Lent 2016, Day 11: February 20 (Luke 8:4-15)

The parable of the sower is one of Jesus' best known stories. It's deceptively simple, yet incredibly complex. The disciples patiently listen to what they think is another one of Jesus' quaint down-on-the-farm stories. But when He is finished, they (and we) all just stand there blinking and thinking, "That was nice…and this means…?"

The disciples are excited about the crowds. Up with (Jewish) people! Already they are envisioning the Jewish uprising to come (still 100 years away) and shopping for swords, shields and decoder rings for the revolution. They're ready to follow Jesus into a glorious war and waiting for Him to start shaping these unruly crowds into squads of Freedom Fighters they can lead into battle. "He's speaking in code, right? Let's see, seed means…no, grow means…wait…" 

The parable is simple, but it's also like an Indian stepwell – you cannot see its depths without standing right on the edge and looking straight down to the living water far below. As Jesus leads them into His explanation, He leads them deeper into the meaning. The sower is a parable, within a parable, within a parable.

On the surface, it's fairly straightforward. A farmer goes out to sow some seed in hopes of raising a crop – presumably wheat, barley, lentils or chickpeas. Our farmer sows his seed liberally. At that time, the practice was to scatter seed and then plow it into the ground. Some of this does not take root, sprout and grow; some does. Of the seed that does take root, sprout and grow, some does not mature and develop into something that suits the farmer's purpose. Some does. Of the seed that does mature, some produced so much fruit that the farmer was able to sell it and use it for food and for seed – a bumper crop.

When the disciples confess that they are clueless as to what in the world chickpeas have to do with overthrowing their Roman overlords, re-establishing Israel as an independent nation and restoring the Davidic monarchy, Jesus pulls them aside to explain that He is the farmer and the seed is the Word.

But, says Jesus, it's not the quality of the message but the condition of the crowd's individual hearts that will determine how they respond to the Gospel. Jesus encourages them to look at the crowds spread out before them and examine the clues hidden within the circus atmosphere that has come to characterize the mob that follows Him.

Over there, just off to the side of the road that leads to Jerusalem are the hot dog vendors, trinket sellers and water-bearers. Some are savvy entrepreneurs who see the mob as an opportunity to grow their businesses, make a profit. For others, it's a God-sent opportunity to make enough just to stay alive another day. These people are here for the crowd – not for Jesus – and the Word falls on deaf ears because it is not their focus. Satan is able to pluck the seed from their hearts because they neither value nor pay attention to the Word that has been given.

Over there, atop that large, flat rock (hey, great seats!), the eager spectators – delighting in all the visual entertainment – have made themselves quite comfortable with beach umbrellas, folding chairs and coolers stuffed with Bartles & Jaymes and Babychams. They are an enthusiastic peanut gallery, cheering Jesus on (woo, woo, woo!), but once they pack up and leave they won't carry the message home. Loaded down with all their gear, the Word is just one more thing to carry and, it seems, so unnecessary a burden. Is there a trashcan nearby?

Down in front is a similar group who have pitched their cabanas, mixed pitchers of margaritas, fluffed their pillows and booted up their iPads. They are there to learn! (Where's the ice?) They are there to get fired up for the Lord! (Don't tell me you didn't bring ice. I can't sit here in the wilderness without a cold drink, are you nuts?) They are educated, informed, involved and fully convinced that if it doesn't come easy, then it shouldn't come at all.

And there, towards the back, in the quiet section that is a calm within this seeming storm, are the humble, everyday folk. The salt of the earth. The ones you hardly ever notice and yet they're always there, working behind the scenes, putting in the hours. They focus on what they are hearing, hold it fast in a good and honest heart, and bear fruit with patience.

There is a meaning under the meaning, Jesus tells the disciples. You can easily see that people have very different kinds of hearts. Yet only one kind of soil/heart will foster the growth of the Word within and carry it through to completion. Only one kind of soil/heart will lead to a plentiful harvest.

Jesus warns us that the Word will grow in many hearts, but it will only bear fruit in a few. Being open to the Word only gets you so far, says Jesus, and "Lord, Lord" the world is full of ineffective people who know God, love Him, and have the Word (it's here somewhere) hidden within their hearts. For what purpose is it there? He wonders.

