“I Am Willing”

While he was in one of the cities, there came a man full of leprosy.  And when he saw Jesus, he fell on his face and begged him, “Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean.” Luke 5:12

Some diseases don’t show.  Cancer can eat away at a person’s insides for months or years before it begins to pull their appearance in after it.  People can be sick without showing it, sometimes without know it.

But leprosy—or whatever “serious skin disease” this is–leaves no doubt.  The body becomes a map of its ferocious advance.  The curse is evident, the corruption undeniable.  So when this man (Luke’s first leper) approached Jesus, it’s likely everyone around the teacher fled.  He’s exposed!  And so is the leper, whose faith may be born of desperation but it’s still a powerful faith to brave such a scene.  It’s also a humble faith: “Lord, if you are willing . . .”

Time stops.  Just the two of them, forever.  The leper was driven to this moment: saddled and mounted by a terrible curse that, as soon as he heard the name of the Lord’s, became a bountiful blessing.  Because he can’t hide his need.  He wears his need, not like a sandal or a cloak but like an ear or a nose—can’t hide it, can’t get rid of it.  Need pushed him out of whatever hovel he was living in and steeled his determination against the horrified reactions of others along the way; need took him by the hand and pulled him through the crowd that sprang apart when they get wind of him.  Need quivers like a compass needle, seeking and finding its true North, because North is there to find.

healing hand

The leper is us, all just as disgustingly diseased even if we don’t show it.  But if we know it, by instinct or circumstance or sheer grace alone, this is our only plea: If you are willing

In the short, aching space between the two of them, a hand reaches out; the healer’s hand.  I would love to see his face—is he smiling?  The words smile.  He came to say these words: If you are willing cues it up nicely.

“I am willing.  Be clean.”

For the first post in this series, go here.

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Authority, II

And when he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into the deep and let down your nets for a catch.”  And Simon answered, “Master, we toiled all night and took nothing!  But at your word I will let down the nets.”  Luke 5:4-5

They say a fish is the least able to understand water.

But suddenly, you do.

Life so far: cool/warm, fright/flight, gulp-shimmy-splash.  Out/in, spinning fin; up/down, whip around.  Eyes flick, tail ticks, that’s it!

Until

the light comes.

A seawashed brightness streams electrically along your scaly side.  Muscles flex with the unsuspected pleasure of you.  One could leap; one does.  Aimed like an arrow toward the sparkle-green surface, a powerful tailkick thrusts you into the light—pure fire, live energy, too rare to breathe, but oh!  A twist and a tumble, a silvery flex in the air, a cunning flick of tail—

A salute!

You slide into the element—water—cool and welcoming, stroking your sides with loving attention.  Ancient echoes:

Let the waters swarm . . .fish

It is good . . .

Be fruitful . . .

Multiply . . .

Multiplying, you swarm.  Scales, fins, tails, eager golden eyes bogle all around.  All hungry, not for food.  All desperate, not for escape.  Lead us, bring us, take us!

From the long-ago echo to the right-now call: a voice from Outside, from light itself, heard not by ear but by being.  The voice that calls us to ourselves, the voice that all our brief lives we have longed to hear and with all ourselves respond: Lead us, bring us, take us!

Like a single fist of longing, charging the net, crowding in as much as it can hold, leaving a few desolate slivers outside: Lead us, bring us, take us!  Milling, squeezing, rising, striving, breaking the water at last, at last, to spill upon the hot splintered surface of sunrise near his feet.

Flopping, flipping, meeting our meet, gasping in ecstasy—

The boards shudder as a pair of knees hit the deck and pour out a lament with only one word we understand:

LORD

But when Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord!” . . . . And Jesus said, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching men.”

When the boat reaches land, other hands pull it to shore and gather the bulging nets.  Two hundred pairs–at least!–of visionstruck eyes gaze steadily, while a handful of sinful men gather a few belongings and kiss their startled wives and follow the light, headed for the greatest fishing expedition ever.

For the first in this series, go here.

