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What Kind of Father Is This?

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

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

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

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

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

So he distributed the assets to them.

–?!?!?!?

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

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

–Of course he did.  Brainless twit.

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

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

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

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

–Right.

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

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

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

–Ha.  Just what he deserves.

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

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

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

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

So he got up and went to his father.

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

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

–?!?!?!?!?

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

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

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

–Can it be?

–Wait.  What father is like this?

prodigal-son

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

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

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

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

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

–I’m totally lost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So his father came out and pleaded with him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

–Exactly. Obedient.  Blameless.

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

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

–Did he ever ask?  I wonder.

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

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

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

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

–Yes!  Drive it home!

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

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

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

–Oh.  Well, I guess that’s true.

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

* * * * * * * * * * *

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

–Is . . . is that all?

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

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

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

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

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

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

_________________________________________

for the first post in this series, go here.

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Seeking the Lost

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Testament 3 Production Still Photography

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued . . . .

For the original post in this series, go here.

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What’s in It for Me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who is ‘me’?

For the first post in this series, go here.

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The Dinner Invitation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the original post in this series, go here.

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On the Road

He went on his way through towns and villages, teaching and journeying toward Jerusalem.  And someone said to him, “Lord, will those who are saved be few?” . . .   Luke 13:22-23a

He’s touring the towns and villages that the seventy disciples scouted out for him earlier.  It looks like a meandering path—now east, then west, veering north, turning south—but the destination is never far from his mind.  Everyone is going somewhere, whether they realize it or not; all those wrong turns and backups are ultimately headed in one direction.

the-road

A man falls in beside him as they walk along the road.  “Lord!  I have a question for you.  Are only a few on their way to salvation?”

There’s a whole context here.  Anyone who asks this question, in this way, probably considers himself among the in crowd, however exclusive it may be.  The Lord spares him barely a glance.  “Don’t worry about the number of the saved—just make sure you’re one of them.”

“But—“

“There’s a door, not wide.  And there’s a time, not long.  And there are those, not few, who think their place is assured, so they choose their own route and presume on my Father’s patience.  They will be shocked to find the door locked against them, after strangers and sinners have already gone in.  When they pound on the door and cry out, “Lord, don’t you remember us?  We ate and drank with you and sat at your feet.  We even walked beside you in the road.”  He sent a quick, sharp glance to the questioner, a look that peeled the pretentions from the man.  “And what will he say then?  ‘I don’t know you.  I never knew you.  Depart from me.’”

At that, Jesus stepped up his pace, leaving the man in the dust, bewildered and suddenly fearful.  But then Jesus stops and turns back, his face a little softer as though offering another chance.  “Remember this: some who are last in line now will be first then.  And some who are first will be last.”

Speaking of those who are first in line: a couple of miles down the road, on the outskirts of another town, a delegation of Pharisees and village elders meet him.  “Are you Jesus of Nazareth?  We have word that Herod is trying to kill you.  If you value your life you’d better not stop here.”

“Is that so?”  Jesus barely breaks his stride while brushing past them.  “I have a word for you.  If Herod asks, tell him I have business to attend to: evil to cast out and diseases to heal.  If he wants to kill me he can line up with the rest.  We can meet up in Jerusalem—everyone knows that’s the only place to kill a prophet!”

As he moves on, the Pharisees are stunned silent (as usual) and the disciples exchange uneasy glances.  There he goes with Jerusalem again; what’s up with that?

At the top of a rise offering a clear view for miles around, he suddenly stops and turns toward the southeast, his face full of sadness.

“Jerusalem . . . my city!  How many of my prophets have you slaughtered like lambs?  How many times have you stopped up your ears?  My arms ache with longing to pull you and your children toward me, but you were not willing—you dig in your heels and fold your arms and refuse.  I see your ruined temple, like an abandoned watchtower in a vineyard.  But you don’t see me.  And you won’t, until the day you cry “Hosanna!” in the streets, and “Blessed it he who comes in the name of the Lord!”

There’s a glimmer on his face—would it be a tear track?  Those closest to him are distracted by that; it’s only when he turns back to the road that they are struck with what he said.  My city?  My prophets?  He talks like he owns the place.  Even more: as if he always owned it . . .

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Daughter of Abraham

Now he was teaching in one of the synagogues on the Sabbath.  And there was a woman who had a disabling spirit for eighteen years.  She was bent over and could not fully straighten herself.  Luke 13:10-11

He’s still teaching in the synagogues.