In the end, the farmer will gather up the fruitful and the fruitless when the harvest comes. He will gather first, and sort in judgment later. Because a bumper crop poses problems all its own, the farmer will focus his attention and energies on gathering his produce into the barn. As for the rest? There's a bonfire on the way.

Lent 2016, Day 10: February 19 (Luke 7:36-8:3)

She is a woman of social standing, known throughout the town – a devout woman – but she has suffered a spectacular public fall from grace. Chastened, repentant, she has followed the forms – her faith has saved her soul – but it seems there’s nothing she can do to repair her reputation. Family, friends and neighbors have deserted her. There is nothing she can say or do to make amends – no way to turn back the clock, no way to stop the malicious gossip and start over with a clean slate. How painful it is to be righteous again and yet still so scorned!

Tired of trying to placate the people around her, she strikes out on her own. After all, she has nothing left to lose.

Learning that Jesus is in town, she finagles her way into Simon’s home – either by stealth, bribery or bravado – and kneels at the feet of her Lord. She’s not there to beg, she is there to worship and to offer the sacrifices of a broken spirit. She knows that Jesus will not despise her broken and contrite heart. In her hands she holds a peace offering of expensive perfume. She unpins her hair – another scandal! – and uses it to wipe Jesus’ feet in a shocking display of intimacy and introspection.

Around the table, eight men who know and despise her for what she is work hard to ignore her. They talk louder to cover her sobbing and give in to nervous fits of giggling. It is all so very awkward. My apologies – I had no idea. Honestly. Who let this woman in?

Simon doesn’t love Jesus. He doesn’t even see Jesus. He calls him teacher – an insult given the signs that Jesus has recently performed. And the woman? All Simon sees is a sinner, a stain on his righteous community. She is another test for Jesus. After all, if He really was a prophet, He wouldn’t let her near Him.

Quite gently, Jesus tells Simon what a hypocrite he is. No water for His feet, no welcome kiss, no refreshing oil – such hospitality would be a crime. But that’s okay – the woman (THAT woman!) has saved Simon from social disgrace. Like Abigail, she has intervened with what is needful – tender kisses, tears and expensive perfume – and made the guest of honor feel at home. Kiss the Son, lest He be angry.

Jesus, knowing what it is she really needs, restores her to her community in front of eight impeccable witnesses when He says, “Your faith has saved you. Your sins are forgiven.” It is a gift she desperately needs but cannot ask for (hesed), and one that Simon, sadly, can neither understand nor accept – because he doesn't need it.

Lent 2016: February 18 - Day 9 (Luke 7:18-35)

In raising the widow of Nain’s son from the dead, Jesus has become a media celebrity. The commentators and pundits are abuzz, trying to describe the Indescribable Man by comparing Him to the legends of the old covenant. Luke clues us in to who they’re talking about by using the words of 1 Kings 17:23 to describe how Jesus raised the widow’s son. Later, Jesus will zero in on this when He asks the disciples, “Who do the crowds say I am?”

“Elijah,” say the crowds.

“Jesus is Elijah,” John’s disciples tell him.

You can almost hear John slap them upside the head.

In their defense, they were trying very hard to trim the pegged corners of the prophecy and fit it into the round hole of the situation. Malachi – singing gorgeously, boisterously, hopefully – had told them of a prophet to come who would turn the hearts of fathers and children to one another. Jesus had just mended a widow’s broken heart by returning her son to her. It’s the same thing, right?

“It’s close at least!” say John’s disciples. “Anyway, it’s all just semantics, right?”

“No,” says John (soundly smacking them once more). “It’s not. No cigar for you.”

John is currently cooling his heels on the sidelines. Like Dorothy in the witch’s castle, he sends Toto (his disciples) out with a message for Jesus. It’s one-half “get-me-outa-here” and one-half reality check. Herod Antipas, tired of his wife Herodias’ nagging, has imprisoned John in Machaerus – a legendary fortress on the eastern shore of the Sea of Galilee. He’s there because he called out Herod for dumping his first wife in favor of his half-brother’s wife, Herodias, who just happens to be his other half-brother’s daughter. John has called a spade a spade and is now paying for his honesty. He will spend two years here and die in a most despicable and pointless way.

