a blush of pink underneath–what joy!  They must have danced and shouted on their way. No a second to lose now—they must get official confirmation and then find the wife and kids, clasp hands with the neighbors, take their places again in the normal life that seems so precious to them now.

Our Sunday-school piety shakes a disapproving finger at them: You forgot to say Thank You!  I’m sure they were thankful—perhaps they made a quick mental note to look Jesus up after they’ve fulfilled their religious duties and reconnected with the folks.  He’ll be around.  If you haven’t hugged your kids in years, wouldn’t that be a priority?

10 lepers

The only one who returns is a Samaritan.  Samaritans are not under Israelite jurisdiction—did he even have a priest to show himself to?  Probably not, but maybe there’s more going on here than overwhelming gratitude.  Watch him as he approaches, shouting at the top of his lungs, waving his arms, clapping his chest, where blooming skin shines through the rags.  He falls on his face at Jesus’ feet.  He isn’t just saying Thank You.  He’s also saying, in his uninformed way, the same confession Simon Peter made before this journey to Jerusalem began: You are the Christ.

Jesus commends him: Your faith has made you well.  But didn’t the others have faith?  They did exactly what he told them to do.  They called out to him from the border, that edge of belief where they knew Jesus could heal them, but didn’t know who Jesus was.  They had priorities.  But this man has only one priority.  He has crossed the border: rather than clean for now, he’s clean forever.

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For the first post in this series, go here.

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The Rich Man and Jesus

“There was a rich man who was clothed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day.  And at his gate was laid a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores . . .”  Luke 16:19-20

Listen–can you hear it?  A faint, wistful song from thirty-odd years before:

He has brought down the mighty from their thrones

and exalted those of humble estate;

he has filled the hungry with good things,

and the rich he has sent away empty . . . .

Those times his mother sang about (Luke 1:53) are here; hot, sweaty times that jostle the golden thoughts and make that pure tune difficult to hear.  But still, it’s happening: he fills the hungry with good things, while the rich go unsatisfied.  Everywhere he stops, the sick and the poor, the tax collectors and sinners crowd in close, while the wealthy and healthy maintain a certain distance.  They want to hear what he has to say, but his words don’t go down easy.  His words, in fact, are like a severe case of indigestion.

“There was a rich man . . .”

What would he know about the life of the “rich”?  It’s not all soft robes and feasts every day–it takes work and care to keep up an estate.  This rich man probably rose early to consult with his foreman and inspect his lands, and stayed up late going over accounts to make sure they added up correctly and all debts were paid.

lazarus

“But a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, begged at his gate.  He longed to be filled with the crumbs that fell from the rich man’s table.”

(Of course; poor men are everywhere.  And this is starting to feel like a setup.)

“The poor man died and was carried by the angels to Abraham’s side . . .”

(Oh—there goes poor Lazarus off to heaven!  Welcomed by Abraham, no less!  What did he do, except be hungry?  Where’s the virtue in that?)

“The rich man also died and was buried, and in Hades, being in torment–”

(I knew it.  The rich man—the responsible, hardworking, thrifty one–turns out to be the villain.)

“. . . . I beg you, father Abraham, send Lazarus to my father’s house, for I have five brothers, so that he might warn them, lest they also come into this place of torment.”

(Now, this is too much.  Abraham says nothing about righteousness and law-keeping, only about full and empty.  And the rich man wants Lazarus to go warn his brothers—warn him of what, I’d like to know?  What are they supposed to do to avoid the place of torment—just be hungry?)

“. . . But Abraham said to him, if they do not hear Moses and the Prophets, neither will they be convinced if someone should rise from the dead.”

(Someone should rise from the dead—like Lazarus?  Is the most flea-bitten beggar on the street suddenly on a level with Moses and the Prophets?

He has satisfied the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty . . .

Open your mouth, and I will fill it—But my people did not listen to my voice . . .

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness . . .

Looking they may not see, and hearing they may not understand . . .

Neither will they be convinced if someone should rise from the dead . . .

(Who won’t be convinced?  Me?  Show me a sign like that and I’ll believe.  Just don’t try to tell me about rich and poor and who’s in and who’s out.)

That’s exactly what he’s telling them, though.  The music is all around, echoes from the past and present and even future, but few have ears to hear. It is about rich and poor, or rather those who think they are rich, and those who know they are poor.  It’s about the hungry, and the kind of food they crave.  Whatever you’re station in life, he says, be hungry.  Whether scrounging for crumbs or sitting down to surf ‘n turf, be hungry.  Don’t be satisfied with your accomplishments in life–be hungry.

