Category: Traveling with Luke

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Daughters of Jerusalem

And as they led him away, they seized one Simon of Cyrene, wo was coming in from the country, and laid on him the cross, to carry it behind Jesus.  And there followed him a great multitude of the people and of women who were mourning and lamenting for him.  Luke 23:26-27

He’s on the road again, still followed by “a multitude,” but this time with a cross on his back, staggering under the weight and bleeding from a thousand cuts.  Like a crushed dog crawling along the path, like a mangle bird, like a worm—something you turn away from and try to erase from your mind.  Even if there were no crowd, the women track him easily by the blood splashed along the way.  So much blood!  And when they reach him, he has collapsed under the weight of the heavy crosspiece.

carrying cross

There is shouting—jeering, weeping—the Roman soldiers in charge of the execution have called out an unsuspecting countryman to carry it behind the condemned man.  It’s not kindness; they just want to be over and done with it.  It’s some distance to go before Skull Hill, where executions take place, and  there needs to be enough left of the prisoner to nail up when they get there.  The clueless countryman, whose name is Simon, looks terrified.  He was on his way to the temple before the crowd swept over him—why did these alien soldiers single him out?  He barely understands their pidgin Aramaic—for all he knows, he may be headed for his own execution.

Everything the Master said about being turned over to his enemies and killed is echoing in the women’s minds. They women heard it all, along with the disciples, but they never pictures this.  Words are so clean and sterile; this is battered and bloody and helpless. The women from Galilee try to shield him from his mother, but then he stops and turns around.  In spite of the angry shouts of the soldiers, no one strikes him, and Mary (the one who poured oil on his feet) receives the distinct impression that he himself is orchestrating the entire scene.  How strange!  How terrible.

His eyes are the only part of him not bloodied.  Time stops as his eyes linger on the women, his long-time traveling companions.  Then he glances toward another cluster of women who have been following with loud laments.  These are well-born ladies of the holy city who follow political prisoners to their deaths, bringing jars of vinegar and gall to dull the pain.  With a look, he silences their wailing.

“Don’t weep for me, daughters of Jerusalem.  Weep for yourselves and your children.  The day is coming when you’ll beg the mountains to kill you quickly.  If judgment falls like this on the innocent, how will it deal with the guilty?”

The old order—eye for eye, tooth for tooth, blood for guilt—simple justice of the sort that everyone understands, is wildly out of whack.  This man has done nothing wrong: Pilate said it, Herod confirmed it, everyone knows it.  But what they may not know:

This man has done everything right.

Who can say that about anyone?  The wretched stooped-over figure stands condemned, turning blind justice on her head and rendering her carefully-weighted balance scales useless.  If such punishment falls on him, what petty thief, careless gossip, casual liar can have a prayer . . . .

“Move on!” shouts the nearest guard, more confused than angry.  The bloody face sets forward again, the bloody feet stumble on, leaving bright mottled prints on the stones that would have cried out in anguish* had he allowed it.

Luke 19:40

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Worst-Case Scenario

Pilate then called together the chief priests and the rulers and the people, and said to them, “You brought me this man as one who misleading the people.  And after examining him before you, I didn’t find this man guilty of any of your charges against him . . . “  Luke 23:13-14

With a snap of his fingers, he stages the scene: soldiers hustle the purple-clad “king” out to the portico where Pilate returns to his judge’s chair and faces down the priestly delegation.  They form a rough triangle on the pavement: judge, accuser, accused.  Beyond them, separated by a leather curtain, is the open courtyard.

“You charge this man with insurrection,” Pilate says, “but after examining him I deem the charge to be baseless.  Antipas agrees: this man has done nothing to deserve death.  Therefore it is my judgment that he be flogged for the trouble he has caused you and then released.  For–”

The noise stops him.  On the other side of the curtain a crowd is gathering and voices are beginning to come together.

