Day 293. NT Day 16. Mark 14-16.

The two minutes or so following the death of Jesus, according to Mark's Gospel, are filled with wild confusion. Yet they are also the most significant minutes in the history of the world, the beginning of a new relationship between God and humankind. 

From noon that Friday until three in the afternoon the world is cloaked in ominous darkness (15:33), as if light, the first of God's creatures, has been negated. The old creation has ended as it began, in darkness and meaningless chaos.

There is a terrible pause. Then Jesus utters a formless cry and breathes his last, and all at once "the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom" (15:38). In the older translations the curtain is called a "veil," but that gives the modern reader a false impression.  This curtain is by no means diaphanous; it is thick and heavy, less of a veil and more of a carpet, thick and richly embroidered with images of angels. It closed the opening between the Holy Place from the Holy of Holies, the innermost sanctum of the Jerusalem Temple, which only the High Priest could enter and then only once a year, on the Day of Atonement, to sprinkle sacrificial blood for the sins of the people. There was the strictest taboo against anyone else penetrating this room. Death was the forfeit.

Indeed, so holy was the place that the High Priest's robes were sewn with tiny golden bells so that when he did enter, he could be heard moving about.  And a rope was tied to his leg before he entered, so that if the noise of the bells ceased those waiting outside would know that he had died during the performance of his duties, and his body could be hauled out without further desecration of the place behind the curtain.  

By Jesus time the Holy of Holies was an empty room. The Ark of the Covenant, which it had once housed, had long since been destroyed or lost. But the room and the curtain that covered its entrance still had great symbolic power, a barrier representing the absolute transcendence of the God who is infinitely above and beyond the created universe, whose very name is so holy that it cannot be uttered.

So the cutting of the curtain from top to bottom at the moment of Jesus' death would be an act of wanton destruction and sacrilege, if God himself not already done it. He cut through the barrier from within to let himself out of the stuffy precincts of human religion. Now he is indeed Emmanuel—God with us. He not only is born among and lives with us, he also dies with us. With the death of Jesus the distance we had created between ourselves and God is finally and completely erased. Transcendence is swallowed up in immanence. Jesus dies so the men and women may live, and his Spirit is now completely present in the world. He is with us, the Good News. Now we can never be left alone.

In Mark's Gospel, the moment of Jesus' death represents the quantum leap forward into the Kingdom. Hidden until now, the true identity of the Man of Power and Mystery is suddenly revealed. The great irony for Mark is that the only person present who understands what has happened is the nameless Roman officer in charge of Jesus' execution. The last one who should recognize who Jesus is is the only one who does.

It is difficult to know what to make of the centurion's confession.  Does he really understand what he is saying? "Surely this man was God's Son" (verse 39) can be as easily translated, "Surely this was the son of a god"—and that is a pretty ambivalent confession. But faith is always ambivalent. No one fully understands who Jesus is or what happens on the cross. But that doesn't matter. For Mark the centurion's confession is still the climax of his gospel story. In his telling of it, Jesus' family does not know who he is. His disciples do not know who he is. The religious leaders of his own nation do not know who he is. His true identity remains hidden until the very moment of his death. And even then it is revealed only partially and incompletely to the eyes of faith.

Our faith is like the faith of the centurion; he reminds us of ourselves. He is uncertain, confused, knowing what he sees on the cross has changed everything, and yet unable to grasp its full meaning. Seeing the light, he is still in the dark—and so are we.

Day 292. New Testament Day 15. Mark 10-13

 The relationship between Christian obedience and material prosperity is broadly discussed in modern American Christianity. Certain prominent "evangelical" preachers have made a considerable windfall for themselves by telling people what they want to hear—that if they follow some sort of financial formula based upon "spiritual principles"--they will prosper financially. But the story of the rich man found in our reading for today directly challenges this "prosperity gospel." And at the same time it calls those who hear the call to follow Jesus to renounce earthly dependencies—including wealth—and live a life of "evangelical poverty."  

St. Mark tells us that "as [Jesus] was setting out on a journey, a man ran up and knelt before him, and asked, 'Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?'" (10:17). As is so often the case in the gospels, we are not supplied with much background about this man. When Matthew tells the story, he informs us that Jesus' questioner is "young" as well as rich (Matt. 19:16-22). He is a nice Jewish lad who comes to Jesus the Great Rabbi, the New Moses, to seek advice as to how to live a life of perfect obedience to the Law. His youthfulness is central to the meaning of Matthew's story.

In Mark's gospel, however, we are not told anything about his age, except that it is implied by the words "from my youth" (v. 20) that he is no longer young. We have the sense that he is a mature man who is disillusioned by the search for certainty, and this gives his inquiry greater urgency. He chases Jesus down—in Mark's gospel Jesus is always in a hurry—and when he catches him, he presses upon him a life or death question: "Good Teacher, what must I do . . . ?"

Typically Jesus rejects any hint of flattery; "Why do you call me good?" he asks. This rebuff does not imply that Jesus has any particular awareness of his own sinfulness; at the end of Mark's Gospel Jesus is acknowledged as the sinless Son of God (15:39). Certainly from the Jewish point of view absolute goodness adheres to God alone (see Psalm 100:5), and it is an impiety to ascribe it elsewhere.  But the real point of Jesus' negative response is to establish that the whole human pursuit of goodness is futile. St. Mark shares with St. Paul a firm conviction that human beings are helpless in the power of sin (see Romans 7:18), and the evangelist uses the story of the rich man to insist that what he seeks—eternal life—is not available through obedience, no matter how rigorous. Moral perfection is not even an option for human beings. Even if we were obedient to the Law of Moses in all its detail, we would still lack that which is most crucial for our salvation—renunciation of all that is worldly and acceptance of God's gift of grace on God's terms—by naked faith and blind trust.

