Tag: life of Jesus

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Watch Out

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

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

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

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s mad.

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

But he will. And . . .

So will the rest of us.

Oh.

Will we be accountable too?

Why not?

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

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

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

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

Look at me.

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

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

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

 

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

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

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Beautiful Stones

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

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

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

“What massive buildings!” exclaims another.

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

Jerusalem-the-golden

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

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

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

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

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

(But Lord, where will you be?)

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

(But Lord, what about your Kingdom?)

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

(But Lord . . . )

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

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

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

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

*Psalm 48:2

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Here Come the Grooms

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The New Song of the Vineyard

And he began to tell the people this parable: “A man planted a vineyard and let it out to tenants and went into another country for a long while . . . Luke 10:9

vineyard

He’s raised his voice just loud enough for them to hear—the delegation of elders, chief priests, scribes.  Almost as if they can’t help themselves, they turn to listen.

The story is simple: a man plants a vineyard.  He rents it out and leaves the province to attend to matters elsewhere.  It’s an arrangement not unknown among priests and the Levites who  own land outside of Jerusalem entrust their fields to local farmers while they tend to their duties in the city.

“When the time came, he sent a servant to the vineyard to collect his share of the produce.  But the tenants beat the servant and sent him away empty-handed. He sent another servant, and another after that.  But in every case, the tenants treated the owner’s servants shamefully, and sent them away with nothing.”

What a way for tenants to behave!  How would they expect to get away with that?  Some of the teacher’s stories make sense, but this one is completely outside human reasoning.

“Then the owner of the vineyard said, ‘What shall I do?  I will send my only son; perhaps they will respect him.’  But when the tenants saw him, they said to themselves, ‘This is the heir: Let us kill him, to the inheritance may be ours.’  And they threw him out of the vineyard and killed him.  What should the owner of the vineyard do then?”

Listening hard, the elders, priests, scribes and Pharisees begin to suspect a trap.  There he goes again, speaking of a father and a son (my Father; my house); is he implying that they are the spiteful tenants?

And speaking of vineyards, it’s almost impossible for the learned among them to block out a passage of scripture.  It steals upon them unbidden, a song of supreme disappointment:

I will sing about the one I love, a song of my beloved’s vineyard;

My beloved had a vineyard on a very fertile hill.

He broke up the soil, cleared it of stones, and planted it with the finest vines . . .  (Isaiah 5:1-3)

Yahweh expected good grapes from them and got worthless grapes.  But that was in the old days, when Israel practiced the most blatant idolatry and refused to learn the lessons their God continually tried to teach them.  It led to exile—they lost everything and had to sojourn in a foreign land before Yahweh allowed them to come home again.  Lesson learned: now they were a people obedient to the law—rigorously, relentlessly.  No idols in the temple, no wild orgies to Astarte, no high places sanctified to Baal.  They are better than their ancestors.  Do you hear that, Jesus of Nazareth?  Better.

No better, he seems to be saying.  For, what should the owner do?  “He will come and destroy those tenants and give the vineyard to others.”

“Surely not!” a voice among the scribes cries out.  At least some of them have no doubts at all: this parable is against them.

And so is the teacher.  He is looking directly at them, now; no pretense of speaking only to his closest followers.  “You don’t think so?  Do you recall the psalm which testifies,

The stone the builders rejected

Has become the cornerstone?*

Of course they do.  And they know how it continues: This is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes.

The teacher continues, “Everyone who falls on that stone will be broken to pieces, and when it falls on anyone, it will crush him.”

This is intolerable.  No longer is it “my” (as in my house, my Father)—now it’s me.  For what else does he mean by this “cornerstone,” except himself?  Like a stone he stands among them now, like the massive building blocks that still lie around the temple complex, rejected by the builders for some imperfection, but too much trouble to move.  Careless pedestrians have tripped and broken bones over them, and unfortunate souls have been crushed to pulp when they came between a slipping stone and a faulty pulley.

