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The New Song of the Vineyard

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

vineyard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My beloved had a vineyard on a very fertile hill.

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

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

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

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

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

The stone the builders rejected

Has become the cornerstone?*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ten for Ten

As they heard these things, he proceeded to tell a parable, because he was near to Jerusalem, and because they supposed that the kingdom of God was to appear immediately.  Luke 19:11

The disciples don’t share in the muttering about going to Zacchaeus’ house—they should eat so well every day.  Comfortable sleeping quarters, too.  And tomorrow, or the next day, or surely no more than three—Jerusalem!  Passover is coming up—a perfect, propitious time for the kingdom to be proclaimed.  Excitement is palpable among them, whether veteran or newbie.  Jesus, who has been talking about money with Zacchaeus (not an evil thing, he says, in its place), suddenly looks over at them and brings them into the conversation.

“There was a man . . .”ten-minas

The noise level in the hall drops at this familiar opening.  They all know what’s coming next.

“. . . a nobleman, who was to be elevated as ruler of his country.  Just before he left to receive his commission from the emperor, he called his ten most trusted servants and gave each of them one mina.”

Peter, James, and some of the originals wonder why he doesn’t say twelve instead of ten, so everyone would know who the trusted servants are.

“The master said, ‘I’m going to be away for some time.  I can’t say how long.  I want you to take those sums I’ve given to you and see what you can do with your share.  We’ll add up accounts when I come back.’”

“So he departed to receive his crown, but the citizens of his country sent a delegation of protest to the Emperor saying, ‘We don’t want this man as our king.’”

A few of the more savvy followers glance at each and nod: the Jewish elders, scribes and Pharisees, obviously.  But why did the nobleman have to go away to become king? Isn’t he right here?

“He was gone for a long time, but eventually came back in state, with all authority.  And he called his servants to him.  The first had increased his master’s money tenfold, and the king was well pleased.  That servant received a commission to rule ten cities.  Another had earned five minas from the one, so he received five cities.  But a third came forward with no additional minas.  His excuse was this: ‘Lord, here’s what you gave me; I kept it safe for you.’

“As the master’s face darkened, he blurted out, ‘I was afraid of you!  You’re a hard man, sir; you ask too much of a poor, lowly slave.  I’m not a gifted investor like the others, but I didn’t waste or spend it.  Here’s what you gave me, safe and sound.’”

“’So I’m a hard man, am I?  Is it ‘hard’ to entrust lowly slaves with rich blessings?  Is it hard to want to elevate them, to lift them from slavery to sonship?  Your own mouth condemns you.  Here–” he said to the steward—“take the mina from this worthless slave and give it to the one with ten minas.”

“Wait!” Simon-called-Peter interrupted. “Do the servants get to keep the money?  That guy already has a lot.”

“’I tell you,’ said the master (and the listeners weren’t sure whether Jesus was talking for himself or for the king in the story), ‘the one who has will be given more, and the one who doesn’t have will lose even the little he was given.”

“That hardly seems fair,” muttered some of the listeners.

“But what about those . . .” began John.

“’As for those enemies of mine, who did not want me to be king?  Their punishment was a long time coming, but the day is finally here.  Bring them here and execute them before me.’”

This is the last parable he would tell before entering Jerusalem.  And it was almost the scariest.

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The Little Man

He entered Jericho and was passing through.  And there was a man named Zacchaeus.  He was a chief tax collector and was rich . . . Luke 19:1-2

Loser.

That’s what they say about him, as well as, He’ll do anything for a mina, and He’d sell his grandmother for a day’s wages and, I wonder how he can sleep at night?  He usually slept just fine—knowing from experience that empty stomachs stole more sleep than full ones, and goose down suited his bones better than stale straw.

And yet there has to be something missing in his comfortable life; why else would he respond with this thrill of excitement and urgency when he hears the news?  “Jesus of Nazareth is right outside the city!  He just healed a blind man—remember old Bartimeus who always begged in that same spot outside the wall?  Yes, him—he’s walking beside the Rabbi and praising God!”

