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The Once and Future

About eight days after these sayings he took with him Peter and John and James and went up on the mountain to pray.  And as he was praying, the appearance of his face was altered, and his clothing became dazzling white.  And behold, two men were talking with him, Moses and Elijah, who appeared in glory and spoke of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.     Luke 9:28-31

Eight busy days pass—preaching healing traveling—before Jesus has more alone time.  He takes his inner inner circle with him this time: Peter the natural leader, John and disciple he loved, and James . . . just because. Imagine these three, doubtless pleased (and proud) to be selected to accompany the Master.  They might even strut a little, if it’s possible to strut while climbing a mountain, exchanging excited whispers about what might be waiting for them up there.  They sense a new purpose in Jesus, a certain intensity that tells them something big is about to happen.  And they’re in on it!  How lucky is that?

(Looking ahead: James will be the first of the twelve to die, and his brother John the last.)

The reason he takes them: a special executive meeting has been called, and they are witnesses.  But while he is praying, a deep sleep falls upon them.

Remember Abraham in Genesis 15?  After assembling the animals (in halves) for the covenant ceremony, a deep sleep overwhelms him when the LORD approaches, and Abraham awakes to terror and darkness.  Now the Father is approaching the mountain where his Son prays, sending ahead the embodiment of Law and Prophesy, his great Old Testament witnesses and mediators.  The burden of history rolls up the mountain with them: centuries of sacrifice and blood and burning offal; of lawlessness and judgment and captivity.  And here the burden stops.

Moses and Elijah—the real men, not their ghosts—are learning what it was all for.  The plot and its transfigurationessential elements are being explained by the author himself.  Angels have longed to look into these things, and now the great secret is cracking open, degree by degree.  Are the two great witnesses here to encourage Jesus, or to be informed?  Could be either, or both.

Peter, James, and John stir from their deep sleep while the conversation is going on.  They hear voices first, speaking.  Maybe not in a language they know, but they are allowed to catch the drift: “departure” in Jerusalem?  They look up, and their eyes burn.  They know it’s Jesus, but his face! like a bolt of lightning, and his clothes! So dazzling white they burn.  As their eyes become adjusted they see the two figures with him–also radiant–and somehow know who they are.  Moses and Elijah have burned a hole in time and hold the moment suspended, with Peter, James, and John inside.  Then it tops, the glory begins to fade, and Peter has to open his big mouth.

Mark tells us he didn’t what he was saying, but apparently he felt the need to say something.  Typical.  He proposes three tabernacles, or dwelling places, because Jesus is surely equal to Moses and Elijah!  Or maybe even above those two, but still, we have to have three tents right here.

Or perhaps, as some commentators believe, he wanted to stay in this moment forever.  Whatever his motivation, he was silenced by the cloud—a cloud reminiscent of another mountain, well known to Moses, where God came down and spoke directly to his people and terrified them so much they begged he never do it again.

No lightning and earthquakes this time, just the voice.  This is the voice, remember, that summoned light and separated sea from sky and brought green leaves and grass springing joyfully from barren land.  At its sound the trembling deer give birth and all in his temple cry “Glory!”  That’s the voice these mortal men hear, and even understand—it crowds their crowded minds, packs them with a handful of words that swell and echo until their heads threaten to explode.  This is my beloved son.  Listen to him!

Then time shrinks to its normal size, and “only Jesus was found.”

Only him, and all him.  Not the successor to Moses and Elijah, but their author and finisher.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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The Real Messiah Project

Now it happened that as he was praying alone, the disciples were with him.  And he asked them, “Who do the crowds say that I am?”          Luke 9:18

In all his preaching and teaching about the kingdom (see the capsule sermon in 6:20-49), Jesus has left out one vital element: himself.  His doctrine is radical—a fact that the miracle-working and storm-calming overshadows.  Loving your enemies? Turning the other cheek?  Going two miles instead of one?  He means it, too: “Why do you call me Lord, and don’t do what I say (6:46).  To date, no one seems to have wrestled with this teaching except the Pharisees–interestingly, they’re the only ones who seem to be really listening to what he says.  For his fans, it’s enough to follow, to marvel, to be around when great things happen.  We’d expect his inner circle to be more attentive, but maybe not.

But now, in the middle of a prayer it seems, he breaks off and asks his disciples, “Who do the crowds say that I am?”

