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Happy New Year–Again??

Create in me O God a pure heart

And grant a right spirit within me.

Cast me not away from your presence

And turn not your holy spirit from me

                                                Psalm 51:10-11

The Hebrew word for “create”—Ba ra’—is reserved for God as something only he can do.  It is not mere making, or rearranging elements that already exist, but bringing about something entirely new and wonderful.  This is what he did “in the beginning.”

Now I am reveling new things to you, things hidden and unknown

created just now, this very moment,

of which you have heard nothing until now

so you cannot say, “Oh yes, I knew all this.”

Isaiah 48:7 (New Jerusalem Bible)

In today’s political speech, when one side makes a bold proposal or pointed accusation, the other side often dismisses it with the charge of “nothing new,” as if novelty alone drove truth or relevance.  It’s a meaningless rebuttal, especially if the original point was never addressed when it was new.  But the terminology reveals something about all of us; we’re always growing weary even while looking for renewal.  We’ve been too many times around this track.  Sin promises the new and exciting but (eventually, at least) leaves us exhausted and miserable.  Sin makes us old.

In our marriages, our compromises, our expectations and disappointments—disillusion starts with sameness.  When will this tired cycle stop?  When will we make some real progress?  The problems are so obvious—why can’t we fix them? How many times must we go around this same old track?

In the presence of all your people I shall work such wonders as have never been worked in my land or in any nation. All the people around you will see what the LORD can do, for what I shall do through you shall be awe-inspiring.

                                                Exodus 34:10

The Old Testament tells of great revivals, massive turning points in history, when a sense of purpose and power swept through the people like a burning wind, setting off spectacular miracles like fireworks (see the Exodus, the conquest of Canaan, the beginnings of the monarchy and the prophetic era).  The fires quickly dimmed and the winds slacked off, because that’s how we are.  We get old.  Sin makes us old.  Revivals and mini-revivals fail to stick (see the book of Judges).  By the time Malachi appears, the people are set in their ways, petty and argumentative, meeting the LORD’s passionate accusations with a shrug: “Nothing new here.”

I shall give you a new heart, and put a new spirit in you; I shall remove the heart of stone from your bodies and give you a heart of flesh instead . . .

                                                Ezekiel 36:25

Our hearts feel old and tired, even now.  If you’ve seen too many revivals and Next Big Things and This Changes Everythings—where after a few years Everything slides back to where it was before—it’s easy to become disillusioned.  But we must not.

In South Korea an obscure pastor is rescuing unwanted babies through the medium of a box.  In central Texas a former abortion nurse is pulling souls out of that miserable industry.  In the Middle East young men see visions and old men dream dreams.  In Africa, souls undergoing persecution find their faith renewed, contrary to all human reason.  In the well-worn tracks of human failure, bright footprints.

Behold, I am making all things new.   Rev. 21:5

Happy New Year—for real!

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From His Own Mouth

When day came, the assembly of the elders of the people gathered together, both chief priests and scribes.  And they led him away to their council, and they said, “If you are the Christ, tell us.”  Luke 22:66-67a

It has been a long night.  Everyone is exhausted.

Later, that will be their excuse, if they feel bad enough to make an excuse.  It was a long stretch there, between the preliminary hearing before the high priest and the gathering of the Sanhedrin; all night long official personages were coming and going, sending out messengers, murmuring together in urgent counsel.  As usual, the guards and grunts were completely in the dark.  They just had their orders: seize him, hold him, bring him.  It was all done in darkness, stabbed with torchlight that sliced the narrative in pieces: a mission—a kiss—shouts, and the flash of a sword—someone’s ear cut off (they say)—someone’s ear replaced (couldn’t be)—more shouts—more swords—mission accomplished.

At the center of it all, the man they call Messiah.  He came quietly.  No resistance.  But at the same time, there’s something very unquiet and resistant about him.  Like a lion in a lambskin.  The guards– listening with stony faces to the questions jabbed at him by the high priest in theological language that flies over their heads–could well believe their charge was dangerous, even though he never opened his mouth.

So, when they are finally allowed to stand down, they have a little fun with the prisoner.  Blind-man’s bluff, with sticks.  It gets rough . . . after all, if it hadn’t been for this man they would be enjoying a good night’s rest.  So, they say he’s a prophet?  Smack!  Who was that who hit you, prophet?  Whack him on the back of the knees and see if he keeps his balance.  Trip him up, jerk him back, dance him like a puppet.  Not so powerful now, is he?  Why were we afraid?  And why—if we’re honest—do we fear now?  Fear drives the rod as much as scorn.  More so?  More so.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Sanhedrin

A bedraggled Jesus-of-Nazareth now stands before the Sanhedrin; his robe askew, his tunic ripped, bruises on his legs and a welt rising on his cheek.  The council pretends not to notice because they are riveted on the serious business at hand.  A small delegation of elites has been up all night.  They’ve called witnesses (and secretly paid them), but when the witnesses start contradicting each other they are dismissed.  The accusers haul up old charges to hurl at him: didn’t you desecrate the Sabbath?  Didn’t you incite the destruction of the temple?  Didn’t you claim you could build it again in a mere three days?

Too all this, he answers nothing.  His silence throws them; they are expecting clever repartee of the kind he’s displayed all week.  They have prepared themselves for it.  But, snaky as ever, he confounds them once again.  The chief priest dismisses all the nattering witnesses.  After a brief conference with the highest-ranking member of the Sanhedrin, they decide to go for the simple and direct.

“Are you Messiah?” Caiaphas asks.  “Tell us.”

As they watch, the bruised head lifts, the cracked lips open.  “If I tell you, you will not believe.  If I ask, you will not answer.  But I am headed for my rightful place at the right hand of the Power.”

They lean forward with a collective gasp.  Has he, after all this fuss and bother, just condemned himself?  Their voices trip over each other, asking the same question: “Are you the ‘son of God,’ then?”

His answer comes so softly only those who are closest to him hear it.  The high priest bolts upright, his face a mask of horror as he takes his robe in both hands and dramatically tears it along the seam.  “Blasphemy!  He claims to be God!  His own mouth condemns him!”

Ironic: the only charge that sticks is the one that happens to be true.

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Lord, Look at Me

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

The deed is done, the words said—

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

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

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

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

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

even to death.”  And you said—

And you turned—

And you looked—

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

That pins me to me, and to you,

That burnishes the bond between us,

That lets me know you will never let go.

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

Oh Jesus, please look at me.

remorse

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The Devil’s Sifter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

rooster

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

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

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

 

*John includes this detail in his own gospel account.

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The Deal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Watch Out

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

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

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

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s mad.

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

But he will. And . . .

So will the rest of us.

Oh.

Will we be accountable too?

Why not?

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

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

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

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

Look at me.

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

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

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

 

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

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

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Beautiful Stones

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

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

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

“What massive buildings!” exclaims another.

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

Jerusalem-the-golden

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

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

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

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

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

(But Lord, where will you be?)

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

(But Lord, what about your Kingdom?)

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

(But Lord . . . )

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

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

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

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

*Psalm 48:2

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Offerings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Here Come the Grooms

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Denarius Question

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

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

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

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

The teacher pauses, nods at him to go on.

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

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

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

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

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

caesar

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

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

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

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

“And whose face?”

“The same.  Caesar’s.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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