Not that anyone would directly tell Zacchaeus this.  His few friends seldom hang around the collecting table, but are more likely to show up in the evenings when he is taking dinner at the tavern and might be persuaded to buy them a drink.  Zacchaeus picks up the news while walking to the market where his boy Tobias is supposed to be setting up.  The air is full of news; he plucks bits and pieces like blowing blossoms.  “He’s just entered the gate!” “He’s on the way to the market!”  “I wonder where he’s staying?”

The tax collector’s mind, previously packed with accounts and balances and cuts, blows clear.  He has to see this man.  Previous reports, however intriguing, are just talk; this is the man himself—Messiah they say, less than half a mile away.  Everyone is going to see him.

Me too, he thinks.  I must, must, must—

It’s been years since he ran like that.  All are hurrying, but he runs—robes tucked up, moneybag close to his chest, fine sandals flapping, it doesn’t take long to reach the mob that carries the man inside it, but he can’t see.  Even women block him.

(His small size, they whisper among themselves, accounts for his small heart.)

So near, yet so far—but then an idea pops in his head.  Turning sideways he works his way around the perimeter of the mob and hits the ground running.  Always figuring out a way to get ahead, that’s him.  He even has a tree in mind: the old sycamore just outside the market entrance where the women like to gather.  They are all off to see the parade, so the ground is clear when he charges the tree full-tilt, leaps for its lowest branch and uses his own momentum to swing himself up.  Climbing higher, he finds a steady perch and leans out, panting.  Not bad, for a middle-aged respectable merchant.  A perfect view, and no one will notice him.

sycamore-tree-pano

Now he can see for himself who this Jesus is.  Too bad there are no blind beggars about . . . He’d pay good money to see such a miracle . . . And here they come!  First children, skipping and singing, then strangers clearing the way—the man’s followers, he suspects—and then the man himself, a steady presence in all the tumult.  Zacchaeus recognizes him immediately yet wonders why, because there is nothing especially noteworthy to catch the eye: average height, average looks, average build, ordinary clothes.  What is it about him?

While Zacchaeus is trying to figure this out, the man stops.  And looks up into the tree.  And sees him.

Here’s what it is about him:  a lightness, a spaciousness, somehow contained in a personality both massive and majestic.  And also, somehow . . . merry?  As though the two of them share a joke.  And the joke is, Zacchaeus doesn’t feel self-conscious at all.  He is only conscious of the man . . . who knows his name!

“Zacchaeus,” the man says.  “What are you doing up there?  Come down—I’m staying with you today.”

The ten-year-old he once was could not have scrambled down any faster.  The little man bows, snaps his fingers, sends a boy to the house to tell the servants to get ready.  The murmurs begin at his back—not only from the prominent but also from the plain.  He barely hears them.  By the time they reach his house Jesus has his whole life story.  As they walk through the gate, Jesus has his heart.  And as they pass through the courtyard, Jesus has it all.

“Look, Lord.”  The loser pauses at the door.  “Half of all my goods I give to the poor.  And anyone I’ve defrauded I’ll pay fourfold.”

The followers look at each other, remembering another rich man who couldn’t give it up.  Is this man serious?  Obvious a shady character, a slippery sort—everyone knows the type.  Could the Master see through him?

No, the Master sees him.

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What It Takes to See

And taking the twelve, he said to them, “See, we are going up to Jerusalem, and everything that is written about the Son of Man by the prophets will be accomplished . . .”  Luke 18:31-32

They are getting close to Jericho, as far south as their journey would take them.  Jerusalem is close, just over the horizon.  Anticipation glows like an ember in the pulsing, gripping moment before it bursts into flame.  Then he says,

“Let me tell you one last time what will happen when we get there.  The prophets wrote of it, Isaiah foretold it: the Son of Man will be delivered to Gentiles, mocked, scorned, slapped and spat upon.  After whips have drained the vitality from him they will take his life, but not for good—on the third day he’ll rise to life again.”