This is not Matthew's way of telling the story, but there is a basic difference between the theologies of Matthew and Mark. Matthew's is a gospel of obedience—for him discipleship means obedience to the Spirit of Jesus, the Living Teacher of the Church. On the other hand, Mark's is a gospel of faith. His focus is trust, and he is largely indifferent to the Law of Moses and its commands, which Matthew affirms and upholds (Matthew 5:17-20).

So in Matthew when the "rich young man" asks what he still lacks in his search for perfection, Jesus gives him prescription for a more rigorous obedience that goes beyond the Law of Moses (Matthew 19:21). In Mark we are told that Jesus "looking at him, loved him" (10:21), and so he gives him an honest answer--there is nothing you can do that will save you.  Righteousness is humanly impossible. Only faith, expressed in the rejection of all earthly dependencies, opens the door to eternal life—the life that alone deserves the name of life. And faith is exactly what the rich man in the story lacks, and cannot gain; he is "shocked" and goes "away grieving," still trusting ultimately in his "many possessions."  The disciples are likewise "perplexed" by Jesus' answer.

Jews of Jesus' time—and many contemporary Christians—regard wealth as sign of God's approval—seal of divine approval. The Old Testament stories of Abraham and Job are often mustered in support this belief, which went unchallenged in Jesus' time. But this is yet another way in which the Christian Gospel turned the world up-side-down. Jesus taught that wealth makes those who possess it self-sufficient, and is therefore a danger to our relationship to God and a barrier to grace, rather than a by-product of righteousness. And inequality, far from being an expression of God's will, is a sign of sin and yet another symptom of creation gone tragically haywire.  

Pastor Bill Roen in Haiti. Blog posts will resume when he returns next week.

Day 291. (New Testament Day 14) Mark 7-9

 

Having gotten all the conventional answers, Jesus asks the disciples, "But who do you say that I am?"  And Peter answers him, "You are the Messiah" (8:29).  In St. Mark's gospel, it is a moment of transformation for Peter. He is still only a partial disciple. He will go on to deny Jesus three times. But what happens to him at Caesarea Philippi is crucial, a giant step, even though it isn't until much later that he will have the courage to carry through on the confession he makes that day.

Jesus had already asked his disciples--Who do people say that I am?  In Greek people is "hoi anthropoi," which means humankind or human beings, as opposed to God and his angels and the demons, who already know who Jesus is.   Here "hoi anthropoi" means those outside the circle of the disciples, including Jesus' enemies—of which there were many. Who do others say that I am?

And how this question is answered, then as now, is conditioned by the cross. Jesus with the cross is our savior, our redeemer, our reconciler to God, to ourselves and to one another--the most important fact in creation. Jesus without the cross  can be anything under the sun--a prophet, a teacher, a healer, a charlatan, a fraud, a self-deluded trouble-maker. Jesus without the cross can be either the conservative or the liberal ideologue—take your pick.

The answer to the question—Who is Jesus?--depends upon the hopes and fears of the time in which it is asked. In Jesus' lifetime that was certainly so. Apparently during his lifetime there was a rumor abroad that Jesus was John the Baptist resurrected—see Mark 6:14-15. Jesus wasn't. It was a widespread belief--based upon the Old Testament book of Malachi (4:5)—that the prophet Elijah would return before the coming of the Day of the Lord. It was a time of intense eschatological speculation—like our own, and some thought they recognized in Jesus Elijah's long anticipated return—see Mark 9:10-13. Other candidates, notably Moses, were also mentioned, but Jesus was not a dead prophet, no matter how great. What is remarkable is that in the midst of such a babel of supposition and conjecture, no one recognizes Jesus as who he really is—not until Peter's inspired guess. But the question—"Who do you say that I am?" –is addressed to us as much as to the disciples.  The pronoun "you" makes that clear. What is important is not what others say, but what you and I say.  Who is he to us personally? To those outside Jesus will always remain a mystery, an unknown, but is he known to us?

According to Mark, Simon Peter is the first human being to correctly—if incompletely—answer the question—Who is Jesus? He confesses Jesus as the long-expected deliverer of Israel, but his identity as "Son of God" remains hidden. Only his cross will reveal Jesus as crucified Messiah and present Lord of all. And then it is not a disciple—they have all high-tailed it by then—but a pagan centurion—speaking for Mark's gentile church--who makes the final, definitive profession of faith—see 15:39.

But once Peter openly identifies him as the Messiah, Jesus does a strange thing—to our thinking anyway—he "sternly orders [his disciples] not to tell anyone about him" (8:30). Notice that he does not deny that he is the Messiah; he simply endeavors to keep his true identity a secret. This reticence is typical of the Gospel of Mark, where Jesus is always portrayed as Man of Mystery. Earlier in the gospel, demons are forbidden to say that Jesus is the Messiah—see 1:23ff—now the disciples are told to say nothing. Why? Well in part the reason lies in the problematic nature of the title Anointed One. By Jesus' time the coming Messiah was closely connected with the hopes of certain groups of radical Jewish patriots—notably the Zealots—who had made the restoration of the royal house of David the cornerstone of their agenda. There was at least one Zealot among Jesus' disciples. But Jesus certainly wanted to disassociate himself with their terrorist tactics in particular and from Jewish dreams of national glory in general.

