Tag: Gospel of Luke

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From His Own Mouth

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

It has been a long night.  Everyone is exhausted.

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

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

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

* * * * * * * * * * *

Sanhedrin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Lord, Look at Me

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

The deed is done, the words said—

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

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

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

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

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

even to death.”  And you said—

And you turned—

And you looked—

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

That pins me to me, and to you,

That burnishes the bond between us,

That lets me know you will never let go.

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

Oh Jesus, please look at me.

remorse

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The Devil’s Sifter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

rooster

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

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

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

 

*John includes this detail in his own gospel account.

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Time Closes In

And he came out and went, as was his custom, to the Mount of Olives, and the disciples followed him.  Luke 22:39

He leads the way back toward their camping place on the Mount of Olives, but then turns aside in the little valley between the outer wall of Jerusalem and the crown of the hill called Gethsemane.  “Stay here for a while,” he tells them, adding this strange instruction.  “Pray that you may not be put to the test.”  Then he walks on alone—they know not to follow—and darkness obscures him.

gethsemane

For a moment, no one knows what to say.  “Well,” Peter remarks at last, “That was strange.”

“Remember what he taught us to pray,” John says: “’Lead us not into temptation?’  Big things are about to happen, and we must be ready.”

“All right then.”  Peter takes the lead, as usual.  Spreading his hands, he looks up to heaven, closes his eyes, and speaks in the singsong lilt of a cantor in the synagogue, “O most high and exalted God, the Blessed One of Israel, hear our prayer!  Keep temptation from us and let us . . . let us walk always in the way of our Master, the Messiah who comes from you.  And train our hands for battle that we may bend a bow of bronze and triumph over our enemies.  The LORD is my strength and song, and he had become my salvation! Amen.”

“Talk about making a show of your prayers,” teases his brother Andrew.

“As fine as any Pharisee!” laughs James.

“He didn’t even look at our swords,” Simon yawns.

The yawn spreads like fog through their ranks; it had been a long day.  “We should take turns praying,” John suggests, as he squirms out a more comfortable place for himself against a rock.  “Who wants to be next?”

After a pause, Bartholomew speaks up: he who hardly ever says anything.  “I will.”  His droning voice puts some of them to sleep, and when it ends John give a little start: oh, my turn.  He begins, but loses his train of thought a few times and fills in the gaps with holy words.

One by one they drift away under the stars.  Satan haunts them—and taunts them—

Deliver us from evil.

They are put to the test, but since they never took his harder sayings very seriously before, they are ill-prepared to resist now.  Only one or two, before losing consciousness, thinks to wonder, Hey—where’s Judas?

* * * * * * * * * * *

Meanwhile, only about a stone’s throw away, the Son of Man rises unsteadily to his feet.  He wipes his forehead with a corner of his cloak.

It comes away bloody.

We suddenly realize: we have never observed him at prayer before.  He prays all the time—hours every day—but this is the only private prayer we are privileged to hear, and it’s deeply disturbing.  There has never been a clash of wills between these two, and indeed, this is not exactly a clash.  But it’s a conflict, an offsetting, where two wills don’t quite line up together.  What has he been asking?  If you will, do not pour out your cup of wrath on me.  Over eons of time that cup has been poised and ready: “the wine foams . . . surely all the wicked of the earth must drain and drink down its dregs . . .”* Ps. 75:8  All the wicked of the earth crowd around him and pull him away from his Father; the separation has begun, and so has the bleeding.  It’s blood from a torn heart.  Nevertheless:

“Not my will, but yours . . . .”

(Here I am—the one the prophets wrote about—I have come to do your will, O God.**)

The bright-faced boy in the temple, the emaciated Son in the wilderness, the Teacher at the well, rejoicing in unknown food, the Anointed One who has resolutely set his face toward Jerusalem—all meet here, where the paths of justice and mercy cross.  A mighty heart clenches and wrings out blood, a mighty mind recoils then returns.  Once again the wills line up, but it takes every ounce of strength Messiah has.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Standing, he goes to seek out his disciples.  He’s not surprised to find them sleeping, nor to see the distant flicker or torches emerging from the eastern gate: distant, but ever closer.  He nudges the nearest sleeping body.  “Get up.  You wasted your time in sleep when you could have been in prayer.”  One by one, they sit up and rub their eyes, pushing themselves off the ground.  “Temptation is coming—in fact, it’s almost upon us.”