Remember, he hasn’t really been mingling so much with “the crowds” lately, with the notable exception of that hillside picnic for 5000+.  But they have.  They’ve been on the road, preaching and healing, accepting hospitality and meals.  Presumably there’s been some conversation around the tables, and it’s time to talk about that.  So . . . What are they saying about me?  What’s the word on the street?

They’ve heard an earful—even that he’s John the Baptist, returned from the dead!  That rumor has apparently reached the court of Herod himself (9:7)–proving that far-fetched conspiracy theories are not new.  Elijah is a popular guess, or failing that, one of the other prophets somehow risen from the dead, brushed up and recycled.  Imagine the conversation: “Yes, I heard that one too—but you won’t believe what somebody else told me . . .”  They may have had a good laugh about some of the crazy  ideas circulating out there.  Eventually the Master says, Okay, fine; but you know me.  We’ve been together for a while now.  What do you say?

Does it matter?

Infinitely.

Peter speaks up, with a classroom-perfect answer: “God’s Messiah!”

Matthew, who was there, makes a lot more of this answer, including Jesus’ response (“Blessed are you, Simon bar-Jonah . . .”) and his later rebuke (“Get behind me, Satan!”).  Luke skips over that interesting exchange and gets right to the point of what Messiah means.  You want to talk prophets?  How about Isaiah?  ‘Bruised for our transgressions, cursed for our iniquities . . the punishment that brought us peace was on him . . .’  Does that ring a bell with anyone?

The Son of Man must suffer many things and be rejected by the elders, chief priests, and scribes, be killed, and raised on the third day.

Whoa.  Run that by again?  They didn’t catch it.  But Jesus continues with a personal application, something about dying to one’s self, picking up a cross (a cross?), following him (But aren’t we doing that already?), losing your life in order to save it— Not what anyone expected to hear.  Not what anyone expects to hear.  They like the part about the poor being exalted and the hungry being fed and the sorrowful rejoicing, but he seems to be leaving off the good parts this time.  Whoever would save his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will save it.  Which makes no sense.  He’s gone off on a tangent, like he does sometimes.  Peter corrects him (Matt. 16:22) and gets slapped down for it, but he only had the nerve to say what they all were thinking: “Far be it from you, Lord! This will never happen to you!” And by extension, it will never happen to us.

The moment passes, but it was very uncomfortable.  And they won’t quite forget it, especially since the their understanding of the mission is about to be dazzled.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Road Trips


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And he called the twelve together and gave them power and authority over all demons and to cure diseases, and he sent them out to proclaim the kingdom of God and to heal.  Luke 9:1-2

How long has it been since this all began—a year?  Two?  There comes a time in every ministry when its effects must be multiplied.  The word and its power bubble up and spill over, or as Jesus said earlier, “a good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over.”  The twelve hit the road with a message and instructions to live off the land and its bounty.  What does Jesus do during this time?  He’s due for a retreat, I would think: time alone in the hills?  Withdrawal to the villages?  Given what he will say later on in this chapter, this might have been a time for coming to terms will his full mission.  I hope he got some rest.  I hope his body was restored and his spirit refreshed, because the time is coming closer and the days are short . . .

The mission of the twelve was apparently successful, however long it took.  On their return the apostle told him all that they had done.  And he took them and withdrew apart to a town called Bethsaida.  When the crowds learned it, they followed him . . .

This is a huge bunch of people—at least 10,000 if we assume about as many women and children as there are men.  Where did they come from, these 5000 men?  How far have they traveled?  The average “town” of that day is what we would call a village, of no more than a couple hundred people.  So they’re not all from Bethsaida.  They may have been drawn by the apostles who visited their towns and have come to see for themselves, or else they’re just part of the “crowd” that always collects around him, a breathing body that expands and contracts.  They have to take time off work to follow him this far—most of them must be at least a day’s journey from their homes.  What are they thinking?  They can’t merely be driven by what he can do, but who he is—his very person draws them, not just his healing power.  It’s a spontaneous event, like a little Woodstock, when the numbers swell far beyond anyone’s expectations. But look: He welcomed them, spoke to them about the kingdom of God, and cured those who needed healing.