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Authority

And he went down to Capernaum, a city of Galillee.  And he was teaching them on the Sabbath, and they were astonished at his teaching . . .   Luke 4:31

Word is, there’s a new teacher down in the synagogue in Capernaum.  He doesn’t seem to be a rabbi, at least not on the classic model (the argumentative type who sides with Hillel or Shammai, and can think of eighteen ways to call you a heretic if you don’t agree with them on every point).  He doesn’t argue; he unfolds the scripture in a way no one has ever heard.  Almost as if he wrote it himself!  Talking it over among themselves, trying to describe what’s distinctive about his teaching, someone says, “I think . . . I think the best word is authority.”

That’s the best word, indeed; the teacher proves it when the demons barge in.

demon_possessed

That morning

Oh yes, the word has spread even among unclean spirits, and they’ve been kicking up a ruckus lately.  More demon activity than anyone has ever seen—what’s up?  Word is getting out among them, that’s what.  Satan himself has encountered the Man-not-like-any-other-man and has issued some warnings and dispatches.  The local demons send a scout on a mission: check out this fellow.  Obediently, the unclean spirit wrestles his hapless host from his keepers, marches him down to the synagogue and drops him onto a bench.  There they—both demon and host—listen quietly for a few minutes.  That voice, those words—the one inhabits the other and sends a shiver through the listening spirit.  Or rather, a quake.  It’s as if he, the possessor, is possessed, with confusion and a fear like he’s never known.  He can’t help himself; he cries out in a voice that shakes the synagogue: “What is it between you and us, Jesus of Nazareth?  Have you come to DESTOY us?!”

The moment seizes; the company freezes.  It’s as if they recognize each other, the foul spirit and the teacher.  The spirit, accustomed to casing the place everywhere he wanders, seeking souls to ruin, is now aware of nothing else but The Voice.  The Voice answers him, reaching out to grab him by the throat, squeezing as the host squawks helplessly, like a chicken.

“Come out!”

The demon has no choice: he comes out, howling, throwing his host on the floor.

That afternoon

After that exciting morning, the teacher enters a house belonging to Simon the fisherman.  (Imagine the muttering in the background from local rabbis and scribes: You’d think we could offer enlightening comments on the day’s events, or at least ask intelligent questions!  Why does he accept the invitation of a workingman who only shows up at synagogue once a week and can’t wait to get out?)

Turns out, though, it’s not a good time.  Sickness reigns, and Simon’s wife has interrupted meal preparations in order to attend to her mother, who was taken with a violent fever only hours ago.  Jesus stands over the woman and rebukes the fever.  Speaks to the fever, mind; you in the 21st century, take notice.  A smackdown with a demon is one thing, but communicating with microbes is something else again.  The fever departs; the lady’s eyes open and the first thing she sees is him.  He smiles.

“Get up.”

The lady has no choice: she gets up, smiling back.

That evening

And word gets out, of course.  By sundown Peter’s house is like a triage center because everyone within twenty miles has dragged their relatives or their aching, limping, festering selves to the house in Capernaum.  Demons, too, both whether dragged or dragging. The word has spread among them like a plague.  After dinner (served on the roof by an amazingly spritely grandma), the teacher comes down to the leveled ground outside Simon’s front door.  It sounds like a barnyard, with all the groans and howls.  It’s been a busy day, but he takes time.  His hands reach out.

His hands . . . first here, first there, on leprous sores and misshapen bones and feverish wounds, they all feel his touch.  And immediately they close up, straighten out, cool off.  The sick feel his hands; the demons feel his voice as though they were all the way back in the garden with curses raining down on their snaky heads.  One by one, they recognize him:

You are the Son of G–!

You are . . . !

You are the Son . . . !

One by one, he silences them.  This is not the time, especially with the residents of Capernaum clamoring for him to stick around.  Stay with us; be our teacher and healer!  They want to define the mission for him.  It’s ironic: his hometown kicked him out, his new town clutches him fiercely.  Both are wrong.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Today, These Words

And he came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up.  As was his custom, he went to the synagogue on the Sabbath day and he stood up to read.  And the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was given to him.  He unrolled the scroll and found the place where it was written . . .  Luke 4:16-17ff

scroll

He takes the scroll—

As was his custom: The hometown boy is back after some months away.  Of course they recognize him; they know he’s responsible and reliable and understands how things are done around here.  Without hesitation, the ruler of the synagogue offers him a chance to read.