Hungry for what?  For me.

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For the first post in this series, go here.

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The Two Masters

He also said to the disciples, “there was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was wasting his possession.  And he called him and said to him, ‘What is this I hear about you?  Turn in the account of your management, for you can no longer be a manager . . .’”  Luke 16:1-2

Next day, as he is eating breakfast with his disciples in that same courtyard, the scribes and Pharisees gather under the thatched portico, hoping to have a word with him.  As they wait he talks to his followers while passing around bread and olives.  The distribution of goods seems to inspire a puzzling little story about a crooked steward who was accused and dismissed by his master.  Before surrendering the books, he ingratiated himself with some of his master’s debtors by cutting their obligations in half.  Instead of turning the steward over to the law, the master just laughed and said, “I have to hand it to you, my man.  You know how to use what you have.”

“So,” the Teacher concludes, “make friends for yourself by means of unrighteous money so that when it fails, those friends may welcome you into their eternal homes.”

dishonest steward

Eleazer the Pharisee notices how the disciples, who had been nodding thoughtfully like placid cows all this time while, collectively pause in mid-chew.  What . . . What did he just say?

Eleazer’s friend Daniel leans toward him and whispers, “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either.  But I think it might have something to do with us.”

The Teacher is speaking again, and his altered voice signals to Eleazer that he was right about the parable’s true audience.  The light, satirical tone was gone; earnest urgency had taken its place.  “Faithful in little, faithful in much.  If you can’t be trusted with the deceptive things of earth, who will trust you with the truthful things of heaven?”

Revered Benjamin, ruler of the synagogue, makes an audible huff.  “What makes him an authority on earthly goods?  He mooches off the bounty of women.”

A chuckle passes through the little knot of respectable elders.  The Rabbi ignores it but raises his voice half a notch.  “What slave has two masters?  It’s impossible–he’ll serve one and neglect the other.  If money is your master, you can’t serve God.”

That hits home; Eleazer feels it.  Revered Benjamin speaks to his circle, but loud enough for everyone to hear: “Envy from a beggar is as rich as from a king.”

“Justify yourself all you want.”  With a shock, they realize he is now speaking to them directly.  The people may admire your pious exterior but God knows your heart.  What men admire repulses him.”

Revered Benjamin’s face hardens to iron; he rears up as though prepared to speak some withering retort (We are Keepers of the law, young man!), but instead he gathers his robes about him and paces majestically away. The others follow, except for Eleazer, who lingers to see how Jesus will respond.

“The law is kept, but not by you,” the renegade Rabbi says quietly, as though speaking to himself.  Or, the young student thinks–with a jolt—to me.  “The law will always be kept, but it’s no barrier to the kingdom.  The lame, the blind, the ignorant, knock it down in their haste to get in, and once in they’ll see it in a new way.

“Are you coming?”

This is addressed to the disciples, who have finished their meal and now begin to gather their things for a walk to the next town.  And yet Eleazer knows it is also for him.

Are you coming . . . in?

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What Kind of Father Is This?

And he said, “There was a man who had two sons . . .”  Luke 15:11

The evening thickens as the day’s yellow sun slides into the horizon and balances there for a long moment, its rounded edge slowly melting into the hills.  How many days have passed since this story was first told, how many ears have heard it since?  And how many lost sons, on the dusty road or snug at home, have come to themselves under its quiet steady gaze?  It’s been a long time, and many tellings, but let’s try to hear it as the first listeners might have.  If they have been with him a while, they know the slightly higher, quicker pitch of his voice as it slides in to one of his stories.  The disciples lean in, the villagers lean out, and the way each one hears reveals more about the person than he or she might care to show:

. . . The younger of them said to his father, “Father, give me a share of the estate I have coming to me.”

–What? You mean before the old man is even dead?  That’s bold.  Wonder if I would have the nerve to . . .

–Disgraceful!  What kind of son would make such a request?  The father ought to–

So he distributed the assets to them.

–?!?!?!?

–Shocking!  What kind of father would agree to such a request?  The other son ought to—

Not many days later, the younger son gathered together all he had, and traveled to a distant country, where he squandered his estate in foolish living.

–Of course he did.  Brainless twit.

–What would I do with a fortune?  Go someplace where no one knew me and . . . invest it?  Probably intend to.  But if there’s a party that night, and new friends to impress, and women . . .