It takes a long time, and the day is wearing away.  Man does not live by bread alone—but he doesn’t live without bread, either.  They’re hungry.  Jesus is hungry too.  Didn’t anyone have the forethought to bring some food?  I’m guessing a lot of them did, but the few loaves of bread scattered among random robes and bags won’t be near enough.  Looking around him, does Jesus remember the devil’s taunt about commanding stones to be bread?  If so, he rejects it now, as he did then.  Stones are stones.  Bread is bread.  In his fruitful hands, lifted up for blessing to his Father, it becomes lots of bread—good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over.

loaves&fishes

He doesn’t do magic, he does creation.  It’s a throwback to In the beginning: Let the earth produce, let the waters swarm, let the simple necessities of bread and fish be revealed for the marvels they are, and feed this multitude.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Daughters of Israel

And there came a man named Jairus, who was a ruler of the synagogue.  And falling at Jesus’ feet, he implored him to come to his house, for he had an only daughter, about twelve years of age, and she was dying. Luke 8:41-42

Ask any parent about the worst thing they can imagine, and chances are it will be losing a child.  Especially, perhaps, a young child.  When the weak, unhappy infant emerges from the womb, a mother’s heart is moved with pity as well as love.  Such a helpless creature, so defenseless, so soft and limp in a hard world. A good father has compassion on his children . . . like the father who, forgetting his dignity and standing in the community, pushes through a sweaty crowd and throws himself at Jesus’ feet.

He’s a “ruler of the synagogue”—meaning, probably, a Pharisee who acted as trustee and program director for the local worshipping body.  Though not a teacher of the law, he might be accustomed to being “greeted in the marketplace” and perhaps even “making a show of lengthy prayers.”  But all show is forgotten when his little girl approaches death’s door.

Women had no value in those days, we hear.  And that’s true, generally speaking.  But the individual girl or woman could be priceless.  Strong men collapsed upon losing a beloved wife or daughter. Sure, cynics may say—they missed the sex or the companionship or the profit-making marriage alliance, not the person herself.  I doubt it.  The human heart has always made room for love; it’s not something invented by the present enlightened age.

Anyway, this is one distraught father.  If he had ever been among the skeptical Pharisees questioning the new Messiah’s credentials, that’s all forgotten now—nobody else can preserve the jewel of his heart.  “Please, Master . . . please . . .”

The Master nods.  The crowd, getting wind of another miraculous work in progress, swells and compresses as they travel the short distance to Jairus’ house.  We’re already told that “the crowd welcomed him” after his return from Gentile territory—the excitement returns!  Rumors running everywhere reached the ear of another female, this one not so cherished.

We know so little about her: was she someone’s wife, sister, mother?  All we know is her infirmity, a shameful condition that must have severely weakened her.  A continual “discharge of blood” is not something she can be discrete about, either, because if she is a law-abiding Israelite, everything she sits on and every dish she eats from and the bed she lies upon—and everyone who touches those things—and touches her–is unclean.  If she has a family, they would have to treat her as a virtual prisoner in order to maintain ritual cleanness themselves.

If she lived today, she might be carrying a sign reading ‘Unclean’ is unfair!  It certainly seems that way to us: if God made women’s bodies to bleed (or breed) every month, what’s unclean about that?  Why is He so squeamish about His own supposedly grand design?

I can’t say for sure, except that blood has a peculiar significance for Him, at least since He heard it spilled out and crying to Him from the ground (Gen. 4:10).  For the life of the creature is in the blood, and I have given it for you on the altar to make atonement for your souls, for it is the blood that makes atonement by the life (Lev. 17:11).  But it can’t be one’s own blood, and it can’t be offered one’s own way, even if a poor woman can’t help it.  For twelve years, we might say, she’s been involuntarily “offering” blood, and what is unacceptable is also unclean.

We know the story: she plunges into the crowd, heedless of who may be defiled by touching her, but she’s careful not to defile Jesus.  She can’t throw herself as his feet, as Jairus did, nor speak to him, nor face him.  But if she can only touch . . .

A pious Jews was expected to wear tassels on the corners of his outer garment, as a reminder of The LORD’s commands, so as “not to follow after your own heart and your own eyes” (Num. 15:39).  That’s probably the “fringe on his garment” the woman was aiming for, and the moment she touches it, power flows from him and into her.  Mark says they both could feel it (Mark 5:29-30).