He takes the scroll:

Standing, his head respectfully covered, his hands extended.  They give him Isaiah; it’s no surprise.  He knows exactly where to turn, almost to the end.  The synagogue is very quiet, none of the usual rustling and whispering while a reader finds his place.

He takes the scroll, and reads

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me . . .”

For centuries those words have laid dormant, wrapped in dusty parchment, dry with longing.  He sets them free.  They rise on his voice, spin silky threads, wrap around his shoulders like a priestly shawl with lightly fluttering fringes.  They breathe.  The words meet the Word, in the year of the Lord’s favor . . .

. . . because he has anointed me

to proclaim good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives

and recovering of sight to the blind,

to set at liberty those who are oppressed,

to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

He rolls up the scroll,

gives it back to its keeper, sits down, uncovers his head.  The words remain, resting on his shoulders: “Fulfilled,” he says, and his voice admits no doubt.  Still—“Isn’t this Joseph’s son?”  As he speaks, their admiration turns to puzzlement and puzzlement to doubt and doubt to muttering.  “Truly I say to you, no prophet is acceptable in his hometown.”  Truly, prophesy is coming to fulfillment, but not in the ways you expect.  Truly, the Lord is bigger than you thought.  Truly, He is reaching out to the lost, the rejected, the lame, the blind–and some of these may find their way before you do.  Muttering increases in volume, slowly becoming rage.  Shouting, they rose up and drove him out of the town and brought him to the brow of the hill on which their town was built, so that they could throw him down the cliff.  But passing through their midst, he went away.

The scroll remains.

Isaiah’s words, chiseled on the parchment as it always was and thus shall ever be.  They’re not going anywhere, are they?  Yet, the local rabbi, returning to straighten up after the excitement is over, can feel a change.  Even as he wraps the scroll and stores it safely in the sacred box until the next Sabbath, he can’t shake this ridiculous thought that the words have, well . . . escaped.  Scripture is on the loose, and it’s chasing after

Him.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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The Enemy

And Jesus, full of the Holy spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the spirit in the wilderness for forty days, being tempted by the devil. (Luke 4:1-2)

Before that voice came from heaven, did the devil even know who he was?

Well, probably.  Other voices had spoken: angels singing, old men and young maidens prophesying.  The Devil, always a competent theologian, is also a keen observer.  He probably watched the boy from Nazareth growing up like any other boy, subject to temptation like any other boy—yet without sin.  Yet without sin—not even blameless Job could make that claim.  But the baptism and the commissioning voice from heaven signal the first offensive move from the Almighty.  Though he doesn’t yet know what They are up to, Satan must respond.

Important to note: he’s playing a defensive game, guarding the default.  Sin is the easy way, the irresistible way; God’s victories thus far have all been scored in spite of it, not because of it.  The “strong man” has been thwarted often but not defeated.  Messiah is a new tactic and for all his acumen the Devil can’t figure it out.  He is utterly contemptuous of humanity—so weak and gullible from Day One.  If he were planning a strategy to defeat himself, he would never have cast his adversary in flesh.  He’s seen the pathetic limits of flesh–seen it cower, tremble, boast, bray, shrink, rot, and decay, over and over and over—and even though he knows there’s something special about this body of flesh, he also senses a trembling edge, perhaps even a weakness that can be exploited.  The three-in-one is divided.  Somehow the Son has literally become the Son, peeled off from eternity and located in a particular place and time like any man.

Surely something can be done with this?  It appears the Almighty is playing directly into Satan’s hands; rather than the steely shining likeness of one of those insufferable unfallen angels, the game is to be played with the equivalent of sticks and stones.  All right, then . . . .

