Tag: Gospel of Luke

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Teach Us to Pray

Now Jesus was praying in a certain place, and when he finished, one of his disciples said to him, “Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples. And he said to them, “When you pray, say . . .” Luke 11:1

Luke mentions Jesus’ prayer life more than any of the gospels. Jesus prayed continually, sometimes all night. This probably wasn’t unusual for a holy man; the Baptist was known for prayer as well, and it would have been natural for a holy man’s disciples to seek instruction on prayer from their mentor. How did John pray? What did he teach his disciples? And what about the prophets of old, or the revered rabbis between Old and New Testaments? Wouldn’t it be interesting to have a comparison of the ways they prayed, and pick and choose from the best?

Interesting, yes; instructive, probably not. There is no training on prayer in the Old Testament; only plentiful examples of, from Moses and David and Asaph and Solomon and nameless writers of the Psalms (also known as God’s prayer book). Our instruction waits for the Master himself, and we can be grateful to the disciple who asked. But even more grateful to Jesus for answering.

praying hands

This is his prayer. It’s not only what he asked, but what we should ask in imitation of him. As a godly mother or father takes their toddler’s hands and puts them together and frames the thoughts in the minds of their little one, imagine Jesus doing the same for his followers, who don’t realize how immature they are. And for us:

Father:

(One mind-blowing word to start with: no YWHW, no Blessed One, no El Shaddai or Yahweh Sabbaoth—just “Father.” He’s used that term a lot; perhaps they are used to it by now. But NO one in the old days referred to God that way. Jesus is the only one who has a right to, and now he is quietly, clearly, passing that right on to us.)

Hallowed be your name.

(Devout Jews would have been fully on board with this, but does it seem strange that “hallowed” follows directly after “Father”? Did the terms seem mutually exclusive to them? Probably not as much as to us, because this was, as the saying goes now, a “paternalistic society.” Fathers naturally got respect, whether or not they deserved it. But respect is not “hallowing.” Within a few words we are plunged into the paradox of a holy being infinitely removed from us, yet immanently near. Our God was always like this; a still, small voice in a consuming fire, who spun the universe out of love and is calling people into that love. “You will be my people and I will be your God” now condenses into one simple word: Father. But still hallowed, still vast and holy and so far above us that the only way to him is through the one who is now folding our hands to pray.)

Your Kingdom come.

(Yours, not ours. The disciples would have nodded happily at this because of the kind of kingdom they expected. They were in for a shock. And so are we, when our kingdom plans don’t match up with his.)

Give us each day our daily bread,

(Of course; this is the food prayer we are accustomed to making around the dinner table, and one the disciples would have been familiar with. But we seldom realize how deep it our need just for simple necessities.)

and forgive our sins—

(That one might have raised a few eyebrows: What, just by asking? No penance, no sacrifices, no rending of garments?)

—for we ourselves forgive everyone who is indebted to us.

(Wait—just like that? What happens to justice? Who pays the debt?)

And lead us not into temptation.

(That’s reasonable, for any honest man will admit to being tempted. The trouble is, they don’t always recognize temptation when they see it. And we don’t either.)

This way to pray would have caused some startled looks among them. But they probably didn’t catch, at the time, how revolutionary and re-orienting the prayer was. We have the opposite problem: from countless repetitions the payer has lost its potency for us. But it’s just as revolutionary. And re-orienting.

We may cheerfully agree that his Kingdom is not ours, even while building church kingdoms and family kingdoms and career kingdoms for ourselves. The gloss added by Matthew—Your will be done—implies our will is hereby dethroned.

We’ve given it up. We also given up he right to take credit for earning our bread, just as we can take no credit for the motion and maintenance of every cell in our bodies. And we can’t earn forgiveness either; it’s an unpayable debt that must be canceled, as we are required (not asked, but required) to cancel the petty debts owed to us. As for temptation, it lurks in even in the most hallowed places and stretches its jaws for us when we are feeling most pious. We are not the mature self-determining creatures of fond imagination; we are willful little children who continually need to be straightened out.

The good news is, he’s our Father. He’s more than willing to straighten us out, and desires more than any earthly father to give us good things. To give us the best: our daily bread, our daily pardon, and that kingdom he’s building.