With a sinking heart, Pilate realizes he’s been outmaneuvered.  The Jews have been busy while he was distracted, sweeping up the dregs of the city—peasants and ne’er-do-wells—and seeding them with shills.  In the general clash of voices a broken rhythm begins: a chant here and there, a confused tumble of words, rolling from one end of the courtyard to another.  From experience, he knows the words will come together like the pieces of a mythical monster—

The crowd is becoming a mob.

The power of Rome has his back in everything, except this.  His job is to keep the peace at almost any price.  Mobs lead to protest and protest to bloodshed, and bloodshed to full-scale rebellion.  He has scarcely recovered from the unfortunate incident with the slaughtered Galileans,* and now this.  The random chants that reach his ears are beginning to take shape:

“Away with him!  Away with him!”

The faces of the priests and Pharisees are bland as cream.

“You know,” says Pilate, grasping at straws, “that at every feast I can release any prisoner I choose.  I choose to release this man.”

But they have anticipated this too.  Even now, voices are crying out, “Give us Barabbas!  Give us Barabbas!”

“Barabbas?” he demands of the Jews.  You’d rather set a rebel and murderer loose among you than this man, who has done no harm?”

They only shrug: who are we to resist the people’s will?

Heaving a giant sigh, Pilate stands up and marches past the curtains.  The Jewcruficy!s have done their work well—restless bands fill the courtyard, more coming all the time.  He puts on a brave show: stands up tall, adjusts his toga and band of office, pitches his voice above the din.

“I find no fault in this man!  Therefore, he will be flogged and then–”

Another chant is beginning, an undercurrent snaking through the voices, roping them in, tying them together:

Crucify!

 

*Luke 13:1

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Kings of Earth

Then the whole company of them arose and brought him before Pilate.  And they began to accuse him, saying, “We found this man misleading our nation and forbidding us to give tribute to Caesar, and saying that he himself is Messiah, a king.”  Luke 23:1-2

Not even a conscientious procurator should have to rise this early.  Pilate barely has his eyes open all the way before his body servant brings word that the entire Sanhedrin (or so it seems) is standing on his porch.  And here he’s been congratulating himself on getting through Passover without an incident.  “What do they want?”

The servant isn’t sure.  They have a prisoner . . .

Pilate groans.  He takes his time getting dressed, makes them wait.  They are in the outer courtyard, his servant says.  He knows what that means—on certain holy days, they consider it defilement to cross the threshold of a Gentile.  They must keep themselves lily-white. These Jews are the most arrogant people he’s ever encountered—with, to his mind, the least to be arrogant about.  When he finally emerges from the shadows of his house, they all begin talking at once.  He calls for a chair and raises a hand to quiet them.

“Where is the prisoner?”

The priests and scribes part down the middle.  Pilate blinks in surprise.  He was expecting a hulky, surly zealot like Barabbas, the notorious troublemaker awaiting execution.  This man doesn’t look capable of overturning a sheepfold: shrunken, beat up, clad in a torn filthy garment—and utterly silent.

Jesus of Nazareth, is it?  Pilate has instructed his men to keep an eye on him ever since that showy entrance into the city earlier in the week.  But the man roused no rabble or called no one to arms; he only seemed interested in hanging around the temple and irritating the priests—a project the Governor heartily approves.

But regardless of sentiments he has a job to do.  He forces himself to listen to the accusations: subverting the nation  (pretty vague, that one) . . . opposing the payment of taxes (serious, if true) . . . claiming to be Messiah—

“Messiah?” he asks.  Has heard the term, a little unclear on what it means.

“A king, your Excellency.”

That’s a stretch.  Messiah has a more spiritual meaning, if he remembers correctly.  “So,” he addresses the prisoner, “are you the ‘King of the Jews’?”

The term is a joke, whether the plaintiffs know it or not.  The late unlamented Herod the Great called himself King of the Jews, but after he was dead Caesar determined that none of his surviving sons (survivors, more like) would take that title.  But Pilate’s grim half-smile melts when the wretched prisoner raises his head.  There is an unnerving stillness about him, rock-solid and ages deep, that pulls the Governor a little off balance.

“You have said it,” he whispers.