Perhaps Satan takes the steely shining form himself, as an angel of light.  He finds the “Son of Man” stonesstumbling through the desert like one of the scapegoats turned loose on the Day of Atonement, those bleating, pitiful creatures dedicated to Azazel that his demons liked to torment mercilessly.  The Man has been forty days and nights without food, and he looks it.  Satan takes time to marvel: no mere appearance of starvation here.  He’s really hungry.  Maybe this will be easy: “I hear you are the Son of God. If so, you can surely turn these stones into loaves of bread and ease your hunger.”

It’s the kind of trick Satan likes to do: swap this for that.  Change substance to appearance.  Magic, in other words—he’s an expert.  The Man stares at the rocky terrain, and perhaps that’s a hungry look in his eyes.  But not, perhaps, for bread.  In the utter stillness a breeze begins to stir, a breeze with a voice that bends and shapes and begins to articulate.  Very softly at first, then louder as more voices join in—tinny ones and fat ones, from the highest treble to the lowest base.  With a start, Satan recognizes that the stones themselves are crying out: Hosannah! Blessed it he who comes in the name of the Lord!  Hosannah!  Blessed is he, blessed is he, blessed is

“SILENCE!” he roars, flashing for a moment into his true, snarly, smoky essence.

A pained smile crosses the Man’s face.  “Scripture says, ‘A Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word uttered by God.’”  As if to chastise the Accuser, one last little voice pipes up, “Hosannah!”—its echo fading quickly in a final puff of wind.

All right; so it won’t be easy.  He didn’t really expect it would be.  Back in shining mode he claps his hands, bending space, bringing them to the pinnacle of the temple, the highest spot on Zion’s holy hill.  He knows this place well, pierces its hypocrisy on a regular basis.  Below them the priests and Levites go about their business, buying and selling and cheating the common folk while Pharisees beat their breasts and chant phony prayers.  The Man’s face darkens as he bites his lip.

“Quite a show, isn’t it?” Satan remarks.  “About as far from true worship as pigs from lambs.  Your . . . your Father must be incensed, every day.  Why don’t you put a stop to it?  Make your entrance now as the Promised One, clear out the money changers and hypocrites and declare the Day of the Lord’s Favor.  Leap down among them.  Even though I sense a real weight and vulnerability about you, it’s impossible for you to be harmed. You know what Scripture says: He will set his angels to guard you, to bear you up—you won’t even scrape your foot.”

He says nothing at first.  Then he raises his foot, and idly scratches his heel.  Satan turns cold with the memory, as though hurled back there–to the garden where he scored his great victory.  But the Almighty checked his gloating: He shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise his heel.  He always wondered what that meant.

“Scripture also says, ‘You shall not tempt the Lord your God.’” The Man’s face, no longer convulsed with anger, sets as placidly as the moon.

Very well.  Satan spreads his arms, gathering all time into them, and they launch into eternity.  Now all the kingdoms of the world rise and fall below them: empires glitter and collapse to dust, palaces bloom like flowers, armies surge, masses bow.  From this distance, it is glorious.  “I’ll give you all this,” he says, his arms still spread.  “Right here, right now, if you will worship me.”

Perhaps it’s a last, desperate gamble.  It seems clumsy at best, tempting the Almighty to worship an obvious inferior.  But what if the look on the Man’s face startles Satan himself—so hungry, so ravenous?  He wants these kingdoms, these palaces and empires.  But they are ultimately his!  He made them, he owns them.  All the heavenly beings know that, and the demonic ones too.  So why doesn’t the Man just claim what is his?  Why this masquerade, this parading around in human flesh?

While puzzling over the problem,  Satan begins to sense an obstacle, a bump in the road.  The Son of Man has obviously taken a great step down, from heaven to earth.  What if he has to go even farther down?  Suppose there’s an uncompleted step in the plan, something so appalling even the Son doesn’t fully grasp it.  The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand, but Satan can offer a shortcut: Whatever it is you’re supposed to do, Son of Man, isn’t really necessary.  You can complete your mission right now and stride into your kingdom with an emperor’s crown.

The Man clenches his fists, sets his face, and recites the Shema that every good Jewish boy knows by heart: “You shall worship the Lord your God and serve him only.”