And why not, since the people are still listening, but it has to be a hostile atmosphere by now.  On this particular day, while he’s speaking his eye falls upon a women who is bent over from the effects of a “disabling spirit.”  It seems unlikely that Luke, a physician, would have used that term to describe her condition if Jesus had not used it himself later on.  It might have taken unusual discernment to notice her because a woman would not have been sitting up front with the men.  Would she had been behind a screen?  Tucked away but still there, either because it was her habit or because Messiah was teaching?  She didn’t ask to be healed.  Maybe she had tried to get close to him before and wasn’t able—obviously, she didn’t get around too well.

bentoverwoman

Anyway, she’s there: bound and bent and old before her time.  Leaning forward probably, listening with her head down, looking at the ground (like always), entranced by his words, though she doesn’t understand them all.  All Kingdom he speaks of . . . can she get there?  Or can it come to her?  Is it for her at all, or only for the powerful and knowledgeable?  Perhaps she could come close.  I’d rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of wickedness, for—

“Woman!”

Even without looking, she knows he’s speaking to her—that shiver down her frozen spine feels like the very word.

“You are free of your affliction.”

And those words . . . They’re like warm water seeping into her bones.  Her back flows as the vertebrae loosen one by one.  For eighteen years they were locks in place and could not move without shrieking pain.  For eighteen years, crabbed and stunted, she had crept along like an insect, scarcely looking up, unable to lift her head.  His few words pour into her, the high and low tones of his voice seek out the tiny nerves and blood vessels and muscle fibers, massaging them to life again.  Slowly she . . . straightens . . . up.  with no pain—the opposite of pain—the rush, the vigor, the dance of body parts working as they were created to work.  It’s perfectly normal, and normally perfect; she feels like Adam in the moment he stood up and stretched and felt his body for the first time.  Her entire body surges; every nerve tingling, every bone rejoicing.

She can’t help herself; she bursts out in song.

I will sing unto the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously! . . .

Meanwhile, an argument is going on.  She notices with half a mind.  The ruler of the synagogue is lecturing someone.  Oh.  He’s lecturing her, along with everyone in earshot which is a big audience because she has attracted quite a crowd.  Somehow her dancing feet have carried her right out of the synagogue and into the street, where Jesus is—she must rush up and thank him—along with the rulers and scribes.  She notices they’re angry.  What about?

“. . . . six days out of the week you have to come and be healed.  You know the text: Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the Sabbath day is holy to the Lord.  On it you shall do no work . . .

Silly men!  What’s happened to her is holy to the Lord.  Satan bound her, God healed her.  The word is very near, in her mouth and in her heart.  The Lord is speaking—about her!  His voice sounds angry—but not at her.  She’s a daughter of Abraham who walked by faith . . . but bound by Satan—for eighteen years!  The experts of the law would untie an ox or donkey to water it on the Sabbath, but throw a fit when this woman—her!  I’d rather be an ox or donkey in the stable of my God than . . . than anything.

But he lets me be myself.  Look, this is me, free at last!

Her joy is contagious, spreading through the crowd of relatives and neighbors and perfect strangers, all giving glory to God while his Messiah contends with that little surly knot of naysayers.  She feels like Miriam (Exodus 15), leading the women of Israel in their victory song:

The horse and its rider he has thrown into the sea!

For the first post in this series, go here.

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News of the Day

There were some present at that very time who told him about the Galileans whose Blood Pilate hand mingled with their sacrifices.  Luke 13:1

Perhaps they are trying to justify themselves by pointing to someone worse.  “Jesus, did you hear what Pilate did in Jerusalem?  There were these people—from right here in Galilee—there for the feast, and he ordered . . . and he killed . . and the blood flowing down the alter was their own!”  The story may have lost some accuracy and picked up some lurid details on its way up from Judea, but it’s essentially true.

An outrage! Think some of the listeners—mostly the younger ones, like Simon the Zealot, whose lives are a parade of injustices that cry out to be made right.  All too typical, think the older ones, who have seen tyrants come and go.  The only interesting question is, how were those people unlucky enough to put themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time?  What did they do to deserve that?  (It’s not a rhetorical question.)

Jesus breaks into their thoughts.  “’What did they do?’ That’s not the question.  The question is, rather, what about you?  Were those Galileans singled out for punishment because their wickedness was greater than yours?  Not at all, but calamity could fall on you at any time, just like that tower in Siloam that collapsed and killed eighteen people.  Don’t sit around observing this group or that and evaluating their righteousness: you’re not the judge.

“Just the opposite, in fact: you’re in the dock—just like those Galileans and the people rushed by the tower.  It doesn’t matter if your end comes by an unjust act or a freak accident, or if you take to your own bed and never rise out of it—your day will come.  The time to repent is now, before you face a judge much greater than Pilate.”

