Tag: parables of Jesus

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Ours to Build

The Parable of the Talents in Matthew is the Parable of the Minas in Luke, and it’s worth noting some important differences. A talent is worth more than $1000; a mina was equivalent to about three month’s wages–still a significant sum, but not in the high-roller league. Both Matthew and Luke place this parable during the week of the crucifixion, meaning it was one of the last Jesus ever told. Luke explains why he told it: because “the people thought that the kingdom of God was going to appear at once.”

Luke also adds this context: the master in the story was going away to receive a kingdom. And his would-be subjects had already rejected him by sending a delegation ahead to complain, “We do not want this man to be our king.” So the servants are entrusted with a not-inconsiderable sum of money to invest in a society that’s already hostile to them.

Matthew’s use of talents may signify the incalculable value of what we’re given to invest; Luke’s mention of minas could suggest our human limits of time and resources. Both apply, but we should also consider the expectant audience listening to this now-familiar story for the first time. They thought the kingdom was going to appear.

No, he’s telling them; the kingdom must be built.

I will build my church. And my church will build the kingdom. Not on her own, not without my name or the Holy Spirit’s power or the Father’s providence.

But the kingdom is ours to build.

I will build my church. And my church will built the kingdom.

I forget that. I think of Jesus coming with his angels to judge the living and the dead and to me that’s the kingdom. It will APPEAR at the sound of a trumpet. Now, with the world in such disarray, would be a great time! But Jesus’ coming is when the kingdom will be made visible and apparent; it’s being built right now. My business, every day, is kingdom business.

That business is easy to lose track of because it has so many facets: making a living, raising a family, performing acts of charity, serving a local church–all in a culture that continually proclaims, “We do not want this man to be our king.” That’s always been the case, in churchy, straightlaced times as well as in degenerate time. The world does not want Christ as king, has never wanted Christ as king, and will never want Christ as king.

So we build his kingdom. I don’t know why he does it this way, why he doesn’t just bring it. Bring it! may be what we mean when we say, “Come, Lord Jesus.” But he’s not going to bring it, he’s going to wrap it up as a gift to present to his Father. Or, to switch metaphors, he’s coming to place a bridal crown on her head and take her hand to lead her to the wedding feast. By then the kingdom will be built, the rightful king restored, the rebellious subjects subjugated. (For don’t forget the conclusion of the story: “But those enemies of mind, who did not want me as king . . .”)

What’s my part? Where do I build? My little section of this magnificent project seems small and insignificant, but his eyes are on it, and a cloud of witnesses are cheering me on.

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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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For the original post in this series, go here.

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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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For the original post in this series, go here.

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The Rich Man and Jesus

“There was a rich man who was clothed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day.  And at his gate was laid a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores . . .”  Luke 16:19-20

Listen–can you hear it?  A faint, wistful song from thirty-odd years before:

He has brought down the mighty from their thrones

and exalted those of humble estate;

he has filled the hungry with good things,

and the rich he has sent away empty . . . .

Those times his mother sang about (Luke 1:53) are here; hot, sweaty times that jostle the golden thoughts and make that pure tune difficult to hear.  But still, it’s happening: he fills the hungry with good things, while the rich go unsatisfied.  Everywhere he stops, the sick and the poor, the tax collectors and sinners crowd in close, while the wealthy and healthy maintain a certain distance.  They want to hear what he has to say, but his words don’t go down easy.  His words, in fact, are like a severe case of indigestion.

“There was a rich man . . .”

What would he know about the life of the “rich”?  It’s not all soft robes and feasts every day–it takes work and care to keep up an estate.  This rich man probably rose early to consult with his foreman and inspect his lands, and stayed up late going over accounts to make sure they added up correctly and all debts were paid.

lazarus

“But a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, begged at his gate.  He longed to be filled with the crumbs that fell from the rich man’s table.”

(Of course; poor men are everywhere.  And this is starting to feel like a setup.)

“The poor man died and was carried by the angels to Abraham’s side . . .”

(Oh—there goes poor Lazarus off to heaven!  Welcomed by Abraham, no less!  What did he do, except be hungry?  Where’s the virtue in that?)

“The rich man also died and was buried, and in Hades, being in torment–”

(I knew it.  The rich man—the responsible, hardworking, thrifty one–turns out to be the villain.)