Stop and think about that: he had power to spare.  He could have healed all Israel with a wave of his hand.  Nevertheless, he doesn’t heal en masse, but one at a time: his power is focused and purposeful.  And his ultimate purpose is to do the will of his Father, as any Jewish man was supposed to do, but Jesus actually could do.  The fringe was a symbol of that, and this woman took hold of it by the power that comes not of assertion but of submission. She was instantly healed.

And she was instantly called out: “Who touched me?”  In the crush of arms, legs, hands, voices, anyone could be touching him.  But only one with faith.  She intended to melt away into the crowd and then follow all the purification rules that would restore her to society, but Jesus has a point to make: “Take heart, daughter; your faith has made you well.”  The law still holds, but you can stop shedding your useless blood—other blood will apply for you.

Why does he address her as “daughter,” especially since she’s probably older than he?  This is the only occasion where he uses that term in addressing a woman.  Perhaps because, meanwhile, Jairus’ daughter is dying.  It must be hard for this father to hold his tongue—why does Jesus have to stop and squander precious time talking to a grown woman who should have had the courtesy to wait her turn?  She’s not dying!  She’s waited twelve years—what’s a few minutes more?  We can easily imagine his thoughts because they would be ours.  And when the messenger comes with bad news, while Jesus is still speaking to that woman, we can imagine how the father’s heart drops.

daughter

Both are daughters: the beloved 12-year-old girl and the despised woman with the 12-year affliction.  Both have a place in the great heart of God.  “Don’t be afraid,” Jesus tells this stunned and grieving father.  Don’t be afraid, he tells us: only believe.  By faith we are sons and daughters, and death’s door means nothing to him.  Whether it yawns open for us, or has already closed on us, he will one day walk in and take our hand and say,

“Child, arise.”

For the original post in this series go here.

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Alien Country

Then they sailed to the country of the Gerasenes, which is opposite Galilee.  When Jesus had stepped out on land, there met him a man from the city who had demons.  For a long time he had worn no clothes, and he had not lived in a house but among the tombs.  Luke 8:26-27

It was his intention, remember, to go to “the other side,” where the Gentiles live—why?  No one appears to ask him.  They may still be a little shaken up after the storm; perhaps in their confusion they imagine themselves to be blown off-course.  But with Jesus one is never off-course.  They have an appointment, and as soon as their boat runs aground the appointment runs to meet them.  Screaming.

You have to feel some sympathy for the disciples (who remain strangely silent throughout this dramatic episode): barely recovered from the worst scare of their lives, they now encounter a human nightmare.  Or rather, an inhuman nightmare.  Demons have been running loose in Palestine, and they’ve seen how Jesus deals with them, but this is a special case.  It’s a whole welcoming party in one body.  For all they know, this is how the Gentiles do demon-possession: in multiples.

Try to see it as the demons do.  For years, they have possessed their host.  We don’t know how these things begin–perhaps he left an opening for evil spirit, and after it had kicked aside his normal affections for family and friends, there was room for more.  By now they’ve driven him from all human company and made him an object of terror and loathing, even to himself.  He lives among the tombs but they won’t let him join the company of the dead; he cuts himself, but is prevented from cutting too deep.  In a twilight world they carouse and brawl and gleefully fight off any attempt to restrain them.  Their host has the strength of ten, because they are Legion.

gerasene-demoniac

Then the Man arrives. They see his boat approaching, and somehow know who is on it.  They raise such an unbearable clamor that their hapless host tries to silence them by slashing at himself with a flint-sharpened rock (which never works).  They hurl him, tripping and stumbling, onto the rocky beach where the boat has scraped ground.

How easy it is to provoke terror in humans!  That’s a primary demonic pleasure, though at the moment pleasure is the last thing on their many manic minds.  He’s standing up, steadying himself with one hand on the mast (like any ordinary man!)—God with us, God against us—how can this be??  His eyes search them out.  He knows them, knows their origin all way back to the moment he threw them out of the Presence, but they never expected to encounter him here.

Come out, he says, with his eyes only.

Don’t torment me! they cry out through the raw vocal chords of their host.  It’s Jesus, they tell themselves—remember, we got the word?—Jesus, the one who—the one that—

“What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?”

