Lent 2016, Day 30: March 10 (Luke 15:1-32)

As Jesus travels on, a variety of people are drawn to Him. This distresses the Pharisees, Sadducees and scribes, all of whom object to His readiness to consort with “sinners.” Jesus already told them that it is not the healthy that need a doctor but the sick (Luke 5). They should be used to this by now. 

But, hiss the Pharisees, He’s now attracting people even lepers wouldn’t associate with: tax collectors! Not only does He “receive” them, He eats with them! 

This is one of many last straws for the Pharisees and scribes.

Unfazed by their complaint, Jesus unpacks three powerful parables about loss and recovery.

As he searches the hills for the lost sheep, Jesus shows us a shepherd who considers 99 out of 100 to be personally unacceptable. He leaves the 99 behind and searches until he finds the one – giving everyone a cause for celebration.

Likewise, the woman refuses to settle for 9 out of 10. She searches until she finds the one coin and calls her friends and neighbors to rejoice.

Meh, say the Pharisees. What do we care about a sacrificial sheep and a handful of silver?

There was a man who had two sons…

It is a prosperous family. The land is fertile and fruitful. There are sons to till the fields and servants to help bring in the harvest. The firstborn is highly disciplined. He spends all day in the field, working until sundown without complaining – well, not to his father anyway. His free time – and his feelings – are for his friends.

The younger son is a bit of a worry. As second son, his is a life of hand-me-downs given at the discretion (and whim) of his older brother. If his brother were to die (God forbid) and leave him the estate, he’s faced with a hand-me-down (Levirate) marriage. He’ll be required to raise children in his brother’s name. Being second sucks. Perhaps that’s why the father has set aside a portion for the younger son now – a little bit of sunshine for a future rainy day.

The younger son, however, deliberately misunderstands the gesture. Instead of respecting it as a future lifeline, he takes it as his ticket out of town. No more taking orders from everyone around him, he can be his own man! 

“Put your money where your mouth is old man,” says the boy, “and change these cows into cash.” Days later, he is off to a far country – a fabled place of “reckless living” (most likely the Gentile cities of the Decapolis).

Not for the first time, he listens to the wind and swears he hears the words: “come home.”

The boy is caught up in his fast new life, riding the rapids, going with the flow. Unfortunately for him, that flow is headed right down the drain (along with his money). He spends blindly even as his savings bleed away. The water has been shut off, the electricity is next. The donkey in the driveway? Repossessed. Famine stalks the land, and he finds himself in need. Always a planner and a doer, he manages to hire himself out to a citizen of the country (a Gentile) who, in turn, puts him to work – slopping pigs.

“Is this a joke?” the boy wonders. Surely the man knows he is a Jew! Slowly, painfully, the boy begins to realize just how far from home and lost he really is. Having refused to work in his father’s fields, he has thrust aside all familial ties and squandered his meager inheritance. Waking up from a whirlwind party he can’t remember, he finds himself right back in the fields he so greatly despised. Except this time, they are foreign fields with strange skies and dead crops; he’s working for next to nothing and fighting with pigs over garbage.

“How did I get here? How could making just a few compromises bring me to a point where I’ve now done everything I swore I’d never do? This is just as bad as home,” he sulks as he kicks at the hard, dry ground.

“No, it’s much worse,” says his better self, taking a seat beside him. “If you were at home, you’d have bread enough to spare and you certainly wouldn’t be tending pigs!”

Not for the last time, he listens to the wind and swears he hears the words: “come home.”

The day is crisp and clear. It’s a good day for watching. It’s so clear, in fact, you can see for miles, he thinks. 

And in a moment that stops his heart, his son appears -- there, just at the top of the hill. He’s no taller, but he’s darker, burned and baked by the sun. No, he’s filthy, covered in ... no. It doesn’t matter. He’s home. Nothing compares to this moment.

And so the old man runs.

Lent 2016, Day 29: March 9 (Luke 14:25-35)

Jesus is once more surrounded by “great crowds” who wish to accompany Him as He journeys towards Jerusalem. But just as the Israelites out of Egypt had a lot of come-alongs, there are plenty of people here who are just along for the ride. Now is an excellent time to thin the herd with some straight talk.

“Good morning God-seekers!” Jesus greets the swelling crowd. “Before we get started today, I wanted to briefly review the basic requirements for becoming my disciple with you.”

The God of love then tells us all we need to hate others (and ourselves). Um, what?

Our confusion is understandable. Back then, love/hate was not a cut-and-dried either/or, pro/con concept as it is today. Today, if we “hate” someone, we would probably actively oppose them or even consistently engage with them for the express purpose of thwarting their ambitions and/or actions. In this way, hate today is a lot like love (we often have love/hate relationships), it’s full of emotional energy and can even border on obsession.

In Semitic culture, on the other hand, love/hate was an expressed preference for one thing over another. Jesus’ call to hate father, mother, wife, children, etc. would have resonated with His Jewish listeners. On hearing it, they would have lifted their heads and started humming the opening refrain of Malachi's gorgeous song (“Jacob I have loved, but Esau I have hated”) as God's testimony to His love for the nation of Israel.

Suddenly, the love/hate thing’s not so bad. In fact, it’s a pretty familiar concept. “Piece of cake!” says the crowd. “It’s all hyperbole anyway, right?”