Satan inwardly groans in disgust, but decides it was a pretty good day’s work.  Enough for now.  In a blink, they’re back in the wilderness where he recalls the sheeplike people of God wandering for forty years while he poked and prodded them every day.   Good times!  Forty years, forty days—yes, he sees the connection.  It’s obvious the Man has completed some kind of test but a greater test lies ahead, and Satan will be there for it.  We’re not done, he says, leaving his enemy exhausted and plastered to the desert floor like a rag.

As Matthew says, and behold, angels came and were ministering to him.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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My Beloved Son

Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heavens were opened, and the Holy spirit descended on him in bodily form, like a dove; and a voice came from heaven, “You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased.” Luke 3:21-22

Then, all of a sudden, he’s there.

When Jesus comes down to the river, nothing marks him out as anything special.  Matthew records a conversation (“I should be baptized by you . . .”), John a proclamation (“Behold the Lamb of God!”) but Luke seems almost dismissive: When all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying . . .   There he stands among the people, his head, still damp from the Jordan, bowed in prayer.  Presumably others are praying as well; to be baptized by John was without doubt a profound religious experience.  Imagine a camera crew at the scene, filming for a documentary about John, the first prophetic voice in 400 years.  The lens pans slowly across dozens of people all kneeling by the river or standing in the water, heads uniformly bowed.   It would pass right over the Son or God because nothing marks him out at first.  No one knows who he is.  And possibly, he doesn’t know who he is, or not to the fullest.  His conversation with John in Matthew 3:13-15 indicates he knows his calling to fulfill all righteousness, but how?  We’re not allowed into his mind; we only see him there, head bowed, praying.

But then our imaginary camera stops, zooms in.  Mark, with his flair for the dramatic and immediate, says the heavens were ripped apart, torn open!  Matthew says the heavens were open to him, and he saw the Holy Spirit descend, indicating that this magnificent vision was for Jesus alone.  Luke is more matter-of-fact: the heavens were opened and the Holy Spirit descended on him in bodily form like a dove, and a voice came from heaven . . .

my-beloved-son

Messiah, or Christ in the Greek, means “the anointed one.”  Here Jesus becomes Christ; here he receives his anointing from the Holy Spirit.  If he didn’t know before in his human flesh, he knows now–he’s the one.  The LORD said to me, “You are my Son; today I have begotten you.”* The LORD—my Father!

Trinitarian love, existing from eternity, recognizes itself in a new dimension, joins hands, confirms its bond and its purpose.  He’s here; they are agreed; it’s beginning.  Christ is linked firmly to the divine Voice and white-feathered Spirit, but also to dust—a link in the genealogy chain stretching all the way back to Adam who was formed from the dust of the ground.  We meet him coming and going—the dust reaches up, the Spirit comes down, and at the place where they meet kneels an ordinary man you’d never look twice at, head still damp from Jordan’s water, praying.

*Psalm 2:7

For the original post in this series, go here.

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The Lord’s Trumpet

. . . the word of God came to John the son of Zechariah in the wilderness.  And he went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. Luke 3:2b-3.

Years pass.  The fullness of time bubbles and swells under the placid surface of unrecorded history until the moment assigned for it to break out.  It has a mouth, and its name is John.

The excited chatter that surrounded his birth is finally verified.  His father Zachariah is long deceased but there are probably those alive who remember the moment the old man’s tongue was loosened and broke out in impromptu song . . . something about a horn of salvation and being delivered from our enemies, and the sun rising on a defeated nation.  The people who dwell in darkness have seen a great light.  Is John that light?  He’s already living the life of a holy man in the wilderness, with his paleo wardrobe and six-legged diet.  In the wilderness the word of God overpowers him, and next thing you know he comes roaring out of the desert.  He takes up residence at the Jordan, a river famous for crossing over (Josh. 3:14-17), where Naaman the Syrian was miraculously cleansed from leprosy (II Kings 5).  There John begins a ministry of cleansing and crossing over as he preaches the good news.