Pray this prayer continually, and you will be reoriented.

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Distracted, Worried, Upset

Now as they went on their way, Jesus entered a village.  And a woman named Martha welcomed him into her house.            Luke 10:38

She has only herself to blame.  “You invited him,” her brother reminds her, leaning against the door frame.

“Yes, and . . . ?  Would you rather I didn’t?  Should I just take, take, take from him, like almost everybody in this town, and offer nothing in return?”

“Well . . .” her brother glances sideways into the center room where all the people are.  “You have a point.  Can I do anything?  Draw some water, or . . . pluck a chicken?”

“It’s not your job.  It’s that sister of ours.  You go do your host duties—has everyone had their feet washed?  Do we need more rushes on the floor?  Oh, and drop a word to her while you’re at it.  There’s plenty for her to do.”

An hour passes.  The bread is mixed and rising, dates are pitted, olives pressed, coriander seeded.  She sends the hired girl out with stuffed grape leaves to hold everyone over until dinner’s ready—late, of course—and keeps on working, with one ear open for appreciative comments from the common room.  Instead she hears nothing among the murmuring voices but kingdom talk.  Men!  Always nattering on about the future or the theoretical, and where would any of that be without the here and now and dinner on the table?  The grape leaves were an improvisation when it became clear that the meal was going to be delayed.  A few handfuls of leftover barley, some raisins, a touch of lemon and ground clove . . . not too bad, she thought.  But from the way they appeared to be shoveling them down with no break in the conversation, her appetizers might as well be grass.

“Is the lamb back from the butcher’s yet?  Then go get it!  Tell him you’ll wait—hurry him up!”  When she tries to start a fire in the outside grill, the flint refuses to spark.  Angrier with every scrape.  Mary’s the best fire-builder, no question.  It takes a certain mindlessness—or patience, to put the best light on it—to coax a flame from dry tinder.  Anxiety is not conducive.

The boy is back from the butcher’s with a bleeding haunch of lamb.  “Here—” she hurls the flint at him— “You light the fire!”

Brushing off her hands, beating them against her skirt, she stalks into the common room: right—smack—dab—into the center, where Jesus is holding forth among all those clueless men, with cow-eyed Mary as close as she can get, gazing up at him.

She checks herself at the last minute.  Rather than grab her sister by the cowl and drag her back to the kitchen, she steps up with a respectful, though exasperated, bow and a sideways nod to the startled assembly.

“Lord–as you see, we have many mouths to feed, and my sister has left me to do it all alone.  Please tell her to do her duty.”  And then, “Don’t you care?”

Did she say that?  Certainly she’s been thinking it.  He surely knows she’s been slaving in the kitchen all afternoon, and unlike his gaggle of self-important disciples, he surely knows why.  She’s angry with Mary, yes, but as he turns his eyes on her she recognizes the truth: she’s also angry with him.  Furious, in fact.  He knows everything, doesn’t he?  He sees the injustice, he feels the burden, and—

The fact is, he doesn’t care.

Not the way she would like him to.

“Martha!

“Martha . . .”

The first Martha gets her attention; the second beckons her to the inner circle, where Mary is—a circle by invitation only, but everyone is invited.  Everyone: not just the gifted or the brilliant, or the knowing ones, or the striving ones. But you can’t come bearing gifts—not even appetizers or condiments or a perfectly roasted rack of lamb.  Those are good things, but the Lord doesn’t care how you distinguish yourself.  But “Seek ye first . . .”  And after the lamb is devoured and forgotten, you’ll live on in the Kingdom.

martha

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The Neighbor Question

And behold, a lawyer stood up to put him to the test, saying, “Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?”            Luke 10:25

One of those “wise and learned” people, whom Jesus has just praised his Father for hiding things from, speaks up now.  The question, we’re told, is intended as a test—not necessarily to trip Jesus up, but perhaps to examine him on his teacher bona fides.  It may have been a question used in rabbinical school to qualify students for the next level: academic in nature. “What must I (or you, or anyone) do to inherit eternal life?”