So Jesus, being Jesus, drops a bomb: want to follow me? Pick up your cross and let’s get going. Again, um, what?

Jesus uses a shocking metaphor (crucifixion) to describe the life – or death (to self) – of a disciple. His disciple. It is shocking for the crowd because they know just what a horrific death it is. Why would anyone choose to emulate it in any fashion? It is shocking for us because it is precisely the death Jesus has chosen – weeks before His arrival in Jerusalem.

“Do you need an answer now?” asks the crowd.

“It only makes sense, doesn’t it?” counters Jesus. “Why go to all the trouble of hiring a contractor, digging a foundation, buying building supplies and picking out paint colors if you don’t have the money to install the roof? Why bother mustering an army, outfitting it with the latest in technology and equipment to take on an enemy army twice your size that is similarly if not better equipped? Wouldn’t it be better to put your time and energy into surrendering?”

This is not hyperbole, says Jesus. “Any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple.”

The crowd is understandably bummed out. “This is harder than we thought. Why should we go to all this trouble?”

“Because you’re special,” Jesus comforts. “You are the light of the world, you are the salt of the earth. You are precious in God's sight.”

Salt, says Jesus, is good. It’s one of the necessities of life. It brings out the flavor of many other things. But don't take this for granted. Salt can lose its “saltiness.” So can you. You can cease being special. Salt that’s no longer salty has no use whatsoever – it’s not even good for fertilizer. It is thrown away. Can you hear? Then listen.
 

Lent 2016, Day 28: March 8 (Luke 14:15-24)

The (semi) friendly meal with the Pharisees is going pretty well. Jesus has just given his host an insider's tip on how to receive the blessing of God at the resurrection of the just: invite the poor and disadvantaged to your next meal.

Around the table, there is a silent “Ew.”

This is an awkward moment because the Pharisees have a complicated relationship with the poor and disadvantaged. The poor are poor for many reasons (not because they are lazy, corrupt or racially inferior), and they remain so in part because the Pharisees have stacked the deck against them. Some, even, are rich because they lend to the poor, charge interest and confiscate property when payment has not been made (“Isn’t that good business?” they ask).

The poor are cut off from temple worship because of their poverty (they literally cannot afford the sacrifices). Because they are not “righteous,” they are cut off from the community and suffer socially and economically. Their debt is overwhelming, and they are driven to extremes. 

God recognized the need for financial mercy when he created the Jubilee Year –a 50th year of reconciliation where all debts are wiped away and all prodigals are welcomed home. Jubilee is an extravagant grace – one which the Jews have never been able to accept or employ in full.  

King Zedekiah and the nation of Judah tried to extend it when they vowed to proclaim freedom to their people and free the slaves (Jeremiah 34). Sadly (horrifically), the nation reneged and took the slaves – their fellow Jews – back into captivity. 

When the people returned from exile in Babylon (Nehemiah 5), circumstances forced the poor to mortgage everything they had – including their own lives and those of their children – just to feed themselves. Nehemiah had to shame the rich and powerful – the people who prided themselves on being “righteous” – into showing mercy and providing financial relief to the poor by forgiving these dirty loans. 

Is it any wonder that the crowd hates the children of the “righteous” – the Pharisees?

One of the guests steps on the moment by raising his glass in a toast, “Don’t all lives matter? Blessed is everyone who will eat bread in the Kingdom of God!”

But the awkward moment just won’t die (the man has deliberately missed the point), so Jesus fills it with yet another parable.

A man once gave a great banquet and invited many…

This great banquet takes place within – and is itself – the Kingdom of God. Those invited received their invitations long ago, indeed they have already RSVP’d. But now the banquet is finally ready. It’s time to eat! Yet those who so enthusiastically responded to the first invitation are now scorning the second and sending their “regrets” via the man’s servant.

The first person excuses himself and says (with a shrug), “I’ve just bought a field, and I must go out and see it.” Only a fool would buy land sight unseen (so maybe it’s a good thing he’s not coming to the party). However, what the man is really saying is, “my wealth matters more to me than my place in the Kingdom of God.”

The second person excuses himself and says (with a sniff), “I’ve just bought five yoke of oxen, and I go to examine them.” Only a fool would make such a large, important purchase without first examining the animals for their health and hardiness. However, what the man is really saying is, “my business matters more to me than my place in the Kingdom of God.”

The last person doesn’t even apologies, he just says (with a wink), “I have married a wife, and therefore I cannot come.” While the first two men are willing to be seen as fools for their excuses, this one is willing to be seen as a liar as it is very doubtful that anyone would get married at the same time as someone else in the village was throwing a big banquet. However, what the man is really saying is, “my personal life matters more to me than my place in the Kingdom of God.”

In Middle Eastern culture, this is the height of rudeness. In fact, it sends a very clear social message: we don’t want to have anything to do with you.

The banquet host, righteously incensed, tells his servant to bring in the poor, crippled, blind and lame (which he does). The needy have been brought in, but there’s still room (turns out there weren’t that many after all and there’s plenty of stuff to go around). So the host now tells the servant to search out the poor, go through the back alleys, the shantytowns under the highway overpasses, Lower Wacker Drive – compel these people to come to the banquet so that the master’s house may be filled.

And the others? Fools and liars, they have made their choice and their invitations have been withdrawn. It doesn’t matter. There’s no room anyway. The master’s house is filled – and that’s what matters most.