The other men are standing around, slack-jawed, keeping their distance.  It’s the kind of situation the demons crave: men approaching stealthily with chains or ropes, trying to sneak up and capture and restrain them.  The demons would have attacked by now, as so many times before—

But the Lord is climbing out of the boat (as awkwardly as any man; they can’t get over it!) with a depthless assurance beyond their experience of humanity.  They throw their host on the ground.  Stampeding over each other, they spin and thrash, screeching in multiple voices.

“What is your name?” he sternly asks.

Their voices come together long enough to scream, “Legion!”—before tumbling into incoherence again, each voice shrieking its own terror.  The abyss is on their collective mind, the pit that waits for all of them where there will be no human meat to feed on; only themselves and the Wrath, forever and ever and ever—

Not yet! they cry.  Hold off! Not now!  In the clamor, one of them mentions the pigs.  Yes, yes—the pigs.  Send us there!  The chaos of voices gradually comes together: The pigs!  Let us go into the pigs!

Their host has become their prison.  He is standing right in front of them, doing what no man or number of men could do before.  They claw and scratch and strain—Will he let us out? Let us out! Out of this—piece of—this pile of—

“Go,” he says.

They nearly tear their host apart, getting out.  With one final scream they leave him, panting and bloody, on the beach.

The fiery air cools.  One sweet breath, then another.  The horizon comes together for him, a clean line separating water and sky.  Blood pounds in his ears, the sound of his heart.  His own heart.  He wills his fingers to move, and they do—his own will.  Knees, legs, arms respond to his timid desire to sit up.  Above his head, that voice says, “Someone get him some clothes.”

The voice seems to cascade around him like the soft, barely-remembered folds of a worn linen tunic.  It gives him back to himself; piece by piece, it puts him together.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Take Care How You Listen

Then his mother and his brothers came to him but they could not reach him because of the crowd.  And he was told, “Your mother and your brothers are standing outside, desiring to see you.”  But he answered them, “My mother and my brothers are those who hear the word of God and do it.”  Luke 8:19-21

Everyone hears, but who really listens?  His own family hears selectively.  Mark tells us that they had decided Jesus was mad.  It’s easy to imagine the older brother James calling a family conference, as he is evidently a take-charge kind of guy.  What’s going on with Jesus?  Is this Messiah business starting to get out of hand?  After all, there is a lot of madness going around: plenty of demons freeloading on human hosts, and one of them may even have hitched a ride on big brother.  He was always pretty intense, you know.  We’d better to check it out, because he could get into serious trouble . . .

Whatever the family decided to do was doubtless “for his own good.” Let’s suppose that Mary, James, and Joseph Junior set out to find him.  Perhaps they only wanted to check out the situation first: compare the crowd-sensation Jesus to the everyday-carpenter Jesus they had known in Nazareth, then make an evaluation and determine what to do from there.

Finding him is the easy part—everybody knows where he was last seen, and where he might be headed.  Getting to him is another matter.  He’s like a rock star barricaded by his entourage (though that analogy would not have occurred to them, of course).  The house where he’s staying is not only filled, but packed five or six deep around the doors and windows.  Let us through—we’re family!

Somebody agrees to pass on the message.  After a while, word comes back: the Master says there’s a new definition of “family.”  What I said about hearing?  This applies.  The family has been reorganized, with Jesus at its head.  You become a part of it by first using your ears, then your hands and heart.  Listen and do.  His biological mother brothers never got a chance to speak to him.  Because from now on, he does all the speaking, and eventually they will hear.

the storm

We are called to hear, even (or especially) when the interference is so loud it drowns out everything else.  Like, for instance, we are tossed on the waves or circumstance, with a howling wind in our ears.  Grief is like that, or shock, or unforeseen tragedy.  Master! Master! We cry, barely able to hear our own voices.  “Can you see what we’re going through?  Don’t you care?”  He’s right there.  Though we hear no response, though he may seem to be asleep, he right there.  In the boat.  With us.  When the time is right, he will get up and rebuke the circumstances as he rebuked that storm on the Sea of Galilee:

“PEACE!  Be still.”

Whether the wrath of the storm-tossed sea, or demons or men or whatever it be, no waters can swallow the ship where lies the master of ocean and earth and skies.*  All creation hears him.  Sometimes even before his family and followers do.