It’s almost—almost—as though the prisoner shares the joke.  But Pilate senses no irony about him.  Because on another level . . . he affirms it.  As though he really were a king of some sort.

“He speaks with authority,” they said of him. 

“What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us?” 

“Who is this, that the wind and sea obey him?”

Irritably Pilate shakes his head.  This is ridiculous; anyone can see the man is harmless.  Perhaps even “holy”—that austere word the Jews apply to their god.  “I see no grounds for condemning this man,” he says, standing to reinforce that judgment.

But they won’t be dismissed so easily.  “Your Excellency, he’s far more dangerous than he looks!  He stirs up the people everywhere he goes, starting from his home in Galilee.”

“Galilee?”  The word opens a door of escape; Galilee, that region of firebrands and zealots, is not his jurisdiction.  “The man is Herod’s subject, and you’re in luck: Herod is in the city this moment.  Take the man there.  I’ve give you a detachment of guards.  Now go—Go!”

pilate

An hour or so later, while finishing his breakfast, Pilate hears the sound he has dreaded ever since his posting to Judea: the rumble of a mob.

It has not been a peaceful morning; after the Jews reluctantly left the pavement, his wife declined to join him for breakfast.  She wasn’t feeling well, her note said, adding this: I got almost no sleep last night.  I kept dreaming of a bedraggled Galilean brought before you, and now I hear it’s true!  Have nothing to do with him, I beg you.

And now another note, brought by his secretary:

To Pontius Pilate, procurator of Judea, greeting:

I rejoiced to receive Jesus of Nazareth from your generous hand, for I’ve heard much about him.  The tales from Galilee are almost too rich to believe!  But it seems I must use the term “rich” to describe the Jews’ fear of him. He may have performed “signs” for them in Galilee but it appears his bag of tricks is empty.  He’s a harmless has-been, no threat to anyone.  I suggest you have him flogged—that may satisfy the Jews—and let him go.

Your servant, Herod Antipas.

So here is the Nazarene, back again, sporting more bruises and a purple robe.  That is an extravagant touch: Herod’s idea of a joke.  Pilate never liked the old fox, but must admit Herod has offered good advice, even while shrugging the responsibility back to Rome.  Flog and go:  it’s time to bring this sideshow to a quick and decisive end.

From that day on, Pilate and Herod are friends.  Funny thing: it’s the Nazarene who brought them together, like he brought the Pharisees and priests together.  Opponents unified in opposition–and so it will ever be.

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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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Love Your Enemies

But I say to you who hear, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.  To  one who strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also, and from one who takes away your cloak do not withhold your tunic either.  Give to everyone who begs from you, and from one who takes away your goods do not demand them back.  And as you wish that others would do to you, do so to them.  Luke 6:27-31

I wonder how many listeners got past the first three words: Love your enemies?! What kind of teaching is this?  No wonder he began with a warning note (I say to you who hear sounds like, “Listen up!”).  This is explosive stuff:

Love your enemies

Do good to those who hate you

Bless those who curse you

Pray for those who mistreat you . . . .

But if we’re really listening, we might understand that it’s not a new teaching.  We might even catch a few echoes from the past:

They despised his pleasant land, having no faith in his promise . . . Nevertheless, he looked upon their distress when he heard their cry  (Ps. 106)

They forgot the LORD their God . . . But when the people of Israel cried out to the LORD, he raised up a deliverer, who saved them (Judges 3:7,9)

When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son.

The more I called to them, the more they ran away, sacrificing to the Baals and burning offerings to idols.

Yet it was I who taught Ephraim to talk; I took them up by their arms, but they did not know that it was I—

I led them with cords of kindness, with the bands of love;

I became to them as one who eases the yoke on their jaws; I bent down to them and fed them . . . (Hosea 11:1-4)

All we like sheep have gone astray.  We have turned—every one—to his own way . . .  (Is. 53:6)

The echoes go back and back, all the way to, Have you eaten of the tree of which I commanded you not to eat?