Jesus refers to the law.  He always refers to the law (“I did not come to do away with it” (Matt. 5:17), because the law sketches a reality much broader than even its scholars suspect.  In the so called Sermon on the Mount, he broadens it by exposition.  Here, he uses a story—a story that has saturated the common vernacular so that everyone knows what a “good Samaritan” is, even if they’ve lost sight of the particulars or the origin.

Everyone knows, and the “go and do likewise” would be implied even if it wasn’t stated.  This is how we are supposed to act toward our fellow men, and a Unitarian could preach that message as heartily as a Fundamentalist.  An Evangelical could go a little deeper: This is how we express our love to God.  But deeper still: This is how God expressed his love for us.

Jesus, as rejected as any Samaritan, comes upon me lying by the roadside, beaten and robbed by the merciless bandit Sin.  Though the legalists and the hedonists have passed me by, he stops.  Coming down from his secure perch, he cleanses my wounds with oil and wine, covers me with his cloak of righteousness, carries me to a place of refuge, and entrusts his church with my care: “Provide her with companionship and encouragement and meaningful work until I come back.  I’ll make it up to you, and then some.”

Who is my neighbor?  Once we understand what our own Good Samaritan has done, we shouldn’t even have to ask the question.

good Samaritan

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The Advance Team

After this the Lord appointed seventy-two others and sent them on ahead of him, two by two, into every town and place where he himself was about to go.  And he said to them, “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few . . .”         Luke 10:1-2a

This enterprise isn’t just for a hand-picked inner circle.  Excitement is spreading through the ranks—he’s chosen a whole division to send out!  Seventy-two, to be exact (though some manuscripts give the number as seventy, like the seventy elders chosen by Moses).

Who are these ambassadors?  Young and unmarried, or older, with grown children?  They are not even specified as men—could women have been among them?  Not likely, but interesting to consider.  Their mission is more specific than that given to the twelve: they are to go to the towns where Jesus himself is headed on his way to Jerusalem, as a kind of advance team: scout the places that will receive him, cross off the places that won’t, heal the sick, and announce the coming kingdom–which they can say, with authority, is near.  Coming to your town!

They are so eager, pressing in to hear the instructions, exchanging glances with their journey-partners, clutching their travel bags (Oops!  He just said not to take a bag—where can I ditch this?).  Oh, the stories they’ll tell, the wonders they’ll do!  Don’t you love being the bearer of news, whether good or not so good?  This is that, in spades.  This is news of the epoch, the fulfillment of the ages, and we are in on it.

Suddenly his voice turns stark and sends a chill down their backs:

“Woe to you Chorazin!  Woe to you, Bethsaida!  And you, Capernaum–”

What’s he saying?  Those are towns that have seen his work—in fact Capernaum is where it all began.  Bethsaida is where he set out to walk across the water, and where, on a hillside a few hours’ walk from its walls, he fed the 5000.  Have these smug little Galilean towns grown blasé about it all, too casual perhaps, as though Jesus were their hometown boy who’s gotten a little above himself?  If you listen carefully, his claims do sound rather extravagant: “Whoever rejects you rejects me, and the one who rejects me rejects him who sent me.”  Meaning the Blessed One who is over all now and forever, amen.  That seems to put Jesus on overly familiar terms with God Himself, but then, God doesn’t seem to object.  So put that aside.  With anticipation, with eagerness, with that thrill that is equal parts fear—

Here we go!

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The seventy-two returned with joy, saying, “Lord, even the demons are subject to us in your name!”  And he said to them, “I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven . . .”       Luke 10:17-18

The troops return after their short-term mission trip, all bubbly with excitement.  You could say they were successful; in fact, they’re jumpy as kids: Master, you won’t believe–  Wait’ll you hear–  And then we said–  And the demon was like–  and the people all–  And all we had to do was drop your name . . . Like, wow!satan's fall

He’s got to be smiling.  Not at the news, because it’s not news to him.  Of course the demons submitted to you.  Of course they recognized my name.  Satan and I go way back: I saw him fall from heaven, as sudden and bright as a lightning flash.  He was doomed ages ago; don’t be afraid of him or his minions.  They are like snakes and scorpions to trample underfoot (says the One who will soon be bruised on the head).

