Lent 2016, Day 33: March 13 (Luke 17:1-19)

Having taught the crowd about the dangers of leading a singular life, Jesus goes on to caution the disciples about personal responsibility.

Everyone stumbles, Jesus warns, but be sure that you are not the cause. You would be better off drowning. And if your brother sins against you? Forgive him. Even if he continues to sin, confess and repent, you must forgive him.

This doesn’t sit well with the disciples (nor does it sit well with us).

“What? You’re kidding, right? Well, if that’s the way you want it, you’re going to have to give me more faith – more patience, more kindness, more grace,” insist the disciples (and quite a few of us). “Tell me: what's in it for me?"

But Jesus knows that God has already given us everything we need to do the task at hand. And, He wants us to do what is right – what He would do – without having to be bribed.

“You don’t need more faith,” Jesus says. “You just need faith. Do you expect a parade every time you do the right thing? You shouldn’t. Doing the right thing – the thing I ask you to do – should be the natural thing to do, the proper thing. As much as you might want to receive recognition or credit for it, you won’t. It’s simply your duty.”

As they walk together, a group of ten men are watching from a distance. Seeing they have caught Jesus’ eye, they cry out for His mercy. In a very matter of fact manner, Jesus simply tells them to show themselves to the priests. 

As they are en route they find they have been cleansed. Nine of the ten literally take it in stride and continue on their way. One – a Samaritan – praises God with a loud voice, returns, and falls on his face to worship at Jesus’ feet. 

It is an extravagant display made even more so by the fact that he is alone in his gratitude. Not only does his effusive praise make the other nine lepers look bad, it also makes the ungrateful, stubborn disciples (and us) just a touch uncomfortable.

Jesus, tongue firmly planted in cheek, asks, “Weren’t there ten of you? What happened to the nine? Was no one but this foreigner compelled to acknowledge the grace of God?”

Jesus shames the Jews (and the disciples and us) here. Once again He has found someone who should not “get it” (in this case, one of those nasty Samaritans) who has outpaced his Jewish counterparts. The nine proceeded to the priests healed but they expected to be so. As Jews, they felt that God had an obligation to heal them due to their status as children of Abraham (just as we often expect Him to heal us as the children of God).

The story of the 10 lepers is another lesson in singular living, but an uplifting one. There are times when you must go it alone, Jesus says, but the rewards will be worth it. It is your own personal faith that will make you well.

Lent 2016, Day 32: March 12 (Luke 16:19-31)

One of the hallmarks of Jesus’ ministry is His knack for turning our expectations upside down. At first glance, Lazarus and the rich man is a straightforward parable: poor man good, rich man bad. But, in His usual fashion, Jesus (and Luke as His biographer) manages to slip in a few things right under our noses.

The rich man is, well, rich. He’s pretty one-dimensional, and he does what we imagine rich men do: he dresses in the finest fabrics (linen) in a color that denotes his rank (royal purple) and “feasts sumptuously” every day. His is an empty, superficial and self-obsessed life. It is monotonous in its abundance. Then one small thing changes; it is, in itself, an opportunity. But does he even notice the man who is now living (just barely) at his gate?

The man at the gate is Lazarus. “Covered with sores,” he has possibly been abandoned by his family, left at the one place where he has the best chance of being fed and cared for: at the rich man’s gate – the place of opportunity. Someone has noticed that food is being tossed out here. If he can deal with the dogs, he stands a chance of eating well. The dogs, for their part, take Lazarus’ presence in stride. However, they do tend to make a habit of licking the sores that cover his body.

We shudder at this because we’re supposed to – it is intended to show us that a great chasm has been fixed between the two men. Jewish purity laws and social norms preclude the two from having any real interaction, and any assistance that Lazarus might possibly receive from the rich man will be administered through his servants. This artificial chasm can be bridged – Lazarus could be restored to a normal life –  but it will require some personal sacrifice from the rich man, whether of time, money or social status.

Both men die. Death, the great equalizer, comes for the rich man (who is buried) and Lazarus (who is carried by angels to Abraham’s side). The instant of death, however, is the only moment where the two are equal. Their roles are now reversed. Lazarus now “has his good things” while the rich man now “lives” in torment.

“Holy moly it’s hot,” says the rich man as he tries to find a comfortable spot on the naked steel hood of a 1976 Trans Am in a Death Valley high noon sun. “Oi! Abba Abe! Cut me some slack and send Lazarus down here to slip me a little water. I’m dyin’ all over again here.”