The rattling of swords and hiss of resin torches is upon them: a detachment of the temple guard together with a few servants, led by . . .  It is all too much to take in at first: in a daze, the followers see Judas approach and kiss their master on the cheek—a common greeting after a brief separation, but with a sinister taint they can smell from yards away.  Then a scuffle; swords flash in the torchlight; Peter seizes a blade from Simon and leaps forward with an earnest, unpracticed swipe.

Shouting, scuffling—a scream as one of the servants clutches the side of his head.  Above the din, one clear, authoritative voice:

“No more of this!”

In the fraught silence the Master bends down and picks up a scrap of flesh from the ground: an ear.  Taking a step toward the sobbing slave he touches the man’s shoulder to steady him, then matches the ear to his bleeding wound.  Torn tissues and veins leap at his touch, eagerly knit themselves back together: Let it be.  The Master lightly traces the rim of the ear as though pleased with his own work, before turning to the stunned guards.

“Geared up for battle, are you?  As though I were a violent criminal?  You could have taken me yesterday, or the day before, while I was teaching in the temple courts, but I see you had to wait for your dark time.”

He walks toward them, holding out his hands.  Abruptly remembering what they have come for, leap forward, tie his hands and hustle him away, ignoring the followers who remain behind in shocked silence.

After a moment, Peter casts a furious glance around him, drops the sword, and hurries after the flickering torches.  John hesitates, then follows.  The others, now in near-total darkness, scatter—almost as if they had planned it ahead of time.  It is a plan, but not theirs.*  All they know is stark terror.  Only Judas is left—the only one who has nothing to fear, and yet has never felt more fearful.

He never looked at me!  Not once, even when speaking to me.  Why didn’t he look?

 

*Strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered. Zech. 13:7

** Heb. 10:9

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Setting the Table

Then came the day of Unleavened Bread, on which the Passover lamb had to be sacrificed.  So Jesus sent Peter and John, saying, “Go and prepare the Passover for us, that we may eat it.”  Luke 22:7-8      

The next day was Passover and no plans have been made.  Or so it seems.  While they are still on the mountain, yawning and stretching, the Master sends Peter and John into the city with instructions to follow a man carrying a jar of water on his head, who would lead them to a house with a room to spare.

Of course, it all falls out as he said.  While following the man with the jar, Peter and John glance at each other and smile; such predictions no longer surprise them.  They secure the room, a furnished upstairs chamber big enough for all thirteen of them, and spend the rest of the morning at the market.  They take particular care with choosing the lamb, as all good Jewish men do, feeling all over for lumps and scars.  Finally Peter says, “He’ll do,” and hands over the purchase price.  The lamb is led away to slaughter.

The time is drawing near.  They can feel it.

The whole city feels it, perhaps—or at any rate, there seems to be more than a Passover hush slowly stealing over it as sunset approaches.  A band of turquoise light shimmers on the western hills.  Families gather, pilgrims find their furnished rooms, lighted windows blink on in the darkening streets.  Familiar scriptures and responses ride the soft wind:

Why is this night unlike other nights?

Youngest sons ask their fathers and fathers give the prescribed answers: hopefully, longingly, routinely, tiredly, as each is inclined.  But in some of those houses, at least, there’s a heightened anticipation in the familiar words: the Kingdom is coming.  Messiah is here!

In the upstairs room, every required detail of the feast is followed to the letter as the Master takes over the function of family head.  Does the youngest disciple ask the questions?  Probably, though later they won’t remember the details, even though this meal is the last of the old order.  What they will remember is his declaration:

“I’ve longed to eat this meal with you before I suffer.  I will not eat it again until it’s fulfilled in the Kingdom.”

They hear “Kingdom” loud and clear.  “Fulfilled in the Kingdom” at last!  The other part—“before I suffer”—goes over their heads.  As usual.

But then he says something truly surprising.  Picking up the unleavened bread, made ceremoniously in a kitchen purged of yeast, he says, “This is my body, given for you.  Do this in remembrance of me.”

(This is a radical departure from the ritual; what next?)

Picking up his cup, he said, “This is the new covenant, sealed by my blood . . .”

(Blood?)

cup

“. . . and I see the hand of my betrayer on the table.  Woe to the man who brings about my predetermined death.”

Judas snatches his hand off the table, his face blazing.  How does Jesus know?  But of course he would; how had Judas ever imagined otherwise?  He casts out demons by the prince of demons, correct?  And by the prince of demons he divines the future.  Every other hand remains on the table; as the followers stare stupidly at each other.  One of them snaps, “Don’t look at me—I wouldn’t do such a thing!”  One by one they begin to argue over supposed accusations.