Instead Jesus defines messiahship in terms of the suffering servant described the prophet Isaiah (chapters 49-50). To be the Messiah means willing acceptance of the cross with all that it implies. This is the mystery Jesus seeks to share with his disciples (8:31), and through them with the Church. And the Church must follow the example of the Suffering Messiah. Peter tries to hush him (8:32), but Jesus turns and hushes him instead, not because Peter's insight into his messiahship is false, but because it is limited. Simon Peter is still a partial disciple who clings to the false hope of glory without the suffering of the cross.

Day 290 (New Testament Day 13) Mark 4-6

 For the church to which the evangelist Mark is writing his gospel the world is a combat zone. Everywhere around them they could see evidence that God and Satan are locked in a struggle to the death. It is easy for us, in the midst of the confusion of our time, to identify with that feeling. Then as now, the Church—the people in the boat—is surrounded by chaos. The social order is disrupted and disorderly, even violent. Viciousness and criminality triumph over gentleness and virtue. The forces of nature are destructive and dangerous—droughts, famines, and earthquakes. The chaos outside is mirrored in the life of the Christian community. False leaders appear to lead the weak astray, and conflict arises within families because of the preaching of the Gospel. There are legal entanglements and persecutions to contend with. Demonic forces are hard at work everywhere, and there is uncertainty and fear in the community.

That is what the church of St. Mark was contending with. It is no wonder that the story of the stilling of the sea (4:35-41) resonated with them. They wanted and needed a man of power to save them, a hero, and they found him in Jesus, who "woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, 'Peace! Be still!' Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm" (4:39). The story proclaims the good news that Jesus has authority over the natural world of wind and waves, just as he demonstrates his power over the supernatural realm, the world of demons and evil spirits, in the story that follows--5:1-20.

It all happens in the evening and that is important for the meaning of the story. Evening is the time when the resurrected Lord appears to his disciples, and this is an Easter evening story. One evening on the Sea of Galilee the disciples are with Jesus in the boat. The boat is the most ancient symbol of the Church. The Church is the ark of salvation; like the ark of Noah, it is mankind's only source of life and salvation in a dangerous and potentially deadly world. Suddenly a storm breaks upon the tiny boat, and Jesus' disciples are terrified by the apocalyptic chaos that surrounds them.

But where is Jesus? The gospel writer tells us he is right there in the stern of boat, asleep on the cushion. He is apparently serene and untroubled by the violence of the storm; he is certain of his power to command—but the disciples aren't so sure.  And in to those chaotic moments when our lives seem most out of control we are also tempted to wonder where the Lord is and whether he cares about our predicament. We mistake detachment for indifference.

So do the disciples.  They wake Jesus with a rebuke about his lack of concern—"Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing."  You see, they could be as passive-aggressive as we sometimes are.  Mark is always at pains to place the first followers of Jesus in the most unflattering light possible.  They are cowards.  They are "perishers."  They are not even sure what they expect him to do for them.

But the response Jesus makes is immediate and decisive—as it always is in Mark's gospel.  He is never a perisher, like us.  He commands the howling wind—"Peace! Be still!"  Literally he says—"Be muzzled!" Or in even more vulgar language—"Shut up!"  It is in exactly these words and with this tone that Jesus addresses demons—Mark 1:25.  No nonsense.  And sure enough the wind ceases, and there is a dead calm.  A natural explanation is possible, of course; the storm may have just blown itself out.  But that is not the point for Mark , for whom Jesus is the Man of Power, who has the authority to rebuke both demons and the demonic energies of the natural world.

He rebukes the cowardly disciples too. "Why are you afraid?" he wants to know. "Have you still no faith?" And we need to notice that fear is made the opposite of faith, not doubt, which is just its absence. When it comes to following Jesus, faith and courage are one and the same. The miracle of the stilling of the sea impresses the disciples, but it does not create faith in them. They are still "perishers." They are filled with "great awe," but they are not illuminated.  At the end of the story they are left asking—"Who then is this, that even the winds obey him?" Miracles may produce the awestruck question—Who then is this?--but the disciples do not have the "Easter evening faith" necessary to frame the right answer—Jesus is the powerful Lord of the Church. But we do. The Holy Spirit, the presence of Jesus, provides that faith. We know that in the midst of the chaos of our lives the Lord is always in the boat with us, and not only "the wind and the sea," but all the powers that worry and harass us "obey him.

Day 289. (NT Day 12). Mark 1-3

 "After John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, 'The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news'" (1:14-15). 

In the Gospel of Mark everything happens suddenly. The gospel begins abruptly with the sudden appearance of John the Baptist. He comes out of nowhere, and then he is abruptly swept aside to make room for the one "more powerful" (1:7) than he. Then just as suddenly Jesus breaks upon Galilee like a storm, "proclaiming the Gospel"—for Mark the Gospel Jesus proclaims is Jesus himself.

The evangelist has traditionally been placed among the companions of St. Paul. We don't know if Mark actually traveled with Paul, but his point of view is certainly like that of the gentile churches Paul founded. The evangelists Matthew and Luke are more closely related to a Jewish obedience-centered religion. In their gospels Jesus comes to teach a new way of living, and he does this through teachings and parables. But Mark's gospel is a story of mighty actions. Jesus is the man of Power who comes to defeat the powers of evil and to proclaim that God is about to establish his Kingdom on earth. In Mark we listen in vain for the kind of ethical teaching we find in Matthew's Sermon on the Mount. What we do hear—and see--is Jesus "proclaiming the good news" with power and authority.

And what is the content of this good news?  In Mark's gospel it is a message of destruction and renewal. The radical transformation of the present, corrupt era into a new and purified one is the theme of all the apocalyptic books of the Bible, books like Daniel and Revelation. Mark's gospel is apocalyptic; Jesus proclaims the good news that the old eon is about to end and another is about to begin.