John’s message for Jesus is a question. Note that John wants to avoid the telephone game here. He doesn’t trust his disciples to get the question right so he makes them write it down. As a result, they repeat his words verbatim to Jesus: are you The One?

John asks this question because what he’s been hearing is certainly not what he’s been expecting. He’s been prophesying about and waiting for a Messiah of electrifying power and majesty who inspires total devotion and humble service in His followers. John has been watching and waiting for God to raise up a redeemer in the tradition of the judges of old, men like Samson, Jephthah and Gideon.

John is expecting Jesus to take away the sin of the world and baptize the nation of Israel with fire and the Holy Spirit. In John’s mind, the Messiah is the personification of “the wrath to come” from which the Pharisees and Sadducees sought to flee. He expected Jesus to cleanse the House of Israel with fire, to “clear His threshing floor and gather His wheat into the barn.”

Instead, he’s hearing about an itinerant rabbi from the wrong side of the tracks who helps old ladies cross the street.

“What’s up with that, Jesus?” he asks.

We can’t really blame John. It cannot have been easy to accept that his ministry – one which was destined to prepare a way in the wilderness for the Kingdom of God – had led him to a point where he was at the mercy of a spoiled, adulterous Gentile woman. There had to have been moments when John wondered if he hadn’t been forgotten by God and by his second cousin, Jesus Christ.

John’s question, however, isn't so much a crisis of faith as it is mis-ordered priorities. He’s expecting Jesus to judge first and save later, not the other way around. The Messiah he is looking for is indeed coming, is now here, and will come again.

Before He answers the disciples' question, Jesus asks them to wait for a bit. Have a seat, enjoy the show! As they do, they see Jesus perform many wonderful signs: the sick are cured, the blind see.

During the intermission, Jesus pulls John’s disciples aside and asks: “What did you come here to see? A faith healer? A doer of good deeds? But what did you come here to see? A prophet? Yes, I say to you, and greater than a prophet. Tell John, even though I may have failed to meet his expectations, I am doing the work of the Messiah.”

As John’s disciples return to their seats (who walks out on a show?), Jesus turns to the crowd for some improvisation and asks about their expectations – of John.

“Let’s bump up the lights and see if y'all have anything to say. Why in the world did y’all go out into the wilderness – Israel out of Egypt! What were you thinking?! Anybody? What were you looking for? What’s that? A reed shaken by the wind? That doesn’t sound like John. What’s that? A rich man in soft clothes? Oh, you’re being funny. Got it. Camel skin, soft raiment, ha ha. Yes. Next we’ll be trading recipes for locusts and honey. No, really, what did you go out to see? What – a prophet? Yes! And what a prophet!”

Jesus chides the crowd for its voyeurism, for its rubbernecking. He winks broadly at their supposedly religious motivation for seeking John out in the first place. They may claim they were looking for spiritual guidance, but they – and Jesus – know they came out for the circus atmosphere and spectacle of John’s ministry. They wanted front row seats on the banks of the Jordan (pass the popcorn) as John, spittle dripping from his beard, screamed at the Pharisees and shamed them one by one for their conceit and self interest (“He called Rabbi Feldman a snake! A SNAKE! It was…AWESOME!”).

Let’s face it, Jesus says, you were looking to be entertained. But that’s OK, it got you in the door. And because you made a little effort, God rewarded you by opening your heart to the message of John – the last and greatest prophet born of women.

Jesus – the first, last and greatest prophet born of Spirit – has not forgotten his cousin. Indeed, He thinks of him often. However, it must be painful to know that, in Israel, great prophets suffer greatly. And Herod’s birthday is fast approaching.

Lent 2016: February 17 - Day 8 (Luke 7:11-17)

Walking into Nain, Jesus is having déjà vu yet in reverse. Luke is playing with echoes, bouncing back and forth “browsing through time.”

Nain is a mirror (not a good one perhaps, but a mirror nonetheless). Two crowds, both led by individuals, meet at the city gate. Just outside the gate, Jesus leads a festive crowd full of life. Just inside the gate a widow leads a funeral procession full of grief.

As Jesus looks at the crowd before Him, He sees an echo of His future self (Marco!): a dead young man lying on a bier, his mother and other women weeping and following. More importantly, He sees an echo of His future mother (Polo!): a grieving widow who has lost her only son, her security, her home and her place in society.

