Tag: Gospel of Luke

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Ten for Ten

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

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

“There was a man . . .”ten-minas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Little Man

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

Loser.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sycamore-tree-pano

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, the Master sees him.

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What It Takes to See

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

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

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

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

They did not understand.

His words made no sense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Young, Rich, and Rootless

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

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

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

“Well . . .”

“What is your question?”

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

rich young ruler

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except the first one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Kingdom Coming

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What other option do you have?”

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On the Border

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10 lepers

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

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

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The Two Masters

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

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

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

dishonest steward

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you coming?”

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

Are you coming . . . in?

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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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