Tag: Gospel of Luke

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On the Road

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

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

the-road

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

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

“But—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Daughter of Abraham

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

He’s still teaching in the synagogues.

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

bentoverwoman

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

“Woman!”

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

“You are free of your affliction.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the first post in this series, go here.

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News of the Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The end.

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

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

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

For the original post in this series, go here.

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The Fire Bringer

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

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

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

sunset

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because there will be a judgment.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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To Whom Much is Given

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the original post in this series, go here.

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The Father’s Delight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Rich toward God

In the meantime, when so many thousands of people had gathered together that they were trampling one another, he began to say to his disciples first, “Beware of the leaven of the Pharisees, which is hypocrisy.  Nothing is covered up that will not be revealed . . .”  Luke 12:1-2a

The crowd is becoming a mob: so many they’re pressing in on every side, even trampling each other.   It’s a friendly mob—for now.  A leadable mob.  How many tyrants before or since have played to just such a crowd, putting on shows of outrage or grievance to sway them?

That’s not how the Kingdom comes.  Fresh from outraging and grieving the Pharisees, Jesus isolates himself momentarily from the crowd, warning his friends that they are not immune from hypocrisy.  The Kingdom is not to be paraded as a show or gussied up in false piety.  They won’t get away with it if they try: There is nothing covered that won’t be uncovered, nothing hidden that won’t be made known.

As for the people, his fans (he’s still talking to the disciples): Don’t trust them.  And don’t fear them.  This may have sounded strange to his hearers—weren’t the people on their side?  Why is he talking about fear?  Look at these thousands: all he has to do is say the word and they’ll rush to arms!  They would mob Jerusalem, thrust Herod from his palace and the gushing Sadducees from the Temple, and put Jesus over both.  With a single word he could move them to the left or right; he’s in control.  Which means we’re in control.  But wait a minute–

“Fear Him who has the power to throw body and soul into hell.”

Perhaps he gestures downhill at the milling throng.  “All they can do is kill you.  He can curse you forever.  And he will.  They can be easily deceived; he never will be.  You can whisper a word in your closet, and he’ll shout that word from the rooftops.  He knows your plans before you do; you’ll never out-think him.”

They get it.  He’s not talking about the devil or some existential enemy: he’s talking about God Himself. This is sounding ominous–whom to fear, what to guard against, forgiveness withdrawn for blaspheming the Holy Spirit (whatever that means), standing up to authorities . . . So it’s not going to be unbroken triumph from now one?

And Jesus has been claiming to be God’s son—why does he talk as though God could be an enemy?  Even though each one of us is worth more than many sparrows.  (Well, that’s a comfort!  Er, how many sparrows, exactly?)

And what does he mean by whoever denies me before men?  Who would deny Jesus?  Look how many are vigorously affirming him, even to trampling on each other in their enthusiasm!  And this Holy Spirit he keeps talking about . . .

Oh, good: the private discourse is over.  Their heads are starting to hurt.  Back to the crowd, and some unambiguous, full-throated affirmation.

__________________________________________________

Someone in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me.”    But he said, “Man, who made me a judge or arbitrator over you?”  Luke 12:13-14

It stands to reason that, if Messiah can heal diseases, he can fix family disputes, too.  Especially if one side is clearly right and the other wrong.  “Lord, he’s not sharing.  Tell my brother he has to share.”  Who wouldn’t sympathize?  Who hasn’t been through a family wrangle over the will, or at least heard of relatives who are no longer speaking to each other after she got what dad clearly promised to him?

“Friend,” Jesus addresses him—though most translations use “Man,” a more distant form of address.  Or how about “Dude”?  We can imagine slight variations implied in each form:

Friend: (You’re not going to like my answer, but try to listen.)

Man: (Buck up, because I’m not going to answer your question.)

Dude: (What kind of question is that, anyway?)

There’s a name for people who sift out arguments and determine the best way forward, and that is Judge.  Jesus is not the judge.  It’s not his job to help people get along with each other or restore family harmony–in fact, as he’ll reveal later on, he may divide families.  Everyday virtues like sharing are secondary to the establishment of his Kingdom.

barns

And amassing wealth may be directly antithetical to it.  Possessions do not equal life.  He has a story about that: The land of a rich man produced plentifully, and he thought to himself, “What shall I do, for I have nowhere to store my crops.”  And he said, “I will do this: I will tear down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and all my goods.”  The man in his story is a type most of his hearers would consider virtuous and blessed.  Also prudent.  Didn’t Joseph build storehouses for the overflow of Egyptians harvests, in order to have enough during hard times?  You never know what will happen—in a world like this, it’s wise to be ready for anything.  And if famine comes, won’t he have enough to sell to his neighbors?  But while storing up his wheat and barley he also stores his heart.  That’s why God calls him

FOOL!