In Mark's gospel the moment of Jesus' coming is the cusp of time; it is the moment when God lowers the curtain upon an epoch marked by strife and opposition, and clears the stage for a new age to begin. "The time is fulfilled; the kingdom of God has come near," Jesus says. God sends His Man into the world to effect this change; Jesus believes that his life and death are crucial for that change to take place. And when Jesus rises from the dead, the early church, of which Mark was a part, sees Jesus' proclamation validated, and interprets the resurrection as the beginning of the new eon, a time when old certainties are called into question and the established order is reversed, when the dead rise and anything can happen.

So in such a world what should our lives be like? "Repent, and believe the good news," Jesus replies. Repentance is not a very important theme in the rest of Mark's gospel. As in Paul's gentile churches his emphasis is not on what we do, but on what God has done. For Paul and Mark, Jesus Christ is God's rescue act, redeeming a helpless and lost humanity from its slavery to the power of death. Repentance implies a real freedom on the part of human beings, but the Gospel of Mark focuses not on human freedom but upon the powerful Son of God who conquers the enemy we could never overcome. As it is expressed in the words of a Sunday school hymn—"we are weak but he is strong." Repentance lies beyond our powers, but the second half of Jesus' command, "believe the Gospel," is closer to the heart of Mark's message. Jesus is the Gospel; to be a Christian is to believe the story of God's rescue, and to respond in faith by becoming his disciple.

And that is exactly what happens next in Mark; Jesus calls his first disciples. This is not just an account of the call of the Galilee fishermen. It is also an ideal picture of what our response should be to the preaching of the Gospel. When Jesus calls us we should drop everything else and follow. The imminent coming of God's kingdom demands an immediate response. So Mark tells the story of the calling of the disciples twice, as if for emphasis, and both times their response to the call is immediate. And this sets up a pattern in Mark of immediate responses. The word "immediately" is used by the evangelist again and again to stress that the only appropriate response to the Gospel is an instantaneous one.

And that wonderful summons Jesus gives them—"Follow me and I will make you fish for people"—is the key to everything. These words come to us directly from the mouth of Jesus, remembered by the disciples to whom they were spoken.  They are both a call to labor in the Kingdom and an assurance of the powerful Son of God that he will share his strength and courage with those who share his mission. It was a promise he kept to those Galilee fisherman, and keeps to us.  

Vacation

I'll resume postings when I return from vacation the first week of October.

Pastor Bill Roen

Day 288. New Testament Day 11. Matthew 27-28

The most interesting moral choices that surround the trial and death of Jesus do not take place in the plotting of the chief priests or the howling violence of the crowd, but in the mind of an otherwise obscure Roman bureaucrat named Pontius Pilate. That Jesus was crucified "under" him is his only real claim to significance. He is the only historical character, apart from Jesus and his mother Mary, who is mentioned in the Creed. In part, he is only mentioned there to affirm its historicity. The death of Jesus and his resurrection are not a timeless myth; they took place at a certain moment in our history. They happened. But Pontius Pilate also represents humanity—not at its best or at its worst, but as it is. In the Inferno, Dante and his guide Virgil encounter Pontius Pilate in the vestibule of hell, among those who in their lives did nothing, either good or bad. There Dante is asked to pass judgment on him—and so are we. We are asked to judge the judge.

And Pilate is not a bad man—just a competent Roman functionary.  When he asks Jesus if he is the king of the Jews, he clearly does not take the question with great seriousness, although the charge was a grave one. We know from Luke 13:1 that Pilate had already savagely put down several Jewish insurrections, and can be sure that he was prepared to deal peremptorily with any political threats to Roman rule in the region. When Jesus was brought before him, he is prepared for denials and for rage, but not for what he got—silence. Matthew, who is always looking back to the Old Testament to show that Jesus is in fact the promised Messiah, sees Isaiah 53:7 as prefiguring this. Jesus remains detached, non-committal, entering no plea, and Pilate is "greatly amazed."

But Pilate knows that there is no real evidence behind the charge, and he does his best to get his silent prisoner off. The gospels tell us that it was customary for the Romans to release a convict during Passover. The city of Jerusalem was always packed with pilgrims at that time of the year, and the religious and patriotic implications of the feast fueled unrest. The city was a tinderbox. There were often riots, and letting a prisoner go served to release some of the pent up tension in the air. Selection was made by popular petition. Mark 15:7 tells us that Barabbas was a revolutionary—the very thing Jesus is accused of being. It is interesting that certain ancient manuscripts of the New Testament call him Jesus Barabbas, which adds further irony to the situation. So the choice is between two men named Jesus, one the rabbi from Nazareth the other a terrorist. Matthew calls him "a notorious prisoner"—scum, but apparently a popular hero.

Matthew has a great interest in dreams (see 2:13ff). The dream of Pilate's wife is to be found only in Matthew's account, and it serves as a dramatic warning of the terrible consequences anyone who plays any part in Jesus' death will suffer. Ancient Romans were profoundly superstitious, and this warning would certainly have had an effect upon the governor, who now presses even harder to win Jesus' release. But the crowd will have none of it. They demand the release of Barabbas and the crucifixion of Jesus. When Pilate sees that he is getting nowhere and in fact a riot seems to be beginning, he surrenders to evil and calls for water to wash his hands before the crowd—"I am innocent of this man's blood; see to it yourselves," he says (27:24).  But what is the nature of innocence? Is it only the refusal to accept responsibility? Is one who surrenders under pressure and condemns what he knows to be an innocent man morally any better than those who exert the pressure. Is it really better to be nothing at all—lukewarm—than actively bad? Often people treat their refusal to take responsibility as innocence. They want to forgive themselves for being neither good nor bad.