*”Master, the Tempest is Raging,” by Mary A. Baker

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Let Me Tell You a Story

And when a great crowd was gathering and people from town after town came to him, he said in a parable: “A sower went out to sow his seed . . .” (Luke 8:4-5)

It’s like a traveling salvation show: one teacher, twelve disciples, a handful of women who supply their material support, and a loose detachment of followers who come and go.  Life is good, spring is here, the air is sweet with new grass and moist earth.  At every stop a crowd gathers, fanning out around Jesus or packing into a house.  Today he stops beside and open field, where a famer with his sons are waking along the rows of black earth, casting seed with broad sweeps.  An earthy breeze blows across the field.  The Teacher breathes deeply, then begins a story: A sower went out to sow his seed.”

the sower

This is the first parable (the same in all three synoptic gospels), and it also might be the quintessential one.  It’s not about the speaker; it’s all about the audience: “He who has ears to hear, let him hear!”  Four kinds of soil, four kinds of ears, and a roundabout way of getting to them.  Truth takes a walk in the field of analogy—why?  That’s what the disciples want to know later.  What does it mean? is the question they ask, but he understands the Why lurking below it.  Why talk in analogies?  Why teach by metaphor?

Fact is, the Kingdom is not about facts.  It’s not a series of propositions backed up by signs.  It is unexpected, secret, often woven so firmly among the threads of ordinary life it’s easy to overlook.  Jesus never tells epic stories of the Homeric or Gilgamesh mold—all his stories are about farmers and bankers and housewives, for such is the kingdom.  Some will see it, enter it, and flourish in it.  Most won’t.  “The secrets of the kingdom of God have been given for you to know”—but it seems a bit unfair.  Why us, and not them?  God knows.  And eventually, we will know.  Even they will know.  When the storyteller tells a story, ultimately the story is Him.

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Love and Forgiveness

One of the Pharisees asked [Jesus] to eat with him, and he went into the Pharisee’s house and took his place at the table.  And behold, a woman of the city, who was a sinner, when she learned that he was reclining at table in the Pharisee’s house, brought an alabaster flask of ointment . . . Luke 7:36-37

This is the Jesus both believers and unbelievers like: friend to sorrowful, put-upon women, ready to forgive a “sinner” who, truth be told, was probably more sinned against.  We think of her as young, pretty, ashamed, overcome.  But maybe she wasn’t.

Suppose she is past her prime, a bit worse for wear, brash, coarse, and unrepentant?  The kind of pushy, chip-on-her-shoulder sinner who likes to say, “You think you’re better than me?  I’ve seen the way you turn up your nose and gossip among yourselves.  Silly cows.  I could dish some dirt on your husband, sister—and yours, old lady.”  “Sinner” probably means prostitute; if she were a man it could have meant extortionist or crooked merchant or innkeeper, but women were as limited in their sins back then as they were in their choices.  The point is, her reputation precedes her into the Pharisee’s house, and no amount of fragrant oil will make it smell good.

She obviously knows Jesus by reputation.  Perhaps, passing by on ordinary business, she caught one of his impromptu sermons or was witness to a healing.  An intriguing man, no question.  Perhaps she arranges to go that way again.  And again.  This time she lingers, staying well back.

What draws her?  She’s seen the worst in people, and “sinners” tend to become cynical.  At first glance, or first hearing, this teacher may have seemed like another charlatan, or an innocent who hasn’t wised up yet—the world would get to him sooner or later.  But a second and third glance forces a revision: this man has something on the world.  He knows.  But knowledge hasn’t made him “knowing” in that cheap, battered way she recognizes so well.  Perhaps, as he was speaking his eyes met hers and she realized—with a shock—that his knowledge was not general but quite specific.

It’s bold, to go to Simon the Pharisee’s house.  But she’s known for boldness, as well as other things.  She’ll go veiled, like a servant of one of the guests, and with luck no one will recognize her.  As for the alabaster jar—that was a gift, one of her treasures, given when she was younger and somewhat dewier.  Something moves her to take it, perhaps offer it to him as some sort of appreciation gift.  She has noticed women traveling along with him, with no damage to their reputations—imagine that!  The rumor is that some of them are well-to-do and have provided traveling funds.  If he accepts money from them, he shouldn’t be too proud to accept a gift from her.  A gift for . . . what?  Hard to say, exactly.  She could tell him it was for helping so many sick people in her town, or for the strong, winged words she doesn’t quite understand.  Perhaps just for the moment when his eyes met hers.

