Tag: life of Jesus

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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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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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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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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.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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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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