–I know that type.  Fresh faces off the farm, burning to stuff a year’s worth of iniquity into a single night, and pretend they’re the first to conquer me . . .

–Hm.  If I got the other half of that inheritance, I’d put it in the bank and start looking for a nice piece of property.  But I know what’s going to happen to this fool . . .

After he had spent everything, a severe famine struck that country, and he had nothing.

–Right.

He went to work for one of the citizens of that country, who sent him into his field to fed the pigs.

–Ew!  Filthy, disgusting creatures—and yet too good for him.

He longed to gobble up the dry pods the pigs were eating, but no one would give him even that.

–Ha.  Just what he deserves.

When he came to his senses, he said, “How many of my father’s hired hands have more than enough food, and here I am dying of hunger!  I’ll get up, go to my father and say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and in your sight.  I’m no longer worthy to be called your son.  Make me one of your hired hands.’”

–A nice little speech.  But it’s just words.

–What if I told my father something like that?  How would he take it, especially if I meant it?  Would I mean it?

–Poor silly boy.  But he’s hurt the old man deeply—slapped him in the face.  I don’t know if I could ever forgive that.

So he got up and went to his father.

–Oh yes, and it seems to me dear old Abba has some repenting to do as well.  The boy isn’t the only foolish one in this story . . .

But while the son was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion.  He ran—

–?!?!?!?!?

–threw his arms around his neck, and kissed him.

–What!  He ran, the old fool?!  The soft-headed, muddle-brained, sentimental—

–Filled with compassion.  Filled with compassion.  Compassion.  As a father pities his children, so the Lord pities those who fear him, for he knows their frame, that they are dust.  Compassion, compassion . . .

–Can it be?

–Wait.  What father is like this?

prodigal-son

The son said to him (between the kisses), “Father, I have sinned against heaven and in your sight.  I am no longer worthy to be called your–” 

“Quick!” his father called to the servants.  “Bring out the best robe and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his poor bleeding feet.  Then bring the fattened calf and slaughter it, and let’s celebrate with a feast, because this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!”  So they began to celebrate.

–Oh, I get it.  The father is the real fool.  Like father, like son; I see it now.  The old man will get his lesson too.  Maybe from the other son—we haven’t heard from him yet . . .

–Insanity!  So wrong!  The boy must pay, or justice flies right out the window!

–Too much, too much.  No father behaves this way.  If only mine would . . .

–I’m totally lost.

–I’m lost.  Yes, that’s me.  Can I be found?

Now, his older brother was in the field . . .

–Aha!  I knew he’d make an appearance.  Now we’ll hear some good sense.

. . . as he came near the house he heard music and dancing.  So he summoned one of the servants and asked what these things meant.  “Your brother is here,” he told him, “and your father has slaughtered the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound.”

–Boiling.  I’m just boiling.  To come in from the field after working all day in the hot sun, to find everyone else has been putting together a party—to welcome my lazy, disrespectful, ungrateful, frivolous—

Then he became angry and didn’t want to go in.

–Quite right, too.  Anyone would be.  Now we’ll see justice done.

So his father came out and pleaded with him.

–Seems to me this dotty old man should apologize to him.

–But . . . it’s the father’s house and property, after all.  Can’t he do wait he wants with his own stuff?  Does the brother really have a right to be angry?  He sounds a little like Cain.  Only, of course, his little brother is no Abel . . .

–Pleaded with him.  Pleaded with him.  What father is like this?

But he replied to his father, “Look, old man–”

–Ooh.  Not very respectful is he?  Well, chalk it up to righteous anger.

“I have been slaving for you all these years, and I have never disobeyed your orders . . .

–Exactly. Obedient.  Blameless.

–Orders?  It’s a family, not a military camp.

. . . yet you never gave me so much as a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends.

–Did he ever ask?  I wonder.

–Wait a minute: is this envy?  You’re supposed to speaking up for righteousness, young scion.  It’s not all about you.

“But when this son of yours came . . .”

–Er, your brother too.  Part of the family and all.  I wonder if the good boy had a part in making the bad boy what he was?

“. . . who has devoured your assets with prostitutes . . .”

–Yes!  Drive it home!

“. . . you slaughtered the calf for him.”

–Your turn, old man.  Too proud to apologize?

“Son,” he said to him, “you are always with me, and everything I have is yours.”

–Oh.  Well, I guess that’s true.