How would you define the word “enemy”?  Someone who doesn’t like you?  Maybe, but if that person keeps his distance, you can live with that (and besides, you may not like him much either).  An enemy is someone who opposes you—not accidentally, like the driver who changed lanes and forced you to stamp on the brakes and lay on your horn–but deliberately.  The committee chair who shoots down all your ideas, the supposed bff who spreads lies about you, the rival contractor who underbids you, the woman who leads your husband astray—that’s your enemy.

But what about the wife with the wandering eye, or the child who runs away while you’re calling him to come back–runs right into the street?

The Lord’s own children opposed him.  They ran away deliberately, right into the street.  They made themselves his enemies, disregarded his words, gobbled up lies about him and squandered his blessings.  Have you ever held a rebellious child while she’s in the throes of self-destructive rage, thrashing his arms and legs and screaming, “I hate you!  I hate you!  I HATE you!”  What’s your reaction?

angry boy

Can God feel like a battered husband or a rejected parent?

Listen: Anyone can love somebody who makes them feel good.  Anyone can return a favor or make a loan when the collateral is up front.  Kindness can be its own reward, if it earns you a warm inward glow instead of a kick in the teeth.  Like you’d get from an enemy.

But the Kingdom again turns our world on its head.  Our reward is not a result of loving enemies, it’s the cause of loving enemies.  It’s the very reason we can love, and do good, and lend with no expectation of return, even a murmured “Thank you,” from the objects of our largess.  If we are children of the Most High, our account has already been paid into:

For he is kind to the ungrateful and the unjust.

If the ungrateful and the unjust don’t say it, the angels will: Look at that.  Loving their enemies–just like their Father.

For the first post in this series, go here.

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The Great Reversals

Luke 6:17-18, 20: And he came down with them and stood on a level place, with a great crowd of his disciples and a great multitude of people from all Judea and Jerusalem and the seacoast of Tyre and Sidon who came to hear him . . .   And he lifted up his eyes on his disciples, and said . . .  

Blessed are the poor . . . Woe to you who are rich;

Blessed are the hungry now . . . Woe to you who are full;

Blessed are you who weep now . . . Woe to you who laugh now—

His mother spoke of this: “He has toppled the mighty from their thrones and exalted the lowly.  He has satisfied the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty” (1:52-53).  This is how it begins: on a level place, with the hungry and lowly crowded around and power coming out of him, “healing them all.”

If you were a disinterested observer tagging along you might wonder what all the fuss is about.  Or just where this great teacher is.  He doesn’t stand out: you might think the tall muscular fellow listening indulgently to a sorrowful woman might be the one, or the attractive youngster spiritedly arguing with a couple of Pharisees.  But when the crowd sorts itself out and grows quiet, he appears in the middle of three concentric circles: the crowd, the disciples, the twelve, and . . . You blink your eyes: that’s him?  He doesn’t shine, he’s not dressed in white, and he’s not especially handsome—so ordinary, in fact, that you won’t be able to visualize him tomorrow.

But you won’t forget the voice, or the words.   His words shake and remake the world you know.

Kings are not visibly falling from their lofty thrones, nor are the rich seeing their wealth melt away before their eyes.  Instead, here’s another way to understand riches and poverty, power and weakness.  Matthew calls it the Kingdom.  Luke doesn’t use that term as often, but he’s talking about the same thing.  It’s the alternate world, the real-er world.

Alternate universes are all the buzz in theoretical physics.  What Jesus introduced 2000 years ago is the alternate world.  Real, not theoretical.  The Kingdom.  Beyond his startling reversals that level the rich and raise the poor stand a shimmering outline of gates, turrets, and towers any materialist would classify as illusion.  But is it?