But that’s not the most important thing.  That’s not what matters most.  Don’t get a big head over ordering screaming demons around, because the only reason you can do that is because there’s a book in heaven that includes your names.  My father has claimed you; you belong to Him, and any power he gives you is for his glory, not yours.

And that is reason enough for rejoicing—it’s the best.  Throwing back his head and spreading his arms wide, he laughs.  They are startled; he laughs even louder.

“This is so like you, King over all—to bypass the learned and the self-important, the posers and the dominators, and share your power with peasants.  It’s like the prophets predicted, like my mother and old Simeon saw: sending away the rich, welcoming the poor, turning nobodies into somebodies, upsetting the apple art—it’s so like you!  You’ve hidden your salvation from kings and shown it to shepherds on a hillside; withheld your Spirit from the learned and poured it out on the great unwashed.  So it pleases you, Father, and so it pleases me.”

Turning to his disciples, who may have looked a little stunned at this outburst, he smiles again: a gentle, companionable, welcoming smile.  “Do you know, have you any idea, how the prophets—Isaiah, Jonah, Elijah himself—longed to see this day?  Open your eyes and ears: it’s here.”

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Turning Point

When the days drew near for him to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem. And he sent messengers ahead of him, who went and entered a village of the Samaritans . . . But the people did not receive him, because his face was set toward Jerusalem.  Luke 9:51-53

“How long must I put up with you?”

The literal answer is, not very.  The days are coming to an end, rounding off to a period.  He sets his face (ESV) toward Jerusalem.  The NKJV adds “steadfastly.”  NIV: “resolutely set out.”  HCSB: “determined to journey.”  The sense of the Hebrew is something like “stiffened his face,” as if pushing against the force of a hurricane.  From now on, the narrative will be about this journey to Jerusalem and what happened there: a wandering teacher and his little band of disciples on their way to . .  . not change the world, but realign it.

road-to-Jerusalem

The world responds as it always does, in two basic ways.  First, outright opposition, as demonstrated in Samaria.  We don’t like you and we don’t like where you’re going; all Jerusalem-bound pilgrims need to choose another route.  Bible commentators comment on the socio-political backstory of the hostility between Jews and Samaritans, but there’s always a backstory.  My mama was a Christian fanatic, my dad was a drunk, my wife stole everything I had, God dealt me a rotten hand and I don’t need your Jesus.  Or perhaps: my life has been a dazzling success and I have everything anyone could want, so I don’t need your Jesus.  Go away.

He goes away, brushing aside the generous offer of the sons of Zebedee to call down fire on the transgressors.  That fire will be for next time—this isn’t the Judgment.

Then there are those who are attracted to him, but not enough.  They find something else that needs to be done first, whether family obligations, social duties, work or play.  They don’t get it—all those things can be accommodated if one first takes up residence in the Kingdom.  But half-baked plans to move there sometime won’t do.  All in, or all out.  That’s what he demands, and that’s what he is.  He has set his face, and will not look back until . . . Well, not ever.  Not. Ever.

(Neither will the twelve, though they don’t know it yet.  They don’t know they will scatter like sheep and despair of life itself, but they are all in because he called them, and he will see this through.)

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Clueless and Faithless

On the next day, when they had come down from the mountain, a great crowd met him.  And behold, a man from the crowd cried out, “Teacher, I beg you to look at my son, for he is my only child . . .”     Luke 9:37-38

Another day, another demon.  From the heights of clarity into the thicket of confusion.  Mark gives a lot more detail: as Jesus returns from the mountaintop he observes a crowd and a disturbance.  There’s an argument going on between scribes and disciples—who, when they see him coming, break off the dispute and run toward him.  They’ve attempted a healing and it failed.  The argument was probably about authority, and who has it (remember that Jesus had given them authority to cast out demons in 9:1, but this one defies them, giving the scribes an opportunity to say Aha!)  So apparently an act of mercy had degenerated to a theological dispute, with this boy and his poor father forgotten in the flying fur.

That may be why the father doesn’t wait his turn to speak, but blurts out an explanation: “A spirit seizes my child, and he suddenly cries out.  It convulses him to that he foams at the mouth, and shatters him—and I begged your disciples to cast it out, but they could not–”    Imagine his relief, after dealing with ineffectual disciples, to see the Master himself approaching.  Now he can finally get some action!  But that sense of euphoria comes crashing down—

“Oh unbelieving and rebellious generation!  How long must I put up with you?”  These are the harshest words Jesus ever said to a layman.  Mark indicates that a qualifier from the dad (“If you can do anything”) provokes this outburst.