“But we had to celebrate, because this brother of yours was dead, and is alive again.  He was lost and is found”

* * * * * * * * * * *

It’s almost dark now.  The Master’s voice falls silent.

–Is . . . is that all?

–How does it end?  Does the elder brother go in and enjoy the party?  Has the younger brother really learned his lesson?  What about the inheritance he spent—will there be anything left for him?

–Well, that’s . . . I must say, that’s the most unsatisfying story I ever heard.  Who won?  You’d almost think both brothers are equally lost.  But that can’t be.

The Pharisees and scribes are the first to take their leave, gathering their robes and tassels about them and nodding briefly to the teacher, who nods back.  Then the women round up their little ones, and the householders with livestock head for the fields to see that their sheep are safely folded.  Last of all, old Simon the sot and young Amos the fool and the good-time girls, Rachel and Joanna.  Before she goes, Rachel impulsively grabs the Master’s hand.

“Is there such a father?” she asks him.  “Would he take me—would he take someone back who had hurt him so badly?  My own father barely noticed if I came or went, until the day I left for good.  Is there a father who watches for me?  I need to know, because–”

The light pressure on her wrist stops her, reminds her she can’t make excuses.  “Ask him,” Jesus says.  “Use my name.”

She knows who he’s talking about, and is filled with an inexpressible hope.

_________________________________________

for the first post in this series, go here.

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Seeking the Lost

Now the tax collectors and sinners were all drawing near to hear him.  And the Pharisees and the scribes grumbled, saying, “This man receives sinners and eats with them.”  So he told them this parable . . .  Luke 15:1-3

This is very familiar territory—some of the most enduring images and one of the best-loved stories ever told.  How did its first listeners hear it?  Let’s take a moment to set this up as it might have been.

He enters another town toward evening and accepts an invitation to stay the night.  He declines a meal but takes a seat under a grape arbor where the important men of the town habitually gather. It’s a pleasant spot, especially at this time of day when the heat has lifted and a cheerful breeze flutters the grape leaves.  A rich man’s sheep are folded nearby, their restless baa’s carried on the wind.  Women are drawing water for the evening’s wash at the community well, and next door a housewife is sweeping out her house, humming a tune.  The local tavern, however, is oddly silent.

That’s because the ne’er-do-wells and loose women who hang out there have clustered on the edge of the crowd, eager to hear this man everybody’s talking about.  The arbor is packed; Jesus at the center, the twelve (except for those who are foraging for an evening snack) ranged behind him like bodyguards, the scribes and Pharisees and town elders seated in their accustomed places, and everyone else squeezed in wherever they can.  Villagers are strung along the rock ledge and the wall, leaning from the roof of the neighboring house, or standing just outside the magic circle prescribed by the disciples to give their Master some breathing room.

He raises an eyebrow, then a hand.  He points out Rachel and Joanna (known as the Sin Sisters, though they’re not related), old Simon the Sot, and young Amos the fool.  He keeps beckoning until they come forward, self-consciously pushing their way through, spreading themselves in a tight little fan as they squat near his feet.

Meanwhile, the chief men are murmuring among themselves: “I’ve heard he’s not particular about the company he keeps—never thought he’d be so brazen, though . . .”  “Why can’t he meet with them secretly?” “. . . and I hear he eats with them, too!”

“Listen to those sheep.”  The Master raises his voice as all fall silent.  The bleats of ewes and lambs are a familiar sound, curdling the air at twilight.  “Suppose you had a hundred of them, and every afternoon you count as they go through the gate: one, two, three . . . all the way to ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine . . . Is one of them missing?  You count again: . . . ninety-eight, ninety-nine—It’s true.  What do you do?”

He puts this question directly to old Simon, who blinks groggily before taking a guess: “You go looking?”

Jesus looks to the chief elder for confirmation.  The man nods briefly.  “Good!  You leave the ninety-nine who are safe, and look for the one who’s lost.  High and low, up and down, until the silly creature is found.  And then what do you do?” he asks Amos the fool.

New Testament 3 Production Still Photography

“Throw a party,” the young man says, without a second’s hesitation.

“Exactly.”  The teacher smiles.  “As soon as he’s home, he calls his friends and neighbors: ‘Rejoice with me!  Remember that sheep I lost?  I’ve found it!’”

Amos the fool is foolishly grinning, while the elders wish they could tell him to get that look off his face.  Meanwhile, the Master waves at the woman next door, who is now leaning on her broom.  She blushes as everyone looks her way and shyly raises a hand.

“Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one.  What would she do?”

Now he’s looking at Rachel, who straightens her back and puffs out her chest, as she habitually does when men speak to her.  “Why, she–”  Rachel stops herself, and her friends think she’s was about to answer with one of her zingers, for which she’s rather famous.  But under this man’s gaze she deflates a little, and her voice comes with none of its usual edge or sauce: “She’ll sweep out her house, and . . . light a lamp to shine in the dark corners and under the furniture . . .”

“. . . and when she finds it”–Jesus takes up the narrative as Rachel’s voice fades—“she will call in her girlfriends and next-door neighbors and bring out the dates and honeycakes.  ‘Rejoice with me! I’ve found that silver coin that was lost!’

“Let me share a secret with you: in just this way, the angels rejoice over one sinner who repents.  Just so, heaven throws a party when one lost soul is found.”

He pauses to let this sink in.  Skepticism simmers among the elders; you can almost feel it.  Ecstatic angels?  Parties in heaven?  Now, how does he know that?  Meanwhile, the disciples are grinning to themselves (Here he goes again!) and the village losers are trying to reconcile this happy heaven with what they’ve heard in the synagogue.  In their minds, the Heavenly One is so encrusted with holiness and majesty and righteous judgment they have never heard his laughter.  But then, they ain’t heard nothin’ yet.

To be continued . . . .

For the original post in this series, go here.

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What’s in It for Me?

Now great crowds accompanied him, and he turned and said to them, “If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple.  Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple.”  Luke 14:25-37

On the road again, and “great crowds” go along with him.  Where did they sleep?  What did they eat? Obviously he wasn’t multiplying loaves and fishes at every stop.  It must have been a shifting crowd, like a great amoeba breaking off parts of itself and growing new parts, as people join up for the excitement and drop out when they get thirsty or tired or not much appears to be happening.  There’s a rumor going around: he’s headed to Jerusalem.  I’ll bet that’s where it starts.  Going to be crowned there.  Going to call down fire on the Roman garrison and the stuck-up political-priestly class.

He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere directly, though.  If Jerusalem is the goal, why follow this zig-zaggy trail of one dusty insignificant village after another: west, then east, then northwest, and southwest . . . .  What’s up with that?  All it does is give more deadbeats and sinners an opportunity to join the parade.  But look, he’s stopping.  He’s speaking!  Let’s hurry and catch what he has to say.

Messiah’s face appears stern, but also sad, especially when his eyes dwell on individuals.  When they restnarrow-road on you, you can’t help but feel a little uncomfortable—well, a lot uncomfortable, as though he were peeling you like a grape and uncovering motivations hidden even to yourself.  Or like he is seeing into your future, and it isn’t pretty.  You reach him at mid-sentence:

“. . . only for a day?  Or a week?  Do any of you think you’ll follow to the end?  Let me ask, are you willing to give up your father and mother, son and daughter, wife or husband?  Are those who are dearest to you so distant in relation to me that you may as well hate them?

“In other words, what am I worth to you?

“You’d better not pledge to follow me until you know where I’m going.

“You’d better not promise me everything you have until you’ve heard everything ask.

“You’d better not build this tower or call up that army until you’ve counted the cost and calculated the risk.

“Because the building lot isn’t yours, neither the fight.  You don’t build on me, or recruit me—I build, I recruit.”

Are we still listening?  Because he’s still speaking.  And the one thing we must never, never ask him is, What’s in this for me?  The only question you should ask is,

Who is ‘me’?

For the first post in this series, go here.

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The Dinner Invitation

One Sabbath, when he went to dine at the house of a ruler of the Pharisees, they were watching him carefully.  And behold, there was a man before him who had dropsy.  And Jesus responded to the lawyers and Pharisees, saying, “Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath, or not?” Luke 14:1-3

wedding-supperEven though they don’t like him they’re still inviting him to dinner.  This is a Sabbath-meal event, attended by the whole town apparently, because someone gets in who has “dropsy,” or edema.  (This might have been understood to be a dreaded “skin disease” of the type relentlessly described in the Law, thought dropsy is not considered a skin disease today.)  The guests—if we can presume to put thoughts in their heads—may be thinking, Ew.  Who let him in? That bloated flesh is a sorry aid to digestion.  He has some nerve . . .   And the man does have some nerve, but he also has some faith, putting himself in adverse circumstances so Jesus will notice him.