That’s the obvious object lesson.  But who would do such a foolish thing as to reject the Lord’s clearly anointed Messiah?

The chief priests, scribes, and Pharisees, now looking on with stony faces.

The fans, the crowds, who have set their hearts on their own expectations,

Even the disciples, the inner circle, who don’t suspect how shallow their loyalty really is.

“You’ve walked over it, around it, past it, but now it lies in the middle of your path.  It won’t move; if you fall on it you’ll be broken, but if it falls on you you’ll be crushed.”

The only thing to do, it seems, is climb up on it and take a stand.

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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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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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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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For the original post in this series, go here.

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What Kind of Father Is This?

And he said, “There was a man who had two sons . . .”  Luke 15:11

The evening thickens as the day’s yellow sun slides into the horizon and balances there for a long moment, its rounded edge slowly melting into the hills.  How many days have passed since this story was first told, how many ears have heard it since?  And how many lost sons, on the dusty road or snug at home, have come to themselves under its quiet steady gaze?  It’s been a long time, and many tellings, but let’s try to hear it as the first listeners might have.  If they have been with him a while, they know the slightly higher, quicker pitch of his voice as it slides in to one of his stories.  The disciples lean in, the villagers lean out, and the way each one hears reveals more about the person than he or she might care to show:

. . . The younger of them said to his father, “Father, give me a share of the estate I have coming to me.”

–What? You mean before the old man is even dead?  That’s bold.  Wonder if I would have the nerve to . . .

–Disgraceful!  What kind of son would make such a request?  The father ought to–

So he distributed the assets to them.

–?!?!?!?

–Shocking!  What kind of father would agree to such a request?  The other son ought to—

Not many days later, the younger son gathered together all he had, and traveled to a distant country, where he squandered his estate in foolish living.

–Of course he did.  Brainless twit.

–What would I do with a fortune?  Go someplace where no one knew me and . . . invest it?  Probably intend to.  But if there’s a party that night, and new friends to impress, and women . . .

–I know that type.  Fresh faces off the farm, burning to stuff a year’s worth of iniquity into a single night, and pretend they’re the first to conquer me . . .

–Hm.  If I got the other half of that inheritance, I’d put it in the bank and start looking for a nice piece of property.  But I know what’s going to happen to this fool . . .

After he had spent everything, a severe famine struck that country, and he had nothing.

–Right.

He went to work for one of the citizens of that country, who sent him into his field to fed the pigs.

–Ew!  Filthy, disgusting creatures—and yet too good for him.

He longed to gobble up the dry pods the pigs were eating, but no one would give him even that.

–Ha.  Just what he deserves.

When he came to his senses, he said, “How many of my father’s hired hands have more than enough food, and here I am dying of hunger!  I’ll get up, go to my father and say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and in your sight.  I’m no longer worthy to be called your son.  Make me one of your hired hands.’”

–A nice little speech.  But it’s just words.

–What if I told my father something like that?  How would he take it, especially if I meant it?  Would I mean it?

–Poor silly boy.  But he’s hurt the old man deeply—slapped him in the face.  I don’t know if I could ever forgive that.

So he got up and went to his father.

–Oh yes, and it seems to me dear old Abba has some repenting to do as well.  The boy isn’t the only foolish one in this story . . .

But while the son was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion.  He ran—

–?!?!?!?!?

–threw his arms around his neck, and kissed him.

–What!  He ran, the old fool?!  The soft-headed, muddle-brained, sentimental—

–Filled with compassion.  Filled with compassion.  Compassion.  As a father pities his children, so the Lord pities those who fear him, for he knows their frame, that they are dust.  Compassion, compassion . . .

–Can it be?