What a shock runs through the crowd!  This is the last person they would have labeled a fool; his actions are all the opposite of foolish.  Diligent husbandry, wise thrift, care for the future, enjoyment of a well-deserved reward—what’s wrong with any of that?

He’s rich from God, but not rich toward God.  Amassing wealth is not the problem; investing it is not the problem.  The problem is what amassing is for and what investing is in.  God has invested in this man’s life and received no return.  Therefore, the life is forfeit.

Do they get it?  Or is this one of those teachings that will eventually cause the wheels to come off the gospel bus and bring it to a screeching halt?

For the first post in this series, go here.

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The Ultimate Party Guest

While Jesus was speaking, a Pharisee asked him to dine with him, so he went in and reclined at table.  The Pharisee was astonished to see that he did not first wash before dinner . . .  Luke 11:37-38

When invited into the house of Simon the Pharisee a few chapters ago, Jesus was challenging but not confrontational.  Now he accepts the invitation of another Pharisee, who obviously doesn’t know what he’s let himself in for.

Why the invitation?  The Pharisee (we should call him something—let’s say Matthias) may be one of those muttering types, always in the background talking to his comrades behind his hand, disputing Jesus’s words or actions.  We can imagine some of those conversation: Did he really say he can forgive sins?  Certainly appeals to the great unwashed, doesn’t he?  Can you believe the ignorance of his followers?  A motley crew, that.  And just between us, I wouldn’t entirely rule out the Beelzebub connection . . .

Not to impugn the poor man’s motive, but—we can fairly assume he is not eager to hear and apply what Jesus said.  Perhaps the invitation is extended to get the man away from his adoring fans and settle once and for all some of the doctrinal questions his ministry raises.  Surround him with pundits and experts who won’t be impressed with his clever, crowd-pleasing answers.

If that was the intention, Jesus gets the jump on them.  Perhaps Matthias might have received a clue when his guest made an entrance, striding in with the ever-present twelve, bypassing the basin held by the towel-draped servant at the foot-washing stool, glancing about the banquet hall, choosing a place for himself, and settling in.

The muttering begins: Did you see that?  He doesn’t just come off the street—he brings it in with him!  Thinks he’s too good to wash?  Or is he showing off his common touch?Ancient-Wine-Cup

Jesus’ voice snaps like a whip. “You want to talk about washing?”  He reaches across the table to pick up an empty enameled cup (does Matthias wince at the dirt under his guest’s fingernails?)  “Look how meticulously you’ve cleaned the outside of the cup.  But inside–”  He runs a finger around the rim and inspects it critically—“full of greed and evil.  The widow you took this cup from in payment of a debt—why did you not consider canceling the debt instead?  You pinch out your tithe of mint and dill but strangle justice and love.  I ask you, what is the tithing for?”

An angry buzz begins, spreading throughout the room.  If nothing else, Jesus is displaying a severe breach of decorum, as he sits up and waves a hand at the head of the table, which the self-important guests have claimed.  “Woe to you, Pharisees!  You love those places of honor and salutations in the marketplace.  Little do the common people know you are walking over dead men’s bones!”

Now, really: this has gone far enough.  One of the scribes stands up and points a finger at him.  “Teacher.  When you say these things you insult us, too.”

Is there a glint in his eye?  “Do I?  Then let us remove all doubt: Woe to you scribes!  You know enough law to make it a burden—you load the people down with rules that you yourselves wouldn’t accept.  You sit in your synagogues and figure out ways to look pious.  You have buried the heart and purpose of the law, so it’s no benefit to you or anyone else.”

They are all on their feet by now, shouting, waiving arms, shaking fists.  The twelve are giving it right back when Jesus rises, shakes his head at them, smiles at a serving girl while lifting a fig off her tray, and leads the way out.  He’s left his host and the others tied in knots, and from now on there will be no pretense at reaching a compromise.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Jesus’ Mother’s Day Sermon

As he said these things, a woman in the crowd raised her voice and said to him, “Blessed is the womb that bore you, and the breasts at which you nursed!”  Luke 11:27