Jesus has a soft spot for widows who lose their only sons, and the widow of Nain is no exception. Women were undervalued in Jewish society in that they were socially and economically diminished by the absence or loss of husbands and children. Women were seldom allowed to fend for themselves, and when they had no close male relative to defend their rights (a “goel”) they were left to the mercy of unscrupulous men such as the Pharisees who “devoured widows’ homes” through various nefarious means.

Jesus knows exactly what’s in store for this woman now that her son is dead. And He finds that personally unacceptable.

“Don’t cry.”

Luke (somewhere behind us now) calls out again, “Marco!” just as Jesus reaches up to touch the bier.

“Polo!” Suddenly, we are holding hands with the widow of Zarephath at the foot of the stairs as we hear overhead the renewed patter of two small feet and then watch them descend into view one step at a time.

“Marco!” It’s a black day – the air is tight and ominous. God’s wrath is racing through the air. Almost overhead, we hear a rattling sound and watch alongside Mary and John as Jesus takes His last breaths on the cross.

“Polo!” says the young man as he sits up on the bier and we’re snapped back into the moment at hand.
 
It is indeed a miraculous moment, but it is hardly a surprising one. By now, we ought to know that Jesus’ compassion knows no limits, breaks all rules, smashes boundaries. Jesus gives the widow His mercy as well. He could just as easily and effortlessly have said, “Let the dead bury the dead, you follow me.” But instead, He gives her back her son along with Himself – her present and her future.
 
This moment will come again, Luke reminds us. After all, it’s just the dress rehearsal for a deeper, truer moment. Jesus will re-enact this scene as He dies on the cross. In His last and perhaps most personal act of compassion – struggling to breathe – He will motion to Mary, nod to John and whisper, “Woman…behold thy son.”

Lent 2016: February 16 - Day 7 (Luke 7:1-10)

“Let me talk to my guy.”

Contrary to myriads of failed discrimination suits, these six words have been the backbone of countless back room business deals for millennia. They’re spoken here, outside Capernaum, where the new Centurion in town has blessed the community with a brand-spanking-new synagogue – and possibly put the Jews at a disadvantage for they are clearly in his debt.

A Roman Centurion, settled in quite nicely thank you, is doing a little business with his new associates – the Jewish elders – in an effort to take his mind off his terminally ill slave. As he bemoans the impending loss of a bondservant he “highly values,” one of the elders spots an opportunity to settle the score and maybe even place the Centurion in his debt (after all, the mikveh could use a little hot water, nu?).

“I got a guy. Let me talk to him,” he says, and so the several of them head into Capernaum in search of Jesus. Unfazed by the crowds, the disciples and even the apostles, the elders march right up to Jesus and demand He come with them to heal the Centurion’s slave. They are intent on successfully completing their errand, but they are devoid of compassion for the slave who, Luke says, is “ready to die.” In fact, we never meet the slave, and all the actions taken here will be done without his input, participation or consent. His life, illness, subsequent healing and eventual death all take place far off stage. Luke, whose name indicates he may have been a slave himself, subtly injects a little social commentary here as if to say, “Don’t be fooled: ‘benevolent slaveholder’ is an oxymoron.”

The elders, unsurprisingly rude and disrespectful to Jesus, insist He stop whatever it is He’s doing and accompany them to the Centurion’s home where, they presume, He will go through all the exaggerated motions, caterwauling and loud theatrics that accompanied first-century faith healing. They’re not concerned with what will happen, however. They don’t care one way or the other if the slave is healed – it’s not the point. They just want to get out of debt with the Centurion by bringing Jesus to the slave. If the rabbi heals him, even better! That will give them an advantage they can press (would a few bubbles with the hot water, say, be such a kappore?).

Jesus, most certainly a bit bemused by all the fuss, silently acquiesces and is rewarded for his participation by being amazed – not that a Roman Centurion would have compassion on his slave, but that someone (read: anyone) would actually “get it” without Jesus having to say a single word.

It may seem as if the Centurion is a little double-minded or even unstable (“come – don’t come”), but Luke gives us subtle clues as to what’s really going on. The Jewish elders treat Jesus like any other faith healer and demand that he come with them, but the Centurion did not ask them to do so.