The evangelist emphasizes that the Jews—especially their leaders—accept the responsibility for the execution of Jesus--even though it was carried out by Romans, in the Roman manner, under Roman, and not Jewish law.  The blood curse spoken the people "as a whole"--"His blood be on us and on our children!" (27:25)—has unleashed centuries of anti-Semitic violence. But what about Pontius Pilate? What is our judgment of the judge who knew what was right and did not do it? We know that evil is not the opposite of good; it is the absence of good. It is the vacuum left when goodness and mercy have been sucked out of the world.  So that is what Pilate of guilty of—the absence of good. But when we judge him, we judge ourselves for all those times when in the face of evil we have washed our hands and turned away from Jesus protesting our innocence. But the story of Pontius Pilate reminds us that the greatest crimes are not committed; they are permitted.

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 287. New Testament Day 10. Matthew 25-26

In one of the parables Jesus tells in our reading for today—the final parable in Matthew's gospel—the righteous answer-- "'Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? When was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?' And the king will answer them, 'Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these the members of my family, you did it to me'" (Matthew 25:37-40).

This parable contains elements of apocalyptic literature—in other words,  it looks beyond the present age to describe "the end," the goal of history. Apocalyptic seeks to answer the question---What does all this we are going through now mean? It contains not only menace, but also comfort. And the comfort apocalyptic literature offers to persecuted minorities—and that is how the church of Matthew saw itself--is that their suffering has an ultimate, transcendent meaning. For those who have no hope in the present, there has to be the promise of a glorious vindication to come.  For those who experience injustice now, it promises that faithfulness will be rewarded and unfaithfulness punished. The present situation will not last forever. There will be an end.

 Apocalyptic literature seeks a sense of history that would otherwise be absurd. This parable makes sense of history by placing Jesus in its center. It says—very explicitly--that the decisions made by men and women now in relation to Jesus will determine their destiny in the age to come. There is an element of threat here, and danger. Judgment is real, but it is not arbitrary or unfair. It is universal, but also very individual. Men and women pass judgment upon themselves by the way they relate to Jesus. (This theme appears again and again in the Gospels--see John 3:16-21.) At the moment of our encounter with Jesus Christ we judge ourselves by our response to him, and that judgment is ratified on Judgment Day.

In the Old Testament God turns over the judgment of the world to the Messiah, the prince of the house of David, who is destined to establish an earthly kingdom of peace and justice. By New Testament times this idea had developed into the belief that the Son of Man, the eschatological super-man, will judge all men. The Church explicitly identified the Son of Man with Jesus the Messiah. So in the Nicene Creed we say that we believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ who "will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end." In Matthew's Gospel Jesus, the Living Teacher of the Church, tells this parable about Jesus, the Judge of the World, who is himself the criterion of judgment.

Human beings are separated into the sheep and goats, into those who belong to the flock and those who may graze with the flock, but do not belong to it. Sheep are placed on the Lord's right—the lucky side in the New Testament (see John 21:6 and Luke 23:33)—and goats on the left. The decisive factor is whether or not they performed acts of mercy. (Remember the beatitude found in Matthew 5:7--"Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.")  And the acts of mercy mentioned are very concrete; they are not simply good wishes or charitable feelings. They do not consist in being a "nice" person, let alone a respectable one. And those saving acts of mercy are directed not to one's own kin or nation or to "the least of my family." In the mouth of the historical Jesus "the least of my family" or "my brethren" may have meant the disciples, the seed of the Church, those who followed him. But in the mouth of the risen Lord "my family" certainly refers of all humankind. Those who have acted mercifully toward "my family," the Judge proclaims, have done the same "to me."           

 Now everyone is puzzled. Those who are being welcomed into the kingdom have no recollection of having performed acts of mercy to Jesus. They simply proceeded upon their instinct for kindness and sympathy. Informed by grace and not self-interest, they responded to their fellow creatures in need. They did what they did not out of any hope for reward or fear of punishment, but simply because was good. Good is instinctual--but so is selfishness. Those who are condemned are equally clueless. They acted out of self-interest without thinking that what they were doing was particularly bad. But in the end they find themselves isolated from the mercy of God, because they failed to show mercy.   When did we see you in need? They ask. They didn't—that's just it. They didn't see him. When we encounter those in need and actually see them, we see the Lord, and upon our response everything----everything that matters—depends.

Day 286. New Testament Day 9. Matthew 23-24

In our reading for today Jesus tells his disciples: "About that day and hour [of the coming of the Son of Man] no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father"(Matthew 24:36). The fact that Jesus forbids speculation as to the exact time of the end, however, has not inhibited guesswork about God's intentions on this score. From the day that Jesus' resurrection appearances ceased until the present, Christians, moved by the same pervasive longing, have asked the same question again and again—When will we see Him again?   

And there is still no answer to that question. Early Christians anticipated the Lord's immediate return. Later Christians saw the great calamities of history as a sign that he is coming very soon. Modern Christians look at a world in turmoil and conclude that the return of the Lord Jesus must be long overdue. But like his coming the first time, his return will be a sudden and unpredictable event; "as the days of Noah were . . . before the flood," the risen Christ puts it, so the world will be going about its worldly business and then all at once suddenly . . . what?

According to our reading the "parousia"—the return of Christ—will reveal circumstances that have heretofore been hidden. Two men will be out working in the field together, one will be "taken" and the other left. Two women will be grinding meal together; they share the same occupation and look alike, but God knows the difference. One is taken the other is left behind (Matthew 24:40-41). We might assume that the ones who are "taken" are those who have gotten right with the Lord, been "saved" or whatever. But is this really what the parable means?