Ironically—perhaps—he knows he will face Pilate.  And that time is not far off.  His inner circle recognize that distant, brooding look that steals over his face—happens a lot lately—followed by the light, quick beat of his storytelling voice:

“A certain man had a fig tree . . .”fig-tree

A breeze stirs the leaves of the fig tree behind him, as his audience leans in.  No longer a “crowd,” but a diverse group of women, stragglers, professional men, scribes.  These days, there are always a few scribes leaning in, listening closely, ready to lap up incriminating statements.

“He planted this tree himself, right in the middle of his vineyard, and took special care of it.  He expected not just a beautiful tree, or a shady tree, but a fruitful tree.  Wouldn’t you?”

He directed the question to one of the scribes, who nodded uncomfortably.

“But after the tree had matured—nothing.  Sometimes it blossomed, but never bore.  One year, two years, four, six—all it did was stand proudly in the middle of the vineyard, as though just being there justified its existence.

“’Look here,’ the owner said to his overseer. ‘This tree should have been pumping out figs for the last three years, but I’ve never found a thing.  Why should it be taking up valuable space in my vineyard?  Cut it down!’

“’Sir,’ answered the overseer, ‘give it one more year.  I’ll aerate the soil and add some fertilizer.  If nothing happens then, I’ll cut it down myself.’”

The end.

Many of the listeners probably found this rather abrupt.  So . . . what happened after that?  Did the tree stay, or go?  Did the extra TLC make a difference, or not?

But the scribes and teachers of the law got it.  The vineyard tipped them off: why plant a fig tree in a vineyard unless it’s supposed to represent God’s garden, God’s people—Isaiah’s metaphor.  They knew the Song of the vineyard and the owner’s disappointment: He expected it to yield good grapes but it yielded worthless grapes (Is. 5:2).  What more could I have done for my vineyard than I did? (vs. 4)  Only one more thing could be done: Send a mediator who’ll say, “Let me try.  One more year.  One last chance.  Are you listening, you leaders of my people?”

Unless you repent, you will all (small and great, wise and ignorant) perish.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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The Fire Bringer

I came to cast fire on the earth, and would that it were already kindled!  I have a baptism to be baptized with, and how great is my distress until it is accomplished!  Luke 12:49-50

The sun slips; a wedge of light remains above the horizon, and the western sky blazes.  It seems to affect his mood; he steps away from the little flock and confronts the sky.  His face reflects its fervent heat, reminding John (perhaps) of that everlasting moment on the mountain when he seemed transformed into someone else.  (Sometimes John talks it over with his brother James, or ponders it in the night: Did they really see that?  And what did it mean?)

“I’m the fire-bringer!” the Master calls out suddenly.  “Fire is my anointing, my punishment, and my baptism, and every breath takes me closer.  How I burn for it to be over!”

sunset

The people, who were beginning to disperse and drift away, freeze in their tracks as the disciples glance uneasily at each other.  His family, remember, thought he was mad.  Could it be they were on to something?

He strides back and forth on the low ridge that separates his band from the crowd.  “Do you suppose I’ve come to bring peace, as Isaiah says—the Prince of Peace?  Well, not so fast!  First there will be division, even within the same household: son against father, daughter against mother; step-children, in-laws, even husbands and wives.  I was sent to come between: between you and God, surely, but also between you and you! And you and you!”  He points to individuals in the crowd, who jerk back as though stunned.

“Don’t you see the signs?  A cloud in the west brings rain, correct?  A south wind brings a scorcher.  You can anticipate the weather—what about the coming judgment?  It’s right here, standing before you!  Do you have an adversary you mean to take to court?  You, there–”  He seeks out the man who had asked about his inheritance.  “Are you going to drag your brother before the judge?”

The poor man seems transfixed, poleaxed.  He finally manages a timid shrug.

“How do you suppose that will end?” Jesus demands.  “What if the judge sees through your false piety and brings up all those times you rebelled against your father and neglected your widowed mother?  What if he mentions your missing prayer shawl or the Passover feast that cost considerably less than the money you were given to buy it?”  A look of terror comes over the hapless victim’s face, but still can’t seem to move.  Jesus’s tone of voice drops with the light.  “Not as righteous as you think, are you?  My advice: settle with your brother.  Don’t risk the judge.  Do it now.”

As though suddenly unchained, the man starts upright, turns and pushes through the crowd.  Jesus watches him go, then waves a dismissing hand toward the people who remain.  “Don’t bask in your superiority, sons of Israel.  Judge for yourselves what is right.”