The room is entirely in shadow but for splashes of lamplight.  Judas glances toward the head of the table.  The Master’s face is turned away.  Maybe he doesn’t know who, only what.  Anyway, this is as good a time as any, now that the meal is almost done.  He made a deal; now it’s time to deliver.  In the dark, he slips away.

Meanwhile the argument among the disciples has shifted, as it often does, to determining which of them will be most prominent in the coming kingdom.  Matthew touts his administrative skills, Peter sets himself forth as a natural leader, Simon the Zealot cites his experience as a point man, James and John (who have already done some not-so-subtle politicking for places of honor*), quietly lean in on the left and the right,.  All, it seem, have an opinion of what will be needed and his unique ability to supply.

“Enough!”  The Master slams his cup on the table, cutting off the debate.  “You talk like Romans, with all their elaborate authority structures.  All of you wish to be masters and lords.  Gentiles do that—they lord it over the underlings while pretending to be their benefactors.  Listen to me: you shall not be like them.”

The followers maintain a sulky silence as the women come in to clear the table.  Swift and silent as shadows, these women have become so familiar as to be almost invisible.  They have followed all the way from Galilee, providing food, washing clothes, risking their reputations for the privilege of serving the Master.  Mary, and Salome, Joanna—always near, listening, absorbing, anticipating needs before they are spoken.  His eyes follow them out of the room.

“So who is the greatest?” he asks: “the one who sits at the head of the table, or the one who serves?  Surely, you would say, the one at the head of the table!  And yet, my mission is to serve.  Don’t worry—you’ve not come all this way with me for nothing.  You will receive your kingdom after I receive mine.  As we sit around this table now, so I will one day welcome you to a royal throne.  In fact—can you see yourselves on twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel?”

At this, each man perks up and adjusts his tunic, entertaining the same picture of a great hall—perhaps in Herod’s own palace!–dressed in understated finery while the nation comes before them (including every Pharisee who once looked down his haughty nose and every tax collector who stuffed his purse at their expense).

“But watch out–” the Master says.

Turning his head toward Peter, he speaks in a peculiar tone that doesn’t quite sound like him, “Simon!  Simon, you should know that Satan has asked to sift you all like wheat.”

What now?  His words have been tugging them like a shifting wind, first one direction and then another.  Again they look at each other, each assessing the weaknesses everywhere except in himself, as the Master goes on:

“But I have prayed especially for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail.  And when you have recovered, encourage your brothers.”

Ah.  Peter figures it out.  The Master is in one of his cryptic moods, where he likes to throw things a little off balance to see if they’re paying attention.  This is some kind of test, but the response almost makes itself:  “Lord, I am ready to follow you anywhere, whether it be to prison—or even to death.”

“Really? The truth is somewhat otherwise: before the rooster crows tonight you will deny, three times, that you even know me.”

Peter’s openmouthed protest doesn’t make it past his lips.  Unlike some of his master’s prophesies, This one is uncomfortably specific.  Turning to the other disciples, Jesus is now saying, “Remember when I sent you out among the towns last year, and told you to take no provisions?  Did you lack anything?”

They shake their heads, recalling the generosity of those households where they brought the god news: “Not a thing.”  “They treated us like royalty!” “We received the best every household had to offer.”

”That won’t always be the case from now on,” he replies.  “A time is coming when you won’t always be received as heroes.  You would do well to provide for yourselves wherever you go—even, if need be, sell your extra cloak to buy a sword.”

Simon the Zealot glances at Thomas.  Their eyes light up—finally, the moment has arrived!  At a slight nod from his partner, Simon springs to his feet and runs to a corner of the room where their supplies are piled up.  Rummaging among his equipment he pulls out something with a metallic clang.  “Look, Lord! Two swords, at your service!”

In the darkness it’s hard to judge the Master’s expression, but his voice is full: sadness, hesitation, irony, perhaps even a touch of laughter.  “That’s more than sufficient,” he says.  “And now it’s time to go.

“It’s time . . .”

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The Deal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Watch Out

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

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

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

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s mad.

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

But he will. And . . .

So will the rest of us.

Oh.

Will we be accountable too?

Why not?

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

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

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

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

Look at me.

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

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

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

 

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

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

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Beautiful Stones

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

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

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

“What massive buildings!” exclaims another.

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

Jerusalem-the-golden

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

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

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

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

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

(But Lord, where will you be?)

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

(But Lord, what about your Kingdom?)

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

(But Lord . . . )

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

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

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

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

*Psalm 48:2

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Here Come the Grooms

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The 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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