Does the father deserve this?  His only child is getting worse—how many times will the boy be “shattered” by this demon before he falls apart?  Hearing that Jesus is nearby, the man packs up his son and hits the road–a daunting prospect in itself, since a major challenge posed by the demon-possessed is keeping them out of sight–only to find the Master is not available!  Not to worry, his followers say: He gave power to us; we can cast out demons as well.  An excruciating scene follows.  One by one, Andrew, Philip, Thomas, Judas—the boy’s father loses track of these names and turns out it doesn’t matter.  One by one, they give it a shot: “I command you to come out of him!”  But the evil spirit just laughs in their faces, that horrible, growling laugh coming out of his boy, more unnerving than the destructive fits.

The repeated attempts and failures draw attention, and now father and son are subjected to a doctrinal dispute, of which they are the object lesson but no longer the concern.  The boy sits in the middle of it all, twitchy and drooling, while his father would like the ground to just open up and swallow them, please.  For a moment his heart lifts when he hears the Master is coming.  In his eagerness and relief, he stammers out an explanation, and the master explodes.  Over three little words: If you can.  Really?  What did I say, and what’s touched him off, and how can I salvage this mess?

Unbelieving generation—faithless—rebellious—“Don’t you know all things are possible for him who believes?”

At this, the fear and frustration and failure of a hundred unbelieving generations burst out: “I do believe!  But please . . . help my unbelief!”

Help my unbelief

It would be nice to read that Jesus’ heart was moved and he looked on this poor father with compassion.  Maybe he did, but we don’t see that; only a curt, “Bring him here.”

The boy was left behind in all the excitement.  The demon within him, having enjoyed a very interesting morning, may be taking a break.  But as they drag the boy forward, the demon recognizes his worst nightmare and throws one last hurrah, writhing and convulsing at the Master’s feet.  One sharp command is all it takes: screeching, the evil presence departs for good.  After a long pause the boy sits up, in a crowded silence of unspoken echoes.

If you can—If—I asked them but—can’t do anything—If—If—

Faithless generation! is God’s own cry.  Remember the fury of Moses when he came down from his mountain?  This is a difference in degree, but not in essence.  The same skepticism that prompted a nation of ex-slaves to worship a golden calf is showing up in their descendants: why won’t they (why won’t we) just believe what God says?  Jesus has been talking with ancients on the mountain about what awaits him in Jerusalem.  That is because of this: the refusal of all generations to believe.  Oh yes, they can show faith when it benefits them, when there’s something in it for them.  But what will happen to their faith when the miracle worker obviously needs a miracle?

The boys are asking questions: Why? Why couldn’t we cast it out?  Because this kind of demon, he patiently (or not-so-patiently) explains, can only be driven out with prayer. Did you pray for power, or just assume you had it?  Thought so.  News flash: the power is not yours but God’s.  Can you remember that in the future?

Listen: things are going to get very complicated.  In fact, the Son of Man will soon be betrayed by sinners like you and delivered to the mercy of other sinners.  Get it?

No.  They did not understand.  It was hidden from them.  They couldn’t grasp it (9:45).

Oh, faithless generation!  If there was any other way to fix you, I would do it, but the very best among you is a child, driven by self-interest and operating on instinct.  I could drive out demons all day and still be left with unbelieving hearts.  What you need is a new heart: like a child’s in the best way, completely believing and trusting.  We can do that, but if you only knew the cost . . .

“Teacher, which of us is the greatest?”

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The Once and Future

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Real Messiah Project

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

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

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

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

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

Does it matter?

Infinitely.

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

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

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

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

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

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Daughters of Israel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

daughter

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

“Child, arise.”

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Alien Country

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

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

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

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

gerasene-demoniac

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

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

Come out, he says, with his eyes only.

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

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

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

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

“What is your name?” he sternly asks.

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

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

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

“Go,” he says.

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

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

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

For the original post in this series, go here.

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