His news is bad before it’s good: “Brood of vipers!” are his first recorded words.  Just part of his job: to shake Israel out of her complacency and convict her of sin.  That was every prophet’s job, from Elijah to Malachi—waking up the sleepers.  It’s time to get ready, take heed, beware.  Most of all: Repent! The Kingdom of Heaven is approaching!  Abraham was your father, not your savior.  Judgment is on its way, clutched in Messiah’s hand—a winnowing fork for separating wheat from chaff, an ax laid to the bitter root of the tree.

Chop. axe&tree

Chop.

Chop.

The people were in expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Christ.  You could hardly blame them—John was every inch the prophet; he even dressed like Elijah (Would he call fire down from heaven? Or raise the dead, or hop aboard a fiery chariot?)  The Baptist always denied it when asked, turning their attention to the one whose sandals he was not worthy to untie.  Messiah is coming, winnowing fork in hand.  Better get ready, because you don’t want to fall with the chaff, come under the ax.

Like all God’s prophets, John was right in substance, but hazy in particulars.  Messiah did not hold those tools; he was those tools. And subject to those tools.  Judgment was indeed about to fall.

Who knew that he would step in its way?

For the first post in this series, go here.

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The Talk of the Temple

Now his parents went to Jerusalem every year at the Feast of the Passover.  And when he was twelve years old, they went up according to custom.  Luke 2:41-42

We’ve seen the picture of the calm-faced lad with the glowing aura and one finger upraised as though making a point, surrounded by old guys with gaping jaws.  But it wasn’t like that.

His first time in Jerusalem, probably, during the solemn clamor of Passover: the rituals, the formulas, the endless squeals and screams of animals at the altar.  Every Jewish boy knew the q & a and the works of the outstretched hand and mighty arm of the LORD, but let’s suppose this particular Jewish boy has been mightily stirred by it all.  The lamb, the meat, the bitter herbs—he knew what it meant, but what did it mean?  That’s why he stayed behind—this exemplary boy, full of grace, who had never caused his parents a moment of fret, was about to put them through a wringer of anxiety for three whole days.

Three days doing what?  Suppose he packs up dutifully with friends and neighbors from Nazareth and talk-of-the-templeturns his feet toward home.  As they pass through the gates of the city, something catches his attention: maybe two rabbis on their way to the Temple, deep in learned conversation about the Passover lamb.  His ears perk up; he peels away from the Nazareth party so swiftly they don’t notice, follows the rabbis all the way into the Temple complex, to the rabbinical school for promising young Jewish scholars.

It’s an open discussion format, let’s say, where young men ages 12 to 21 mostly sit and listen.  They’re all a little soft around the edges: pale and thin and Levites all, students of special aptitude tapped for a career of holy service.  Perhaps Caiaphas is there, age 15 or so and already betrothed to the High Priest’s daughter.  Nicodemus might be there, striving to follow the twists and turns of the discussion.  The new kid sticks out, with his rough traveling clothes, springy muscles and tanned, keen face.  At first he only listens.

When he starts asking questions, his Galilean accent turns everyone off until they begin to actually hear him.  Why . . . that’s a good question.  He follows it up with another, and only the most learned of the rabbis is able to answer.  But immediately he has another, and another, and by the end of the day he has them stumped; they tell him to come back the next day for answers.

Where does he sleep?  What does he eat?  We don’t get the story from his point of view, only that of his crazed parents who are just realizing he’s not with them.  “Have you seen Yeshua?”  “What, he’s not with you?”  “I remember him tagging along this morning when we set out, but, come to think of it, haven’t seen him since . . .”  Any parent knows exactly what Mary and Joseph are feeling—if we haven’t actually lost a child in a crowd we’ve had nightmares about it.  Do Mary and Joseph start back to Jerusalem immediately, in the dark?  Not a wise plan unless they can catch a lift with a caravan heading south; otherwise they could end up by the side of the road with their throats cut.  If they wait, though, they don’t sleep. Yeshua, Oh, Yeshua—where could he be?  Was he kidnapped somehow, or did he do this on purpose?  Inconceivable!  And yet . . . Mary may be wondering if this is the sword that would pierce her heart.