Anyway, here she is among the other observers of the feast, veiled and silent, awaiting her moment and hoping she’ll recognize it.  Perhaps she’s practiced what she will say and plans to make her little presentation when the guests get ready to take their leave.

Here she is, right behind him as he reclines at the table, his feet stretched toward her.  How lucky is this?  She will wait and listen to the table talk, and her moment will come and . . .

Here she is.

Here she is.  And . . . he knows.

He doesn’t just know she’s there—he knows her.  All about her.  Realizing what he knows is like beating herself with a lash.  He knows about that time she . . . And that other time she cheated . . . And the time she went to her rival’s house and . . .

The calculation drops, as well as the maneuvering and advantaging: here she is, and she is a sinner, just as they all say.  The empty space between them fills up with her, with her sins and rationalizations, finally seen as they really are by someone who can no longer deceive herself.  Her head bows and a single tear falls on his feet.  Than another and another.

She is revealed; the veil is cast aside.

She is undone; her hair tumbles down.

She is broken, the alabaster jar cracks.

the-woman

This women, who confronted the world with a knowing smirk, is a blubbering mess.  These aren’t just decorous tears; it’s also snot and spit.  Having no towel, she mops it up with her unbound hair.  She’s making a scene, and in faintly aware of voices directed her way as other men’s feet jerk aside.  But not his.  He is perfectly still, as though her hysterical offering were proper and decent.  She hears his voice, speaking about her.  Then she hears it speaking to her.

The gift, as it turns out, is not really hers to give.  It’s all his, and it’s something she had not believed she could have:

Forgiveness.

And peace.

____________________________________

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Are You the One?

The disciples of John reported all these things to him.  And John, calling two of his disciples to him, sent them to the Lord, saying, “Are you the one who is to com, or shall we look for another?” (Luke 7:18-19)

Meanwhile, things haven’t been going well for John.  We already know (3:20) that he’s been locked up for preaching a little too close to home for the local authorities, and (holy as he is) it’s only human to have some doubts.

Envy has nothing to do with it.  He always knew that Messiah must increase.  But now he’s now sure the man he baptized and witnessed to is really the One.  Where’s the winnowing fork?  Where’s the ax laid to the root?  Where’s the fiery Holy-Spirit baptism?  Prison is not the problem, for John was prepared for anything.  Hang him up by his thumbs, roast him slowly over hot coals—no big deal as long as his message was true.  Get ready! Repent! Judgment is on its way with the Kingdom of Heaven close upon its heels!

But the reports he is hearing are not what he expected.John-in-prison

Messiah is making news, all right, but instead of judging people, he’s healing them.  The gist of his sermons is about loving your enemies and being like your Father in heaven.  Father?  And what’s all this about “Do not judge”?  John’s sermons were all about righteousness and the Kingdom and–yes, judging.  The righteous judgment of God was the whole point.  Languishing in Herod’s prison, his life hanging on the whims of a vindictive woman, John can’t take the ambiguity anymore.  He has to get an answer, even though Jesus might be angry.  Are you the one?  Or to put it another way, did I dedicate my life to cutting a path for you . . . for nothing?

The two disciples come back with some reassurance: Jesus wasn’t angry.  But he wasn’t a model of clarity either.  Imagine the conversation: “We stayed all afternoon and watched him heal people.  Scores of people—blind, cripples, lepers, demon-possessed.  He healed them all.  You should have heard the demons screaming as they gave up their grip!  In between, he talked.  Lots of people came just to listen to him.  He quoted that passage from Isaiah, the one about the Spirit of the Lord being on him and preaching good news to the poor.”

Good news, thinks John.  Not judgment, after all?

“He told us to tell you what we saw.  And one more thing: a message for you.”

“Yes?”

“He said, ‘Blessed is the one who takes no offense at me.”

Offense?! thinks John.  Was he taking offense?  No, he was just asking . . . or maybe . . . Well.

The prophet sitting in the dungeon, soon to lose his head, has no superior in the old order.  Elijah, Elisha, Isaiah—none are greater than he.  Yet this kingdom he preached was beyond even his comprehension.  The youngest child who finds a place in it is “greater” (in understanding, experience, love) than John.  Many, many years later, Jesus’s half-brother James would acknowledge this while writing to fellow believers: Elijah? Just a man, like you.  But he had no more access to the Father than you.  In fact, you have more.  You have a blood relationship, a living Spirit.