This place we live now—it’s real.  He never said it wasn’t.  Hunger, sorrow, lack and want, all real.  The doordifference is not between real and illusion, but between “now” and now: a time bound by walls of circumstance, and a time set free.  It’s like we’re living in the anteroom, or even the coat closet where we wait in rags and muddy boots.  You can start taking those off now, he says; all your disappointments and deprivations are to be left here.  Don’t mind the walls—anticipate the door.  Are you poor, hungry, sad?  A joyful feast waits behind that door.  Do you come well-fed and expensively dressed?  Those designer labels and fast cars are worthless in the Kingdom.  There’s a whole other currency, didn’t you know?  And your accolades and reputation won’t carry over.  They speak a different language there; try to boast in your own achievements and all you will get are puzzled frowns.

He makes it sound so . . . well, so real.  So certain.  While he speaks the gates of the Kingdom grow taller, thicker, definite, as though an angel were beside it with a measuring rod, marking off the cubits.

But I say to you who listen . . . Keep listening!

Up next: Love your enemies!?

For the original post in this series, go here.

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New Wine

On a Sabbath, while he was going through the grainfields, his disciples plucked and ate some heads of grain, rubbing them in their hands.  But some of the Pharisees said, “Why are you doing what is not lawful to do on the Sabbath?”  Luke 5:38-6:2

Holiness is all about prayer and fasting, right?  And scrupulous observance of holy days . . . right?  It’s not about weddings and bridegrooms and more mundane matters like eating.  Of course we have to eat, nobody denies that, but we have this thing called the Sabbath—ever hear of it, Jesus?  With your reputation as a potential star rabbi let’s say we’re very surprised to see you allowing your disciples to harvest grain on the Lord’s day—

apostles

What’s that?  They’re hungry?  So what?  They have six days to set aside a snack for the seventh, and if they don’t do that it won’t kill them to go without food for twenty-four hours.  We Pharisees do it all the time—excellent discipline.  And don’t bring up David, he’s irrelevant.  It’s not like you’re another David, after all.  If you can observe the most basic of the commandments—

What?  “Lord of the Sabbath”?  Lord of the . . . Who is this Son of Man?  You don’t mean you, do you?

. . . We can’t keep up with this man.  One minute he’s flaunting revered customs and the next he’s flaunting us.  Right in the synagogue, did you hear?  Elias was there, he with the paralyzed hand that wrecked his pottery business.  Tough for him and his family, but they get their share of contributions from the treasury and besides, if Jesus had wanted to heal Elias he could have stuck around till sundown.  But he had to make a case of it.  A cast against us.  Against the law, I mean, not just us.  He’s against the law, and therefore—

Yes, Elias’s hand was cured.  Of course it’s good for him, but he’s just one man.  There’s something rather large at stake here, sonny, something bigger than parlor tricks and snack cravings on a Sabbath afternoon.  It’s called righteousness, or getting right with the Blessed One, and that’s not easy to do, you know.  It takes old-fashioned discipline and effort and listening to the right people.  So my advice to you, Jacob ben-Alphaeus, is to stay close and mind your own business.  No good will come of chasing after Jesus of Nazareth; he’s trouble.

Jacob?  Jacob!  Come back here!

All night he continued in prayer to God.  And when day came, he called his disciples and chose from them twelve, whom he named apostles: Simon, . . . and Andrew his brother, and James and John, and Philip, and Bartholomew, an Matthew, and Thomas, and James the son of Alphaeus, and Simon the Jealot, and Judas the son of James, and Judas Iscariot . . . Luke 6:12-16

For the original post in this series, go here.

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How Jesus Happens

After this he went out and saw a tax collector named Levi, sitting at the tax booth.  And he said to him, “Follow me.”  And leaving everything, he rose and followed him.  Luke 5:27-28

Any rabbi who builds a reputation for godliness or learned discourse naturally acquires followers.  When word reaches these bright, ambitious young men, they start making plans.  They’ll need an introduction and references and travel money to get to the great man’s door.  Once there, they’ll need a polished argument on some controversial topic to convince him of their worth.  They plan on four or five years of study at his feet, and then with his blessing they can join some famous rabbinical school and jostle ever-so -learnedly for a reputation of their own.Matthew

Jesus acquires disciples a little differently.  Of course he attracts young men in every town: likely lads, bright as buttons, sharp as tacks, with no family yet and sufficient leisure to take a few months off and tag along with this rising star.  They would be good Jews, with good references, perplexed when he stops at Levi’s tax-collecting table and scandalized at the words, “Follow me.”