–Wait.  What father is like this?

prodigal-son

The son said to him (between the kisses), “Father, I have sinned against heaven and in your sight.  I am no longer worthy to be called your–” 

“Quick!” his father called to the servants.  “Bring out the best robe and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his poor bleeding feet.  Then bring the fattened calf and slaughter it, and let’s celebrate with a feast, because this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!”  So they began to celebrate.

–Oh, I get it.  The father is the real fool.  Like father, like son; I see it now.  The old man will get his lesson too.  Maybe from the other son—we haven’t heard from him yet . . .

–Insanity!  So wrong!  The boy must pay, or justice flies right out the window!

–Too much, too much.  No father behaves this way.  If only mine would . . .

–I’m totally lost.

–I’m lost.  Yes, that’s me.  Can I be found?

Now, his older brother was in the field . . .

–Aha!  I knew he’d make an appearance.  Now we’ll hear some good sense.

. . . as he came near the house he heard music and dancing.  So he summoned one of the servants and asked what these things meant.  “Your brother is here,” he told him, “and your father has slaughtered the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound.”

–Boiling.  I’m just boiling.  To come in from the field after working all day in the hot sun, to find everyone else has been putting together a party—to welcome my lazy, disrespectful, ungrateful, frivolous—

Then he became angry and didn’t want to go in.

–Quite right, too.  Anyone would be.  Now we’ll see justice done.

So his father came out and pleaded with him.

–Seems to me this dotty old man should apologize to him.

–But . . . it’s the father’s house and property, after all.  Can’t he do wait he wants with his own stuff?  Does the brother really have a right to be angry?  He sounds a little like Cain.  Only, of course, his little brother is no Abel . . .

–Pleaded with him.  Pleaded with him.  What father is like this?

But he replied to his father, “Look, old man–”

–Ooh.  Not very respectful is he?  Well, chalk it up to righteous anger.

“I have been slaving for you all these years, and I have never disobeyed your orders . . .

–Exactly. Obedient.  Blameless.

–Orders?  It’s a family, not a military camp.

. . . yet you never gave me so much as a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends.

–Did he ever ask?  I wonder.

–Wait a minute: is this envy?  You’re supposed to speaking up for righteousness, young scion.  It’s not all about you.

“But when this son of yours came . . .”

–Er, your brother too.  Part of the family and all.  I wonder if the good boy had a part in making the bad boy what he was?

“. . . who has devoured your assets with prostitutes . . .”

–Yes!  Drive it home!

“. . . you slaughtered the calf for him.”

–Your turn, old man.  Too proud to apologize?

“Son,” he said to him, “you are always with me, and everything I have is yours.”

–Oh.  Well, I guess that’s true.

“But we had to celebrate, because this brother of yours was dead, and is alive again.  He was lost and is found”

* * * * * * * * * * *

It’s almost dark now.  The Master’s voice falls silent.

–Is . . . is that all?

–How does it end?  Does the elder brother go in and enjoy the party?  Has the younger brother really learned his lesson?  What about the inheritance he spent—will there be anything left for him?

–Well, that’s . . . I must say, that’s the most unsatisfying story I ever heard.  Who won?  You’d almost think both brothers are equally lost.  But that can’t be.

The Pharisees and scribes are the first to take their leave, gathering their robes and tassels about them and nodding briefly to the teacher, who nods back.  Then the women round up their little ones, and the householders with livestock head for the fields to see that their sheep are safely folded.  Last of all, old Simon the sot and young Amos the fool and the good-time girls, Rachel and Joanna.  Before she goes, Rachel impulsively grabs the Master’s hand.

“Is there such a father?” she asks him.  “Would he take me—would he take someone back who had hurt him so badly?  My own father barely noticed if I came or went, until the day I left for good.  Is there a father who watches for me?  I need to know, because–”

The light pressure on her wrist stops her, reminds her she can’t make excuses.  “Ask him,” Jesus says.  “Use my name.”

She knows who he’s talking about, and is filled with an inexpressible hope.

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for the first post in this series, go here.

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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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