John, don’t be offended . . . The great message you delivered was vital and necessary, but only the half of it.

Elsewhere in Galilee, Jesus pauses in his healing and preaching to glance over at the ever-present peanut gallery: the scribes and Pharisees who, Luke informs us, rejected God’s plan for themselves.  They disapproved John, they disapprove Jesus: one a fanatic, possibly possessed; the other altogether too friendly with good food and wine and tax collectors.  The only religious figure who would satisfy them might be found by looking into a mirror.  Yet—“Wisdom is vindicated by all her children.”  The children, a motley rag-tag group for sure, are beginning to make themselves known.  In fact, well see one in the next chapter.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Arise!

Soon afterward he went to a town called Nain, and his disciples and a great crowd went with him.  As he drew near to the gate of the town, behold a man who had died was being carried out, the only son of his mother, and she a widow, and a considerable crowd from the town was with her.  Luke 7:11-12

Widows’ sons die every day.  If the mother is blessed by extended family, not to mention other sons, she the-widowwill at least have shelter and food in exchange for watching the children or grinding the grain.  If not, she will have to piece out a living on charity.  The pressing nature of What will I do? crushes every other concern, even proper grieving, so on top of all her other problems is the burden of guilt: she is forced to worry about her own life even while grieving for his.  Why could their fates not be reversed?  Better for all concerned to let her go, let him live—take a wife and raise his children and continue the family line, as is proper and fitting.  Sad and angry and worried, she follows the pitiful bier, having spent her last pennies for the bare minimum of a respectable funeral, with a few paid mourners and a drum.

Widows’ sons die every day, but this day would see a turnaround.  As two “considerable crowds” meet at the city gate—his followers and her mourners—it’s not the dead son but the weeping mother who catches his eye.  He raises a hand to stop the procession, and to her he says, “Don’t cry.”

It’s one of those statements that, from anyone else, would seem almost cruel, especially to the chief mourner.  What do you mean, ‘Don’t cry’?  I have every reason in the world to cry, and there’s nothing to be said about it.  Shut your mouth and cry with me, or just move along.

But if she knows who he is (the crowd of eager rubberneckers behind him might have given her a clue), she would stop crying, her tears caught in her throat.  He heals the sick but he can’t raise the dead.  Can he?  She knows her nation’s history, and remembers that Elijah, the greatest of prophets, raised a widow’s son: he stretched himself out on the boy’s lifeless body and cried aloud to Yahweh, three times.

Jesus puts his hand on the bier—really nothing but a plank carried by two men, signifying a poor man’s burial.  Who is on the bier?  A young man, that’s all we know.  Perhaps a pious dutiful son or a casual jokey son—his mother’s joy or exasperation, either one, equally dead.  And Jesus is speaking to a corpse.  “I tell you . . .”  Not crying aloud to the Blessed one, not placing mouth to mouth or heart to heart.  Imagine the thoughts racing through the observers, especially the religious elite:

I (Who does he think he is?)

Tell (Tell?! What words can get through dead ears into a dead brain?)

You (Who is this ‘you’? That’s just a–)

“ARISE!”

Death is a mystery, both then and now.  Some ancient cultures kept watch over the body for a certain number of hours in case the spirit returned to it (rumored to happen, though almost no one has actually seen this).  Wise men of all cultures debated this most-common phenomenon: Does the spirit stay with the body, or how soon does it go, or is there a spirit, and can it return?  In this particular case, all agree it’s not near-death that confronts Jesus at the gates of Nain—it’s death.  The body and the spirit have parted company.

Was the spirit lingering nearby, or was it speeding toward the afterworld?  In either case, the Son of Man’s voice darts out like a harpoon; with a word it captures the young man’s spirit and pulls it back to the lifeless body.

Arise: air surges into the stilled lungs; the flaccid chambers of the heart clench; a rush of blood to the brain revives its memories.  Suddenly awake, the young man feels a hand close on his, lift it and place it in the last hand he remembers as life left him: Mother.  All the busy little engines of his body, down to the last threadlike capillary and blood cell, charge back into operation.  The broken connection is restored.

And awe fell over everyone.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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