Many Jews in Jesus' time, and this included many Pharisees—whose doctrines in the gospel of Matthew are much like those of Jesus—believed that on the last day the wicked would be annihilated the righteous would be left in possession of a renewed creation over which the LORD would reign—what Jesus called "the Kingdom of God."  Remember the beatitude that says—"Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth" (Matthew 5:5). So consider this--Who are the righteous in the parable? Are they those who are "taken" or those who remain to "inherit the earth" at the Lord's return?     

This passage from Matthew has often been used to underpin an expectation of the so-called "Rapture"—the latest evangelical craze--but that would be a mistake. The  primary text for the "rapture" is 1 Thessalonians 4:15ff. I Thessalonians is the very earliest letter we have from the hand of St. Paul, and it was written in part to reassure a church that was  worrying about what would happen to the dead. Will they share in the return of Christ? St. Paul affirms that yes, on the last day the dead in Christ will rise first and will be caught up into the clouds to join the returning Lord. Then those who are alive at Christ's return will join the resurrected dead "in the air," a place between earth and sky. And what will happen then? What will be the fate of the non-Christian dead, the "left behind"? Writing in I Corinthians 15:50-54, where he has received a fuller revelation on the subject, Paul says that at the Lord's return the living will be transformed into a closer resemblance to Christ. But in his scenario there is no mention of the Lord's actual descent to the earth, and there is no room for anything like the millennial rule of the Messiah such as St. John describes in Revelation 20:4-6. It is worth noting that Paul never again mentions the "rapture" in any of his later writings.

And none of this speculation has any place in Jesus' own teaching. In Matthew's gospel, the manner as well as the time of the Son of Man's return remains a profound mystery, known only to the Father. The New Testament writers are united in affirming that the risen and ascended Lord will return, but each describes that return  using different images. It is in fact an "unimaginable" event, one which exists beyond history and cannot be effectively described.

The only sound advice we have in this regard is this—"Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming." Useless and time-consuming speculations are forbidden. Breaking and entering seems to have been as much of a problem in New Testament times as it is in ours. The image the Lord's return as like a "thief in the night" appears again and again in the New Testament.  (See 1 Thessalonians 5:4.) And the householder's attitude of watchful preparedness is commended in the light of what will be a sudden, unpredictable turn of events. As servants of the Master we have been put in charge. There is more than enough for us to do before his return. There is no time left for calculations about the time or the manner of the Lord's return. When it happens we will know that it has.     

 

Day 285. New Testament Day 8. Matthew 21-22

According to Matthew the last week of Jesus' life bristled with controversy. His outspoken criticisms had earned him many determined enemies, and now they were closing in on him. His destruction had created a common cause among the rival groups within the Judaism of his time, but they were all well aware that in order to finish him off they must get in him trouble with the Roman authorities, who alone had the power to inflict capital punishment. And what better way of doing that than to involve Jesus on the wrong side of dispute over paying the head tax demanded by the Roman emperor. The tax was not a crushing one—one denarius, or the usual day's pay of Palestinian laborer—but it was required by Rome from all subject peoples (see Luke 2:1), and it was much hated.

So the disciples of Pharisees—the patriotic, ultra-observant party, the usual bad guys in the gospel of Matthew—join with the Herodians— the supporters of the family of Herod the Great, the petty princelings who ruled as puppets of the Roman government, and they come to Jesus with a question—"Is it lawful [according to the Law of Moses] to pay taxes to the emperor or not?" (22:17) They first praise his honesty and integrity.  Whether this is a cynical attempt at manipulation or not—the evangelist Matthew thinks it is—nevertheless the question is a dangerous one and puts Jesus between a rock and a hard place.

If he says "yes," that would put him the pocket of the hated Romans and alienate him from those who longed for Israel's independence. This would be the position of the Herodians in our reading; they "belonged" to the ruling authorities. But that Jesus would cast his lot with them seems hardly likely; he was no Quisling. Pagan oppression of God's chosen people would surely be an outrage to one who teaches "the way of God in accordance with truth," and shows "deference to no one." But if Jesus says "no," that would lay the grounds for a charge of insurrection and subversion.

Jesus, however, is not taken in by their stratagems; "aware of their malice," he replies—"Show me the money." And his opponents reach into their pockets and produce a denarius. Money —then as now-- "belonged" to the government; it was a crime to coin your own. "Whose head is this, and whose title?" Jesus asks. It is, of course, a purely rhetorical question. Everyone present recognizes the likeness of the divine emperor and his name--Tiberius. And everyone present also knows the first commandment of the God of Israel—"You shall not make for yourself an idol"—an image—"whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth" (20:4). So Jesus tricked the tricksters back. For any Jew to possess such an image and carry on his or her person is to break the Law of Moses. Jesus' questioners are themselves compromised by the money they carry.

The coin itself provides Jesus' answer to enemies' tricky question. If it bears Caesar's face and Caesar's name is on it, it must belong to Caesar. The money is his property, and he has a right to ask for it back.  So the followers of Jesus in every time—and remember, Matthew is a handbook for discipleship—must not think of money as belonging to them. They may use it, but they may not possess it or let it take possession of them. Their ultimate allegiance belongs to God. They should be prepared to render obedience and taxes to the powers that be, even godless ones (Romans 13:6-7), but not buy into the structures they represent.  