But that’s his way: he passes over most of the eager youngsters and seeks those who are right in the middle of their lives: fishermen at their nets, tax collectors at their tables.  He claims them while they’re busy with something else.  Commentators agree that the words “Follow me” were probably not the first that Peter and Andrew, John and Levi ever heard from him, but still.  Jesus happened when they were making other plans.

That’s how he happens to most of us, isn’t it?

For the first post in this series, go here.

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The Next-to-Last Enemy

On one of those days, as he was teaching, Pharisees and teachers of the law were sitting there who had come from every village of Galilee and Judea and from Jerusalem.  And the power of the Lord was with him to heal.  And behold, some men were bringing on a bed a man who was paralyzed, and they were seeking to bring him in and lay him before Jesus . . . Luke 5:17-19

Another day, another town, another teaching.  His teaching has attracted as much interest as his healing, for the house is packed.  Especially “Pharisees and teachers of the law.”  Now they show up, these classicadversaries and hypocrites we all love to look down on.  But they are not adversaries yet—they are just doing their job as religious experts and legal authorities.  Here’s a new teacher, rumored to be Messiah; better check him out.  Word has spread through the Pharisee grapevine, even to Jerusalem, and representatives from the temple school are in attendance.  Some of these may remember that twelve-year-old boy from twenty-odd years back and have wondered what became of him.

Well, here he is, and the power of the Lord [is] in him to heal (5:17).

With all the lawyers present, talk probably turns on the law, and the discussion was likely to get heavy and intense: q & a, back and forth, red meat for the professionals even if the commoners are having a hard time keeping up with the finer points.  The usual contingent of halt and lame are hanging around outside, straining at the windows and listening at the door to catch any hint that the palaver will wrap up soon.  Few even notice the man on a blanket hauled by four others, or hear the groans they make upon arriving and seeing the crowds.paralytic

What are they talking about inside?  What gets the professionals all worked up as they debate the teacher?  Sin, maybe—they’re all against it, but the teacher has some interesting ideas about what it actually is.  While they try to pin him down on types of sin, he’s going on about the origin of it . . . or something like that.  They’re deep into the subject when dust and straw rain down from above, followed by a rasp of stone: a slab of light falls across the teacher’s face.  The light widens and more dirt showers the esteemed audience.  A bulky form temporarily blocks the opening.

Every Sunday school attendee knows this story, which has a special appear for children.  It can’t miss, really: loyal friends, a poor sick man, a kind and gentle Jesus.  Comical, too.  The pictures are usually imaculate but it was probably very messy;  imagine the immaculate lawyers shaking dirt out of their beards and robes while spitting clods of plaster.  They are evidently the witnesses Jesus has in mind when he gazes at the paralyzed (and probably very embarrassed) victim on the stretcher and says, “Man, your sins are forgiven.”

Really? Sin?  Where did that come from?

It comes from the garden and from the heart.  Scholars of the law are quite aware of what he just said.  In the midst of robe-shaking and sputtering they freeze, all with the same thought. Only God can forgive sins.  Who is he claiming to be?  He knows their thoughts and sees the inevitable collision down the road.  But now, after weeks of establishing his authority–over the demonic powers, the fevers and eczemas, the twisted bones and withered limbs–he stakes a claim of authority over sin itself, which is the sting of death–“and the power of sin is the law” (I Cor. 15:56).  This one is for the lawyers: “Rise up, pick up your mat, and go home.”

True healing begins with forgiveness.  A wretched sinner, paralyzed in a hardened heart, feels his lifeless muscles waken.  Rise up! makes them tingle, laugh, leap for joy.  All embarrassment forgotten, he bows before his healer while gathering up the mat.  And then he goes home, the happiest object lesson in the world—and a little fable of a future rising-up.  For the last enemy to be destroyed is death.

For the first post in this series, go here

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