Or, since the Pharisees are “watching him carefully,” this may be a setup.  They might have found the man and dragged him into the house to as a test case, instead of letting him wait until sundown and asking Jesus to heal him without legal controversy.  Who knows?

Whatever the plan, he sees through it and cuts to the quick.  The wording suggests that Sabbath observance is already a topic under discussion: “It is lawful to heal on the Sabbath, or not?”  Or, put another way, Can you people see the difference between the letter of the law and the law’s intent?

No answer.  Of course.  Interestingly, they know he can heal, they know he will heal and they also know how they’ll hold it against him–laying up his creative, restorative divine acts as evidence for condemnation.  Who does he think he is, after all?

But more to the point, perhaps, is who they think they are.

“You treat animals better than you do your brothers,” he says, after healing the man (easy as that—healing is almost an side event now!).  “And another thing: I notice how when you take your places at the table you negotiate the best positions for yourselves.  Suppose I got married, and invited you all to the wedding dinner.”  (Their ears perk up, friend and foe alike—is he planning a big announcement?)  “Let me offer a word of advice: don’t presume on your position and choose the best place.  Imagine your embarrassment when the host marches up and tells you to move, because a more distinguished guest has arrived.  Someone like—oh, that serving girl over there.”  A ripple of merriment runs through the friends and bystanders, who love the way he turns the established order upside-down.  While the serving girl blushes, a murmur of outrage from the establishment runs in the opposite direction.

“. . . Rather, when you come to my banquet, choose a low place for yourself.  Then I may come and say, ‘Friend, move on up!’ And you’ll be exalted among the company instead of humiliated.  Remember the saying? ‘Some are last who will be first.’”

A guest across the table, perhaps in the interests of making peace (or perhaps because he’s had a bit too much to drink), lifts his cup and says, “How happy are those who break bread in the kingdom of God!”

“Do you think so?” Jesus looks around the table, his eyes sizing upon and evaluating each man in turn.  One by one, they feel themselves evaluated; are outraged, embarrassed, nonplussed.  “A certain wealthy man planned a great banquet, the event of the season.  You’d think his neighbors would be counting the days, wouldn’t you?  Eagerly anticipating?  Well, when the great day finally came, with the meats roasted and the bread baked and the wine decanted, the man sent his trusted servant out to bring them in.

“Everything is ready,” said the servant at the first house.  “Come and feast!”

“’So soon?’ replied the householder.  “What bad timing!  I just bought a field and have to go test the soil to be sure I got my money’s worth.  Please excuse me.’

“Shouldn’t he have done that before buying the field?  Oh well.  Scratching his head, the servant proceeded to the next house and almost collided with the owner, who was striding out with a whip in his hand.  ‘Greetings, sir!  My master sent to tell you the feast is ready.  Please come.’

“The man paused, with an impatient frown.  ‘What feast?  Who is your master, again?  Never mind—tell him I can’t come.  I just bought a yoke of oxen and must plow the lower forty before sundown.  Sorry.’

“At the third house, the servant knocked and knocked before the owner finally came to the door with his hair all awry and a sheet tucked around him.  ‘What’s that?  A banquet?  That’s impossible!  I mean, I just got married and, well, you know . . .’

“On it went, house after house, refusal after refusal.  The servant finally returned home, alone.  What should have been a joyful procession of happy friends and neighbors was a single dejected, sweaty individual who couldn’t help wondering if there was something wrong with him.

“’What’s this?’ cried his master.  ‘Where is everybody?’  While the servant ticked off all the excuses he’d heard that day, the master’s face darkened.  ‘All right then, here’s what you do: go to the hovels and the dives, the brothels and the market places.  Broadcast my invitation like barley and wheat.  My house will be filled—but not one of those invited to my feast will taste a morsel of it!’”

His listeners, or at least some of them, can’t escape the feeling that he is talking about them—the householders, the property owners, the well-heeled and well-married.  And he is talking about himself, an itinerant preacher without a foot of ground to his name, as if he were the richest man in town with a house so large it can hold every beggar, slave and whore in the land.  He has that air about him: women supply his meals, but he speaks as though he owns the cattle on a thousand hills.  As for this story—well, it’s just a story.  Wealth is a sign of God’s favor, after all; they have lived all their lives on the inside.

So . . . why do they feel shut out in his presence, as though they should be the ones knocking, pounding, pleading to get in?

For the original post in this series, go here.

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