So what are the limits of Christian obedience to the state? Everyone is going to have a different answer because each of us feels a different level allegiance to the government under which we live. The state has authority over us—I doubt that anyone would seriously deny that—but authority means something different to each one of us. And political authority always wears a different human face. Christians are never going to agree on whether such and such a leader is a great statesman or a low-down skunk.  Order to one is oppression to another. So the claims of a particular Caesar to our loyalty and love must be determined by each man or woman on the basis of his or her conscience and common sense. But this much is beyond dispute—as long as we live,  we live under someone's authority. We can't live without Caesar's money, so we are all compromised by it. But compromise is not surrender. Caesar is not God, even though he always has ambitions in that direction.  As Jesus elsewhere remarks, no one can serve two masters (Matthew 6:24). In the end a choice is demanded—God or Caesar. The problem is that many contemporary American Christians do not think that that choice is necessary.   

Day 284. New Testament Day 7. Matthew 18-20.

After his death and resurrection the Church remembers many things about the Rabbi from Nazareth, among them that liked the company of children. In our reading for today it says that "little children were being brought to [Jesus] in order that he might lay his hands on them and pray. The disciples spoke sternly to those who brought them; but Jesus said, 'Let the little children come to me, and do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.' And he laid his hands on them and went on his way."

The attitude reflected in this story is a highly unusual one among Jewish males of Jesus'  time, who would have regarded the presence of children as a nuisance. The idea that childhood is something valuable in itself is a modern idea; the 19^th Century sentimentalized childhood in a way that it never had been before. In earlier times, childhood was—for both children and adults--an ordeal to be endured and "gotten through' as quickly as possible. We have all heard the expression—"Children should be seen and not heard"—and that was indeed the attitude of earlier times. Children were expected to remain politely silent in the presence of adults. Look at pictures of children from earlier centuries and you will see that they were dressed like little adults. They were expected to act like adults too, growing up fast and working hard at very adult jobs. Both sexes were subjected to the strictest discipline, including beating. They were often sent away by their parents, upper class boys to school and college. Working class children were farmed out at an earlier age—the boys as apprentices and the girls as housemaids. Both sexes were married very young by modern standards—especially the girls. The reasons were not just economic. Before the 19^th Century a large—indeed shockingly large—portion of infants and young children died of childhood diseases. People loved their children then as now, but there were sound emotional reasons for detachment. People did not value the freedom, simplicity, and spontaneity of childhood.  "Little ones" were expected to grow up as quickly as possible. Children resisted, of course—as children will. But St. Paul's attitude is more typical. He writes: "When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways" (1 Corinthians 13:11).

Jesus did not think this way, and that made him rare and almost unique in ancient times. His attitude was nothing short of revolutionary—and the Church remembered it. He saw childhood not as a situation to be endured and but an attitude adopted--and a paradigm of life in the kingdom of heaven. When some of his disciples come to him with the question—"Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?"--Jesus produces an actual child, whom he sets among them—a symbolic action—and says, ""Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." (18:15). The emphasis here is upon the word "change"—the disciples must make a conscious change,  which went against the demands of their culture and upbringing—rather than "growing up," they must make the decision to "grow downward."

Children in Jesus' time were expected to be humble and obedient, and the true follower of Jesus must adopt those same attitudes. Children were at the lowest level in the social stratum, and disciples were to put themselves there was well. "Become like children"--it is a command that has no parallel in the ancient world, pagan or Jewish, where dignity was a paramount virtue. Yet the sacrifice of our pride is necessary for greatness in the reign of God.  Jesus says, "Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven." This was the conscious pattern of Jesus' own life. For him the essence of faith was to recognize his own dependency and to rely upon the strength of his Abba—his Father in heaven. Jesus portrays himself as the image of the child, and says, "Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me" (18:1-5). For him the Gospel—the good news that God's kingdom is breaking into the world-- is a gift to be received with childlike joy and not an intellectual puzzle to be solved.

In distinction from Jesus, the disciples take the attitude of the male Jews of his day toward children—they see them and those who bring them for Jesus to "lay his hands on them and pray" as pests and distractions. But Matthew uses this story as an opportunity to display something that is very dear to the hearts of modern Christians—the friendliness and affability of Jesus. The picture he paints of the Lord is not of a dour teacher but of man filled with good-natured cordiality, who says of himself—"The Son of Man [comes] eating and drinking, and they say, 'Look, a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!" (11:19).  

Day 283. New Testament Day 6. Matthew 15-17

Remember that we said earlier--in Matthew's gospel the miracles of Jesus complete his teaching. The miracle makes the teaching "real." That is what happens in our reading for today, where it says "a Canaanite woman from that region came out and started shouting, 'Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.' But Jesus did not answer her at all."

The silence of Jesus is always a mysterious thing. The very few times in the gospels when he is silent—see Matthew 26:63—are the moments when Jesus is most distant and perplexing to us. And our instinct is to try to make him warm and familiar—more like us. Political and religious liberals want to make him a liberal like themselves; political and religious conservatives want to make him a conservative. We want to make Jesus "our man"—more modern, more perfect—or less so. It doesn't work. He is God's man. Jesus resists all our categories, and he transcends them all. He was like us. God made himself like us in Jesus, but we cannot use Jesus to mold God in our image. He is always the Other. The silence of Jesus reminds us of the distance between God's man and world he came save.    

Yet in many ways the Jesus of the gospels is a man of his time—a male Jew of the first century. And in the story of the Canaanite woman, he is pushed to the edge of his comfort zone. He is in a foreign land, far from home--after his rejection in Galilee (13:54ff), he travels to the predominately gentile region of Tyre and Sidon. And there he is confronted by a hysterical woman. Matthew calls her "a Canaanite woman." In the OT the Canaanites were a sinful and accursed race—utterly unclean and beyond the pale of grace; in order for Israel to possess the Land of Promise the Canaanites must be mercilessly exterminated. Again and again the prophets warned again mixing with them. Yet it says that this woman "came out" to meet Jesus—he certainly would not have gone looking for her—and kept shamelessly begging his help on behalf of her possessed daughter.