Meanwhile: suppose there’s some sort of lodging for Jewish boys studying the Torah; the Nazarene might go there and eat what’s put before him, all the while savoring every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.  (My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to finish his work.)  Next morning, he’s the first to take a seat, the first to raise his hand—Who is this boy? everyone wonders.  He wants to know about Messiah—Why do the prophets say he must suffer?  What does it mean, “By his stripes we are healed?”  How will Israel be redeemed?  What? Who? When?  He can hardly sit still; as the Scriptures open to him he is opening the Scriptures, with a delight that’s both contagious and alarming.  He stirs impromptu debates and sharp disagreements; Pharisees and Sadducees and scribes tie themselves up in doctrinal knots until he, this untaught boy from Nazareth, breaks in with the penetrating question that clarifies the issue and gets the discussion back on track.

By the third day he’s answering their questions.

It’s almost a relief to the rabbis and scribes when his parents barge in.  I’m sure he was easy to find once they got to the Temple complex: “Please, sir, we’re looking for a boy, age 12, who–”  “You’re from Galilee?  Nazareth, by any chance?  Oh yes, I can tell you where your boy is.  Everyone knows him by now.”

We know this part of the story.  When his mother berates him, Yeshua seems genuinely surprised: “What?  Where else would I be?”  The words sound rude, but he’s not being rude; he’s simply blurting out the first thought on his mind.  Then he seems to come to himself and look around as though he just woke up from a dream.  Yes, Mother.  Yes, Father.  I’m ready to go home . . .

Though they’re glad to be let off the hook—that boy was just about to take over the whole school!—teachers and students both find themselves missing the electric atmosphere, the incomprehensible air of authority the boy from Nazareth had brought with him.  They murmur amongst themselves: a phenomenon.  Oh yes, we’ll hear from him again.  Better study up before next Passover.

But they don’t hear from him, not for another 18 years.  No one does.  At age 13 he was wiser, at age 14 wiser still, but he had learned to keep his profound thoughts and stirrings to himself.  Still, he lived for Passover, longed for his first view of the Temple every spring, felt its pull while going to and fro during the days of the feast: That’s my Father’s house.  All the while songs play in his head, tunes he can’t remember learning, scraps of Scripture that crackle or glow when he thinks of them:

Here I am!  It is written of me in the scroll—I have come to do your will, O God!

For the first post in this series, go here.

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The Consolation of Israel

And at the end of eight days, when he was circumcised, he was called Jesus, the name given by the angel before he was conceived in the womb. Luke 2:21

Did he cry when the knife cut?  They all do, even though at that age it isn’t supposed to hurt much.  Beads of red appear along the cut, quickly blotted away.  He is now a covenant son, like every baby boy born under the Law of Moses.  Words are spoken over him as he is re-wrapped in swaddling clothes and given back to his mother, to be quickly consoled against her beating heart.

In the early days of motherhood, completely dominated by this little scrap of a person as all new mothers are, his unique origin is apt to slip Mary’s mind.  He’s so like any baby: small, weak, not a thought in his head or a single muscle under his control, just a bundle of sensation and emotion.  He’s not one of those continually wailing ones that make everyone within earshot suffer as much as they suffer.  He’s calm; a blessing.  She loves him fiercely, overwhelmingly, like any mother.

And when the day came for them to be purified as laid down by the Law of Moses, they took him up to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord, observing that stands written in the Law of the Lord: “Every first-born male must be consecrated to the Lord.”  Luke 2:22-23

simeon

In his room in the temple complex, an old man feels a jolt.  He know what it is–his old companion, the Spirit of the Lord, is speaking to him.  His weary back straightens; his rheumy eyes grow bright–Yes?  He’s here?  Now?  He rises, and with the firm step of a much younger man he leaves his room and passes through a portal leading to the temple courtyard.

Old Simeon has a reputation and profound respect; when he appears in public–rare enough these days–people notice and whispers follow.  Learned teachers and priests even break away from their occupations and trail discreetly after him to see what he’s up to, sol purposeful. He approaches the corner of the courtyard where babies are dedicated to the Lord and sacrifices offered for the mother’s purification.  A very common sight, couples with babies, and one quick glance would tell any observer that this couple is dirt-poor.  The little wooden cage the man is holding gives them away–two pigeons is all they can afford for the purification sacrifice, unlike the wealthier family, walking proudly away with their own newborn son, their clothes lightly spattered with the blood of a lamb.  The officiating priest has just taken the second bird from its cage; with bored, practiced movement he wrings its neck, choking off its startled cry.  When Simeon barges upon the scene the priest looks up with a peeved scowl, quickly smoothed over when he sees who it is.