It turns out that the rich man did notice Lazarus at his gate – he knows his name. However, his attitude towards Lazarus is suspect. He clearly sees Lazarus as someone who exists to support and serve him – to further his comfort. His request for token assistance (it will do nothing to alter the rich man’s true state) may be his way of asking for Lazarus to remember the table scraps the rich man let fall his way once.

“Sorry Bernie,” says Abraham (though we don’t really know the man’s name, it’s just funny), “but this is the way things are now. You had your good things while alive. In the same manner, Lazarus received bad things. Now Lazarus is comforted here, and you are in anguish. Besides, a great chasm has been fixed between us and you to prevent any commerce between us.”

Stymied by the lack of opportunity here in the afterlife to bridge the chasm, the rich man makes a seemingly noble request, “Then send him to my father’s house to warn my family lest they come here also.”

Abraham returns the volley, “Let them hear Moses and the prophets.”

“No, abba Abe, but if someone were to rise from the dead, they will repent.”

Jesus, in a moment of double prescience, tells the Pharisees and crowd that Abraham (their father) said, “No, if they don’t hear what Moses and the prophets have to say, they will not be convinced if someone should rise from the dead.”

In his book “Luke: The Gospel of Amazement,” Michael Card points out the raw power of this statement. There are two people who will soon famously rise from the dead and, curiously, one of them is named Lazarus.

Throughout the story, Jesus is nipping at the heels of our expectations and our perceptions. Does the rich man do anything for Lazarus? He might. It’s said that Lazarus is simply hoping to be fed with what falls from the rich man’s table, and he may very well have been. But, it did nothing to change his true state. Lazarus died among the dogs at the gate where the rich man’s brothers walked past him at least once (how else would they have recognized a risen Lazarus?). How much benefit then did the rich man’s charity (if any) provide? None. The rich man did not go far enough.

The rich man clearly has not made enough effort to make a difference in the lives of the people around him – including Lazarus, his father and his five brothers. Why, for example, is the rich man not caring for his father? Or his brothers? Why does he live alone in luxury? His singular life is held up by our society as an admirable goal on the one hand and made suspect and tawdry in the other.

Jesus also gives a subtle dig at the Pharisees by flaunting a little Greek culture in their faces. Instead of Gehenna or Sheol, he uses the Greek word “Hades” to describe the rich man’s eternal destination. It’s almost as if Jesus is saying, “The Gentiles are convinced there’s an afterlife, why aren’t you?” 

Perhaps it would be better to state that Jesus is telling the Pharisees and the crowd that Hell is something that ought to be completely foreign to them. After all, these are not literal descriptions of the next life. He is simply playing with our expectations, myths and beliefs. But not for long. He will stop playing and completely destroy them when He rises – three days after He is murdered.

Lent 2016, Day 31: March 11 (Luke 16:1-18)

Jesus is continuing to teach – presumably to a mixed, divisive crowd. He turns from a powerful parable about grace to lessons about proper stewardship while keeping a wary eye fixed on the Pharisees (I see you Rabbi Feldman!), many of whom are audibly scoffing at His words (I can hear you, too!).

The rich man’s steward has a really sweet gig. As manager of his master’s estate, he has a lot of responsibility and autonomy. He’s practically a member of the family. He’s got a good setup, and he knows it. Sadly, that doesn’t prevent him from betraying his master by using his autonomy and authority to set up a little side action.

The steward has been cooking the books by padding the invoices and skimming off the top. It’s taken a while but somebody has finally gotten fed up with paying more than he should and has ratted him out – turned him in.

The jig is up, the news is out. The sweet ride grinds to a halt.

Now what?

The man doesn’t take responsibility for the situation (he blames his master for “taking away” the stewardship). To him, it’s a new variable to his life equation – a new constant. “I’m too fat to dig and too fat to proud to beg,” he thinks, “so what should I do?”

It occurs to him to use his imminent departure from his master’s house to speed him on his way to a new home. Under the guise of wrapping up a few loose ends, he shrewdly calls each of the master’s clients in for a heart to heart about their outstanding invoices. He works with each client to remove the obvious evidence of his embezzlement – each invoice is restored to its original state.

This, of course, ingratiates him to his master’s clients and may very well open a few doors for him and lead to his next long-term opportunity – or not. After all, he’s been shaking down these clients for months if not years. Just how grateful will they be to save 20% off just one invoice? Probably not much.

Jesus uses this parable to teach us about faithfulness and character. True faithfulness, He says, is about doing what the Master wants and giving Him His due – without worrying about what’s in it for you. True character, He notes, will always come out. Like a bad tree with bad fruit, bad character produces bad actions. The steward may have learned his lesson, but the likelihood is that he’s only learned not to get caught.

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.