“. . . . I beg you, father Abraham, send Lazarus to my father’s house, for I have five brothers, so that he might warn them, lest they also come into this place of torment.”

(Now, this is too much.  Abraham says nothing about righteousness and law-keeping, only about full and empty.  And the rich man wants Lazarus to go warn his brothers—warn him of what, I’d like to know?  What are they supposed to do to avoid the place of torment—just be hungry?)

“. . . But Abraham said to him, if they do not hear Moses and the Prophets, neither will they be convinced if someone should rise from the dead.”

(Someone should rise from the dead—like Lazarus?  Is the most flea-bitten beggar on the street suddenly on a level with Moses and the Prophets?

He has satisfied the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty . . .

Open your mouth, and I will fill it—But my people did not listen to my voice . . .

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness . . .

Looking they may not see, and hearing they may not understand . . .

Neither will they be convinced if someone should rise from the dead . . .

(Who won’t be convinced?  Me?  Show me a sign like that and I’ll believe.  Just don’t try to tell me about rich and poor and who’s in and who’s out.)

That’s exactly what he’s telling them, though.  The music is all around, echoes from the past and present and even future, but few have ears to hear. It is about rich and poor, or rather those who think they are rich, and those who know they are poor.  It’s about the hungry, and the kind of food they crave.  Whatever you’re station in life, he says, be hungry.  Whether scrounging for crumbs or sitting down to surf ‘n turf, be hungry.  Don’t be satisfied with your accomplishments in life–be hungry.

Hungry for what?  For me.

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For the first post in this series, go here.

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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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Seeking the Lost

Now the tax collectors and sinners were all drawing near to hear him.  And the Pharisees and the scribes grumbled, saying, “This man receives sinners and eats with them.”  So he told them this parable . . .  Luke 15:1-3

This is very familiar territory—some of the most enduring images and one of the best-loved stories ever told.  How did its first listeners hear it?  Let’s take a moment to set this up as it might have been.

He enters another town toward evening and accepts an invitation to stay the night.  He declines a meal but takes a seat under a grape arbor where the important men of the town habitually gather. It’s a pleasant spot, especially at this time of day when the heat has lifted and a cheerful breeze flutters the grape leaves.  A rich man’s sheep are folded nearby, their restless baa’s carried on the wind.  Women are drawing water for the evening’s wash at the community well, and next door a housewife is sweeping out her house, humming a tune.  The local tavern, however, is oddly silent.

That’s because the ne’er-do-wells and loose women who hang out there have clustered on the edge of the crowd, eager to hear this man everybody’s talking about.  The arbor is packed; Jesus at the center, the twelve (except for those who are foraging for an evening snack) ranged behind him like bodyguards, the scribes and Pharisees and town elders seated in their accustomed places, and everyone else squeezed in wherever they can.  Villagers are strung along the rock ledge and the wall, leaning from the roof of the neighboring house, or standing just outside the magic circle prescribed by the disciples to give their Master some breathing room.

He raises an eyebrow, then a hand.  He points out Rachel and Joanna (known as the Sin Sisters, though they’re not related), old Simon the Sot, and young Amos the fool.  He keeps beckoning until they come forward, self-consciously pushing their way through, spreading themselves in a tight little fan as they squat near his feet.

Meanwhile, the chief men are murmuring among themselves: “I’ve heard he’s not particular about the company he keeps—never thought he’d be so brazen, though . . .”  “Why can’t he meet with them secretly?” “. . . and I hear he eats with them, too!”

“Listen to those sheep.”  The Master raises his voice as all fall silent.  The bleats of ewes and lambs are a familiar sound, curdling the air at twilight.  “Suppose you had a hundred of them, and every afternoon you count as they go through the gate: one, two, three . . . all the way to ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine . . . Is one of them missing?  You count again: . . . ninety-eight, ninety-nine—It’s true.  What do you do?”

He puts this question directly to old Simon, who blinks groggily before taking a guess: “You go looking?”

Jesus looks to the chief elder for confirmation.  The man nods briefly.  “Good!  You leave the ninety-nine who are safe, and look for the one who’s lost.  High and low, up and down, until the silly creature is found.  And then what do you do?” he asks Amos the fool.

New Testament 3 Production Still Photography

“Throw a party,” the young man says, without a second’s hesitation.

“Exactly.”  The teacher smiles.  “As soon as he’s home, he calls his friends and neighbors: ‘Rejoice with me!  Remember that sheep I lost?  I’ve found it!’”