The parents don’t know who it is, but the old man carries an aura of authority about him, and when he stretches out his arms with the eagerness of a youth reaching for his bride, the mother hands over her baby without hesitation.  The bystanders glance at each other, their curiosity piqued.  Some may have murmured to each other, “Look at his face.”  It is transformed—almost youthful, or like Moses perhaps, come down from the mountain with his face alight.  Those who look to the Lord are radiant . . .  Simeon places one trembling veiny hand on the baby’s head.  Then he speaks, in clear tones that those who know him had not heard for years, even though he was not speaking to them.  He is speaking to God: “My eyes have seen your salvation . . . “  What, the baby?  The squirming infant who opens his dark wide eyes and stares hard at the old prophet, almost as if he understood?

The priests and Levites debated for years afterward what Simeon had actually said, especially after he was no longer around to tell them.  They should have just asked his mother, because the old man’s words had cut into her mind–one of the many, many peculiar instances surrounding this child she would recall and brood over for years to come.  The words rise like the sun, spreading warmth through her taut bones: deliverance, salvation, light to the world . . .

But then:  “He will be like a sword that meets opposing flesh and cleaves joint from marrow, and the sword will also pierce your soul.”

His eyes meet hers as he delivers the child back to her arms.  For the slightest moment he hesitates, as though reluctant to give the baby up, or reluctant to deliver this last word.  But the word is on his heart, and forever after it will burden hers.

The couple from Galilee return home, after a sojourn in Egypt.  And then, years of silence.  We’re not told much about Jesus’s boyhood, probably because there’s not much to tell: no miraculous works or perturbing words, just peasant boy growing up in a provincial village, causing no trouble.  No trouble at all.  Except for that one time.

To be continued . . .

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For the first post in this series, go here.

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What the Angels Said; What the Shepherds Saw

“Today a Savior, who is Messiah the Lord, was born for you in the city of David.  This will be the sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped snugly in cloth and lying in a feeding trough.”  Luke 2:11-12, Holman Christian Standard Bible

We’re so used to those words we don’t really hear them anymore.  Usually it’s, “You’ll find the baby angelwrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger”—”swaddling clothes” and “manger” being archaic terms that we only use around Christmas.  It’s a little shocking to read manger translated as “feeding trough” in the HCSB.  Like pigs would eat from, if these people kept pigs.  The angel may have seen no incongruity in the combination of Savior, Lord, and feeding trough–angels, as pure spirit beings, live an existence completely incomprehensible to us, and vice-versa.  The shepherds would have noticed a contradiction, if they weren’t so immediately dazzled with the glory of the Lord.  It might have struck them later.  At any rate, it was the first real-world, real-time indication of what sort of Savior this would be: homeless, gritty, secret, glorious, spun out of earth and sky with dust and pollen in his nostrils and the whole universe in his heart.

A question, Dr. Luke: Was this an objective event that anyone within 50 miles could see, or was it limited to the shepherds only—a phenomenon that they, and they only, were allowed to see?  Skeptics ever since have asked why this wasn’t a bigger news story at the time.  I mean, really: a otherworldly glow lighting up the darkness, multitudes of angels singing at the top of their lungs (provided they have lungs)—just a flash in the pan?  Possibly; the heavy tread of time has a way of treading under even the most earth-shaking happenings if they aren’t followed up.  But God was already on record for pulling back the curtain for selected viewers at rare, selected times, as he did for Elisha’s fearful servant in 2 Kings 6:17.  If I had to guess, I’d guess this was one of those times.  The witnesses talked it up far and wide, and everyone “wondered,” but in years to come even the shepherds may have come to question what, exactly they’d seen.  But Mary had one more memory to treasure.

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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