A random voice calls out a blessing on his mother.  What was behind it?  Perhaps it was totally heartfelt and spontaneous: a woman lays hold on womanhood, goes back to Eve the mother of all living and drags her forward as some sort of honored consort or partner to Messiah.  Or this might be a customary blessing among women for a favored son.  Or maybe she’s looking for a way to distinguish herself and attract his attention (full disclosure: that would be my motivation).  There’s nothing wrong with her—no malady or affliction to catch his eye or attract his touch, but there’s something about him that opens people up, especially—perhaps—women.  None of that fierce, forbidding air that keeps them at arm’s length from the prophets or rabbis.  For whatever reason—probably a mix of them—she cries out.mother's-day

Whatever she expected, his response is not it.  “Blessed rather are those who hear the word of God and keep it!”  This is not a put-down; it’s a correction.  He does not deny his mother’s blessedness, spoken by her cousin Elizabeth (1:42), but he shows it’s beside the point.  Motherhood, fatherhood, family tranquility, child training and childlike love, all are beautiful things.  But they are not primary things, or stand-alone things.  Mother’s day is subordinate to Pentecost, and enjoying God’s order is secondary to hearing and doing his word.

It’s not a pink carnation.  But carnations don’t last long anyway.

Along about now, a subtle shift occurs.  His teaching, always a challenge to the listeners, is taking on an edge: “This is an evil generation.  It demands a sign”—harking back to 11:16, where some stubborn individuals were demanding a confirmation from heaven even as Jesus was driving out a demon on earth.  His word should be enough—pagans in Nineveh, the world’s most wicked city at the time, recognized the word when it came to them.  The Queen of Sheba understood where Solomon’s wisdom came from.  But this generation is privileged to have One greater than Jonah, Solomon, Elijah, even Moses standing before them, and they don’t recognize him.  (He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him, John 1:11.)

But do we?  He says “something greater,” not “someone greater.”  The “thing” must be the kingdom, heralded by signs and manifested in words.  We recognize the One but not always the Thing—that is the lordship, the authority, the demands, the rewards, the response, the life that man and his kingdom demand of us.  It’s all wrapped up in him, but it requires everything from us.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Prince of Demons?

Now he was casting out a demon that was mute.  When the demon had gone out, the mute man spoke, and the people marveled.  But some of them said, “He casts out demons by Beezebul, the Prince of Demons.”  Luke 11:14015

Most of the demons Jesus has encountered have been obnoxiously talky, but this one is mute. Not only that, but it has bounds its host with muteness, so neither of them can hail Jesus as the Son of the Blessed One or beg him to go away.  So it was a quiet exorcism, as these things go, but the observers are duly amazed.  But there’s always a skeptic in the crowd—this time not identified as scribes or Pharisees, so they may just have been run-of-the-mill village atheists.  Wherever these observers are coming from, their observation is profoundly stupid: “Well, suppose he’s in league with the demons?  Ever thought of that?  He could be getting his power from Beelzebul!”

Logic-choppers usually forget there are real issues at stake.  And conspiracy theorists get so lost in their thickets of conjecture they lose sight of good sense altogether. Jesus is following the convoluted unreason in their heads and in their whispered conversation and knows it for what it is: not rational but rationalizing.  It doesn’t deserve a response (in my opinion), but he responds anyway.  Look, people:

Satan is not a myth or an abstract concept—he’s the enemy.  Possession isn’t a trick or a parlor game to him—it’s a battle tactic.  He’s in this to win.  But so am I.House Divided

A house, a family, a kingdom divided against itself cannot stand–correct?  Now, think: if a commander divides his troops and orders them to fight each other, how long will he last?  Let’s rule out that option, shall we?  And if we do, what’s left?

The kingdom of God has come upon you.

God’s counteraction has rushed upon this world and its uneasy, illegitimate ruler (Satan) and threatens to unseat him.  The invading kingdom is rattling the bars and picking the lock, and Satan—Beelzebub—looks a great deal less masterful than he did.  He clutches his most cherished weapon—death—upon his throne of human skulls, and waits for his opportunity to use it.  This is reality, people: The kingdom is upon you.

But—

Perhaps he turns to the formerly-possessed man, whose pent-up words are pouring out to his wife and children and neighbors.  Feeling that gaze, the man falls silent.

“When the unclean spirit has gone out of a person, it passes through waterless places seeking rest, and finding none it says, ‘I will return to my house from which I came’ . . .  The demons are defeated, but not destroyed.  It’s still around, that spirit who once dominated you, who squatted in your mind and held your tongue.  Do not suppose your soul is your own.  If the spirit of muteness is banished, you are subject to a spirit of excess.  If by God’s grace you have overcome addiction, you may fall victim to pride.  A house is made to be occupied; you can’t clean it up and keep it for a showplace.  Your locks and deadbolts are nothing to the spirit world; if God does not reign in your heart, Satan will.  Whether you recognize him, or not.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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