Amos the fool is foolishly grinning, while the elders wish they could tell him to get that look off his face.  Meanwhile, the Master waves at the woman next door, who is now leaning on her broom.  She blushes as everyone looks her way and shyly raises a hand.

“Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one.  What would she do?”

Now he’s looking at Rachel, who straightens her back and puffs out her chest, as she habitually does when men speak to her.  “Why, she–”  Rachel stops herself, and her friends think she’s was about to answer with one of her zingers, for which she’s rather famous.  But under this man’s gaze she deflates a little, and her voice comes with none of its usual edge or sauce: “She’ll sweep out her house, and . . . light a lamp to shine in the dark corners and under the furniture . . .”

“. . . and when she finds it”–Jesus takes up the narrative as Rachel’s voice fades—“she will call in her girlfriends and next-door neighbors and bring out the dates and honeycakes.  ‘Rejoice with me! I’ve found that silver coin that was lost!’

“Let me share a secret with you: in just this way, the angels rejoice over one sinner who repents.  Just so, heaven throws a party when one lost soul is found.”

He pauses to let this sink in.  Skepticism simmers among the elders; you can almost feel it.  Ecstatic angels?  Parties in heaven?  Now, how does he know that?  Meanwhile, the disciples are grinning to themselves (Here he goes again!) and the village losers are trying to reconcile this happy heaven with what they’ve heard in the synagogue.  In their minds, the Heavenly One is so encrusted with holiness and majesty and righteous judgment they have never heard his laughter.  But then, they ain’t heard nothin’ yet.

To be continued . . . .

For the original post in this series, go here.

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The Dinner Invitation

One Sabbath, when he went to dine at the house of a ruler of the Pharisees, they were watching him carefully.  And behold, there was a man before him who had dropsy.  And Jesus responded to the lawyers and Pharisees, saying, “Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath, or not?” Luke 14:1-3

wedding-supperEven though they don’t like him they’re still inviting him to dinner.  This is a Sabbath-meal event, attended by the whole town apparently, because someone gets in who has “dropsy,” or edema.  (This might have been understood to be a dreaded “skin disease” of the type relentlessly described in the Law, thought dropsy is not considered a skin disease today.)  The guests—if we can presume to put thoughts in their heads—may be thinking, Ew.  Who let him in? That bloated flesh is a sorry aid to digestion.  He has some nerve . . .   And the man does have some nerve, but he also has some faith, putting himself in adverse circumstances so Jesus will notice him.

Or, since the Pharisees are “watching him carefully,” this may be a setup.  They might have found the man and dragged him into the house to as a test case, instead of letting him wait until sundown and asking Jesus to heal him without legal controversy.  Who knows?

Whatever the plan, he sees through it and cuts to the quick.  The wording suggests that Sabbath observance is already a topic under discussion: “It is lawful to heal on the Sabbath, or not?”  Or, put another way, Can you people see the difference between the letter of the law and the law’s intent?

No answer.  Of course.  Interestingly, they know he can heal, they know he will heal and they also know how they’ll hold it against him–laying up his creative, restorative divine acts as evidence for condemnation.  Who does he think he is, after all?

But more to the point, perhaps, is who they think they are.

“You treat animals better than you do your brothers,” he says, after healing the man (easy as that—healing is almost an side event now!).  “And another thing: I notice how when you take your places at the table you negotiate the best positions for yourselves.  Suppose I got married, and invited you all to the wedding dinner.”  (Their ears perk up, friend and foe alike—is he planning a big announcement?)  “Let me offer a word of advice: don’t presume on your position and choose the best place.  Imagine your embarrassment when the host marches up and tells you to move, because a more distinguished guest has arrived.  Someone like—oh, that serving girl over there.”  A ripple of merriment runs through the friends and bystanders, who love the way he turns the established order upside-down.  While the serving girl blushes, a murmur of outrage from the establishment runs in the opposite direction.

“. . . Rather, when you come to my banquet, choose a low place for yourself.  Then I may come and say, ‘Friend, move on up!’ And you’ll be exalted among the company instead of humiliated.  Remember the saying? ‘Some are last who will be first.’”

A guest across the table, perhaps in the interests of making peace (or perhaps because he’s had a bit too much to drink), lifts his cup and says, “How happy are those who break bread in the kingdom of God!”