Because there will be a judgment.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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To Whom Much is Given

And he said to his disciples, “Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat, nor about your body, what you will put on.  For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing.  Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them.  Of how much more value are you than the birds!”  Luke 12:23-24

Having dropped this bombshell on “the crowd,” he turns to “the disciples.”  They’re probably scratching their heads about his definition of “foolish” and “wise” and what’s worth worrying about.

It’s a matter of heart.  The rich fool’s heart was in his storehouses, ours should be in the Kingdom of God.  We’re living there now—if we could only see the solid walls around us, the sheltering roof over our heads, the rich robes of christ’s righteousness that we wear, the nourishment of doing God’s will (for, “I have food to eat that you know not of” Jn. 4:32)—if we could only live in that reality, our present concerns about this day-to-day reality would melt away.

Easy for you to say, Jesus—you’ve charmed the world into caring for you.  Look how these women follow you around, making sure your clothes are washed and your bread baked or bought.  You live off contributions, but nobody’s going to pay me to make speeches or hold seminars.

And yet . . . we have the same Father.  Isn’t that his point?  The Father knows what we need.  He provides what we need, just as he feeds the birds and decks out the wildflowers.  But not always, right?  Birds occasionally starve, and wildflowers shrivel up and meet the mowing machine. Even people starve sometimes—in page ages, they starved pretty often. What’s the answer to that?

This: “Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”  Some translations read “delight.”  It is his delight to make us heirs of riches beyond our imagination.  It pleases him, like it pleased your mom and dad to put special presents under the tree on Christmas Eve—they wanted to see your face when you found those things in the morning.  The difference is that we asked for those presents.  We chose them and cut out pictures of them and dreamed of them and cleared space in our rooms for them.

The Father is planning to give us something we do not have the imagination or expansiveness of soul to mystery-giftask for.  It’s wrapped in plain brown paper, all but hidden among the other shiny things we think we want.  People have been asking Jesus about present concerns: touch me, heal me, show me a sign, tell my brother to share.  He often grants present concerns, too, for “Your Father knows you need them.”  Our Father made us to need food and clothes—of course he knows.  But the present day is a threshold, like childhood.  Beyond it is the Kingdom in full, where our food will be the will of God and our clothing the righteousness of Christ.  How does that sound?  If we want that, or even if we want to want that, we are in a sense already there.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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The Father’s Delight

And he said to his disciples, “Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat, nor about your body, what you will put on.  For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing.  Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them.  Of how much more value are you than the birds!”  Luke 12:23-24

Having dropped this bombshell on “the crowd,” he turns to “the disciples.”  They’re probably scratching their heads about his definition of “foolish” and “wise” and what’s worth worrying about.

It’s a matter of heart.  The rich fool’s heart was in his storehouses, ours should be in the Kingdom of God.  We’re living there now—if we could only see the solid walls around us, the sheltering roof over our heads, the rich robes of christ’s righteousness that we wear, the nourishment of doing God’s will (for, “I have food to eat that you know not of” Jn. 4:32)—if we could only live in that reality, our present concerns about this day-to-day reality would melt away.

Easy for you to say, Jesus—you’ve charmed the world into caring for you.  Look how these women follow you around, making sure your clothes are washed and your bread baked or bought.  You live off contributions, but nobody’s going to pay me to make speeches or hold seminars.

And yet . . . we have the same Father.  Isn’t that his point?  The Father knows what we need.  He provides what we need, just as he feeds the birds and decks out the wildflowers.  But not always, right?  Birds occasionally starve, and wildflowers shrivel up and meet the mowing machine. Even people starve sometimes—in page ages, they starved pretty often. What’s the answer to that?

This: “Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”  Some translations read “delight.”  It is his delight to make us heirs of riches beyond our imagination.  It pleases him, like it pleased your mom and dad to put special presents under the tree on Christmas Eve—they wanted to see your face when you found those things in the morning.  The difference is that we asked for those presents.  We chose them and cut out pictures of them and dreamed of them and cleared space in our rooms for them.

The Father is planning to give us something we do not have the imagination or expansiveness of soul to mystery-giftask for.  It’s wrapped in plain brown paper, all but hidden among the other shiny things we think we want.  People have been asking Jesus about present concerns: touch me, heal me, show me a sign, tell my brother to share.  He often grants present concerns, too, for “Your Father knows you need them.”  Our Father made us to need food and clothes—of course he knows.  But the present day is a threshold, like childhood.  Beyond it is the Kingdom in full, where our food will be the will of God and our clothing the righteousness of Christ.  How does that sound?  If we want that, or even if we want to want that, we are in a sense already there.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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