The words fell like rocks, hard and smooth and impermeable.  Their minds turned rocky, slow and dense.

They did not understand.

His words made no sense.

They could not see.  Comprehension reached out, fingered the hard surface, fell away.

By morning it seemed like a bad dream, and the journey was back on course.  When you live through many days that are governed by the same routine, your mind accepts it as habit, half-consciously expecting that all future days will continue like these.  First sunrise, then breakfast, after which they gather their few possessions.  Then on the road again, followed by the hangers-on and joined by the passers-by.  By the time the walls of Jericho (fabled in song and story) rise before them, the usual “great crowd” has developed.

Meanwhile, outside the city another routine day is going on as usual—hot and crowded.  And for Bartimaeus, dark.  Always dark.  The blind beggar had felt his way to this same spot outside the wall ever since he was a child.  His parents used to bring him, but they are long gone.  Most of his childhood friends, too; they’re either dead or living on outside his comprehension.  His beggar friends come and go, because begging is a short-lived trade.  As for a wife–who would have him?  The only stable presence in his life is his alms box.

For him days pass like beads on a string, rounded and sullen and mostly alike–but this morning he feels a crackle in the air.  It isn’t just the noise.  Wedding crowds and funeral crowds and the occasional stoning crowd have their recognizable character, but this is different: a rush, as though the day were breaking loose from the frame it is stretched upon and curling toward the center.  “What is it?” he asks the crowded air.  “What’s going on?”

The voices come back, overstepping each other like excited children: “Jesus of Nazareth is passing by!”

Who hasn’t heard of Jesus of Nazareth?  They say he’s Messiah, coming in a triumphant procession of healings and preachings and signs and wonders.  Oh, the things they say!  The news bubbles up in Bartimaeus like a fountain.  His voice, so long wrung dry of things to say, breaks out feebly.

“Son of David!  Son of David!  Jesus, Son of David, wait!”

Where does that come from?  They say he’s Messiah, the great King, the restoration of the glorious throne of Israel, heir to the giant-slayer, the sweet singer, the man after God’s own heart—“Son of David, stop!”

Hush, they’re saying.  You’re making a scene.  People are staring at you.

That doesn’t matter.  He’s been crowded into silence all his life by the fault of not seeing.  He is a turd in the road, a blot on the landscape, an occasion for charity from more fortunate men.  But now everything inside of him gathers itself up, hopelessly, desperately—he is Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus, standing now on unsteady feet, his voice ringing out, “Have mercy on me!”

The tumult collapses from those words like scaffolding.  In the sudden quiet, voices that had previously hushed him now come back, passed hand over hand from the center of the crowd.  He’s calling for you.  Get up.  Come forward.

He takes one uncertain step, then ablind mannother and another, belatedly realizing he’s left his stick behind.  And his alms-box.  Step after step, hands outstretched and fingers spread, he feels the crow both pulling back from and directing him, with a nudge here, a touch of the shoulder there.  Until he finally comes to the glowing, living center.

“What do you want me to do for you?” says the center.

“Lord–” For there is no other way to address him—“I want to see.”

“Then see,” says he.  No touch, no breath, just words.  As simple as, Let there be light.  This is what it takes to see: his words.  And his open, empty eyes flood with light.

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Young, Rich, and Rootless

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

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

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

“Well . . .”

“What is your question?”

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

rich young ruler

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except the first one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Praying to Ourselves

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

justified

What?  Who went down justified?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Kingdom Coming

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What other option do you have?”

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On the Border

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10 lepers

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

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

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For the first post in this series, go here.

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The Rich Man and Jesus

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

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

He has brought down the mighty from their thrones

and exalted those of humble estate;

he has filled the hungry with good things,

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

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

“There was a rich man . . .”

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

lazarus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hungry for what?  For me.

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For the first post in this series, go here.

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The Two Masters

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

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

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

dishonest steward

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you coming?”

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

Are you coming . . . in?

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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