“Do you think so?” Jesus looks around the table, his eyes sizing upon and evaluating each man in turn.  One by one, they feel themselves evaluated; are outraged, embarrassed, nonplussed.  “A certain wealthy man planned a great banquet, the event of the season.  You’d think his neighbors would be counting the days, wouldn’t you?  Eagerly anticipating?  Well, when the great day finally came, with the meats roasted and the bread baked and the wine decanted, the man sent his trusted servant out to bring them in.

“Everything is ready,” said the servant at the first house.  “Come and feast!”

“’So soon?’ replied the householder.  “What bad timing!  I just bought a field and have to go test the soil to be sure I got my money’s worth.  Please excuse me.’

“Shouldn’t he have done that before buying the field?  Oh well.  Scratching his head, the servant proceeded to the next house and almost collided with the owner, who was striding out with a whip in his hand.  ‘Greetings, sir!  My master sent to tell you the feast is ready.  Please come.’

“The man paused, with an impatient frown.  ‘What feast?  Who is your master, again?  Never mind—tell him I can’t come.  I just bought a yoke of oxen and must plow the lower forty before sundown.  Sorry.’

“At the third house, the servant knocked and knocked before the owner finally came to the door with his hair all awry and a sheet tucked around him.  ‘What’s that?  A banquet?  That’s impossible!  I mean, I just got married and, well, you know . . .’

“On it went, house after house, refusal after refusal.  The servant finally returned home, alone.  What should have been a joyful procession of happy friends and neighbors was a single dejected, sweaty individual who couldn’t help wondering if there was something wrong with him.

“’What’s this?’ cried his master.  ‘Where is everybody?’  While the servant ticked off all the excuses he’d heard that day, the master’s face darkened.  ‘All right then, here’s what you do: go to the hovels and the dives, the brothels and the market places.  Broadcast my invitation like barley and wheat.  My house will be filled—but not one of those invited to my feast will taste a morsel of it!’”

His listeners, or at least some of them, can’t escape the feeling that he is talking about them—the householders, the property owners, the well-heeled and well-married.  And he is talking about himself, an itinerant preacher without a foot of ground to his name, as if he were the richest man in town with a house so large it can hold every beggar, slave and whore in the land.  He has that air about him: women supply his meals, but he speaks as though he owns the cattle on a thousand hills.  As for this story—well, it’s just a story.  Wealth is a sign of God’s favor, after all; they have lived all their lives on the inside.

So . . . why do they feel shut out in his presence, as though they should be the ones knocking, pounding, pleading to get in?

For the original post in this series, go here.

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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 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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Let Me Tell You a Story

And when a great crowd was gathering and people from town after town came to him, he said in a parable: “A sower went out to sow his seed . . .” (Luke 8:4-5)

It’s like a traveling salvation show: one teacher, twelve disciples, a handful of women who supply their material support, and a loose detachment of followers who come and go.  Life is good, spring is here, the air is sweet with new grass and moist earth.  At every stop a crowd gathers, fanning out around Jesus or packing into a house.  Today he stops beside and open field, where a famer with his sons are waking along the rows of black earth, casting seed with broad sweeps.  An earthy breeze blows across the field.  The Teacher breathes deeply, then begins a story: A sower went out to sow his seed.”

the sower

This is the first parable (the same in all three synoptic gospels), and it also might be the quintessential one.  It’s not about the speaker; it’s all about the audience: “He who has ears to hear, let him hear!”  Four kinds of soil, four kinds of ears, and a roundabout way of getting to them.  Truth takes a walk in the field of analogy—why?  That’s what the disciples want to know later.  What does it mean? is the question they ask, but he understands the Why lurking below it.  Why talk in analogies?  Why teach by metaphor?

Fact is, the Kingdom is not about facts.  It’s not a series of propositions backed up by signs.  It is unexpected, secret, often woven so firmly among the threads of ordinary life it’s easy to overlook.  Jesus never tells epic stories of the Homeric or Gilgamesh mold—all his stories are about farmers and bankers and housewives, for such is the kingdom.  Some will see it, enter it, and flourish in it.  Most won’t.  “The secrets of the kingdom of God have been given for you to know”—but it seems a bit unfair.  Why us, and not them?  God knows.  And eventually, we will know.  Even they will know.  When the storyteller tells a story, ultimately the story is Him.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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