The Centurion treats Jesus with the utmost respect and consideration. He sends the Jews as his representatives because he wants to do everything by the book so as not to sully Jesus’ reputation or make Him “unclean” via Jew/Gentile fraternization. In other words, he shows his respect for Jesus as a man in and of authority by sending appropriate representatives to petition Him – as any ordinary citizen might petition his king – for justice, for healing, for mercy, albeit for his slave and not for himself.

The elders, however, toss respect and consideration out the window and throw their weight around while they insist Jesus have a look at the slave. "You need to do this – for him (and for us)!" 

Meanwhile the Centurion, horrified at the miscommunication, scrambles to send his friends – fellow fish-out-of-water Romans who understand, appreciate and share his cultural dilemma – to correct the error and tell Jesus, “You need not bother yourself by coming all the way out here. I know that all you have to do is say ‘yes’ for I, too, am a man under authority.”

It’s important to note that the Centurion is not comparing himself to Jesus here. Instead, he humbles himself by identifying with and comparing himself to the beloved slave. Like his slave, he is a man under authority who carries out orders and does so without needing his superior to be present. He knows that Jesus’ authority is not bound by time, space or distance. As a result, Jesus is amazed.

Jesus is often amazed in the Gospels, but it’s seldom a good thing. We can almost picture Him on these occasions holding His head in His hands, counting to ten or having to take a time out because He is amazed at our unbelief. He can’t understand how we can know Him, how we can experience Him and yet not trust and obey Him.

Enter the Centurion, a Gentile whose broader perspective on the world has given him a broader mindset. A worldly man who shouldn’t be interested in an itinerant rabbi from a hick town in a backwater Roman province. Yet, without knowing Jesus or having even met Him, with only hearing the Law and the Prophets he “gets it.” And Jesus is amazed.

If the Centurion’s example is not enough to shame us, perhaps Jesus' doubt will. Facing the cross and all it entails, He will soon wonder aloud: will He find faith upon the earth when He returns? Or will He find us still quibbling about the plumbing?

Lent 2016: February 15 - Day 6 (Luke 6:27-49)

For a sermon that takes place on a plain, this sure is a mountain to climb.

Jesus is continuing his address to the disciples but the going is getting rough, getting steep. The less hardy are dropping like flies so Jesus refocuses His comments to “you who hear.” Those who refuse to do so, who stop to rub their tired feet and have a snack, get left behind – not for the last time.

With each instruction, the narrow way grows steeper and harder to climb: love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. Each exhortation takes the disciples higher until they reach a place where the air is very thin and God is very close. It is precisely the place Jesus wants them to be. This is the rock upon which He encourages each of us to lay our foundation and build our house.

Here on this high ground Jesus takes a deep breath of satisfaction and plants a flag: "as you wish that others would do to you, do so to them."

It is a simple yet impossible rule of conduct – it turns the disciples' world upside down and sends it spinning in a direction they never thought (or wanted) to go.

If it sounds impossible, says Jesus, you're on the right track. You're starting to get it. It is impossible, but all things are possible with God (and only with God).

“Be kind to the ungrateful and the evil,” says Jesus, “because your Father is.”

“Be kind to the ungrateful?” we gape. “Man that stings! Son of Man that burns!”

We object because we have invested so much time and energy, so much blood and sweat and tears into cataloging every slight, every insult, every instance where others have failed us, abused us, ignored us – HURT us – just so that we can hand that catalog over to God at judgment. We want desperately to stand up on the nearest chair, wave our hands above our head and scream with satisfaction, “If it please Your Honor, I’d like to file a rather lengthy brief as a friend of the court!”

Overruled. Out of order. Bailiff?

“Be kind to the ungrateful and the evil,” says Jesus, “because your Father is kind to you when you are ungrateful and evil.” 

Jesus reminds us that God does not need our help. Nor does He need us to present evidence on His behalf to justify His judgment. If anything, He warns us that we ought to be preparing our defense now by paying close attention to all the ways we ourselves fail to measure up. It is most definitely a time to keep our eyes on our own paper.

Give it up, says Jesus. Just as we cannot carry material goods with us into the next life, our emotional baggage is best left unclaimed on the carousel. We are to be new creations. And those old clothes are so last season.