 In Matthew's gospel Jesus seldom mixes with gentiles—his mission is to the "lost sheep of the House of Israel," he himself puts it. But Jesus admires faith, whether he finds it in Jew or gentile. The centurion who approaches Jesus on behalf of his servant is a gentile, but he obeys the rules. He keeps his distance. And he comes across as a perfect gentleman, a model of courtesy and discretion. Jesus marvels at his manly humility, and remarks that "in no one in Israel [has he] seen such faith" (Matthew 8:5-12). But the Canaanite woman is not polite. She breaks all the rules in the way she approaches Jesus. She ignores the boundaries. He a Jew, she is a "Canaanite"—the worst kind of gentile. He is a man; she is a woman, and in NT times unrelated men and respectable women mixed only under the most socially restricted circumstances. She is "unclean," a source of pollution. By rights she should not approach him at all. The disciples are embarrassed by her desperate cries and want Jesus to send her away. But he says nothing.

His silence is not a test of the woman. Jesus does not play games with people. The problem is the conflict in the man Jesus himself. His aversion for her is deep and instinctive, an aversion based upon centuries of religious and racial prejudice. He has for her that deep instinctive dislike that some people have for cats—foolish, but deeply felt. The good news, however, breaks down those fears and aversions based upon sex, race, and religion. This miracle story is told within the context of Jesus' instructions regarding Jewish dietary laws.  What is really unclean? In the course of his teaching he says, "It is not what goes into one's mouth that defiles a person; but what comes out of the mouth that defiles" (15:11). Human beings are more important that religious principles. People become unclean because of what they do, not because of who they are. Now those teachings are being tested by a concrete situation. Now the importunate cries of the Canaanite woman force God's man to overcome his own prejudices and live out the Gospel he teaches.

This woman is an altogether remarkable individual; her boldness on behalf of her daughter is bold and audacious.  She has wit and grit and faith in the goodness of God and the ability of his man to cure her daughter.  And in her tug of war with Jesus she is triumphant because she is right--The dogs do indeed have a right to crumbs that fall from their master's table. When Jesus laughs and acknowledges his own defeat by healing her daughter, it is the power of the Gospel itself—the good news of God's kingdom--that has overcome his scruples. The miracle he does on her behalf completes his teaching about the things that defile—washing your hands does not put you right with God. Sin defiles us—not other human beings.  When it comes to laws and religious principles, people always come first.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 282. New Testament Day 5. Matthew 13-15

Today's reading is chock-a-block full of parables. In Matthew Jesus is presented as the Living Teacher of the Church, and his ordinary method of teaching is by means of these "improving stories." He takes ordinary experiences of first century life in Palestine and transforms them—by nothing short of divine genius--into timeless gems of wisdom. His parables are stories designed to enlighten and change their hearers. Some succeed in that better than others. But when the parables of Jesus are perfect—and they are often perfect—nothing in all of literature approaches them for vividness of expression and spare elegance of form.

In our reading for today there is short but excellent example. It begins—"The kingdom of God is like a treasure hidden in a field. . . ." (Matthew 13:44).  It is a story based upon a tragic misfortune and an outrageous windfall of good luck. In telling it perhaps Jesus is thinking of case he knew—or maybe not. But the circumstances he describes would not be unheard of. In a world before safety deposit boxes it was a normal practice for people to bury caches of coins and jewelry for safekeeping in times of uncertainty. Even though they saved their treasures from pillage, they often did not, for whatever reason, return to reclaim them. Often the owners died, and their treasures lay hidden until by chance they might be uncovered by pure accident.

In Jesus' time many—indeed perhaps most—Palestinian farmers were share-croppers, renting land from an absentee landlord for a share of the produce. Clearly that is the situation of the plowman in Jesus' parable; he does not own the land he works and in the normal course of things never would. And then one day he is out plowing as usual when he hears a dull thud, the sound of breaking pottery, and suddenly the furrow is filled with gold. Now his situation presents the modern reader with an ethical dilemma. The field is not his and treasure he finds, in the strictest sense, should be the property of the absentee landlord. But Jesus does not get hung up in this problem—from the point of view of the parable it's "finders keepers, losers weepers." And that is exactly as it should be, because this is not a story about moral scrupulosity but about the spontaneous joy of finding something wonderful and utterly unexpected.         

"The kingdom of heaven"—the evangelist Matthew, the pious Jew, carefully avoids carelessly throwing the name of God about—is like that hidden treasure. Its finding is an occasion, not for hesitation and quibbling over its ownership, but for ecstatic joy and immediate action. "In his joy [the lucky sharecropper] goes and sells all that he has and buys that field," Jesus says. He gives up everything—he liquidates his little all--so that he can gain full ownership of the one thing that matters.

Of course, the share-cropper's good luck is preconditioned by the misfortune of others. First, there is the misfortune of the original owner of the treasure, and second, there is the misfortune of the landlord, the rightful owner of the treasure, who is effectively conned out of it.  But the parable is not about justice. Some lose and others win. Every human life is touched with misfortune—the gospels never attempt to deny that. In fact, all four evangelists describe in gruesome detail the greatest misfortune the earth has yet known—the horrific and unjust crucifixion of God's man, Jesus Christ. Talk about bad luck!

But our outrageous good luck, the finding of the kingdom of heaven, is preconditioned upon the terrible misfortune that Jesus suffered. We find the kingdom of heaven, something wonderful and life-giving—or rather, it finds us—because Jesus died. And our great good fortune is totally undeserved. And again the parable of the lucky sharecropper parallels our own story. He does not come by his treasure by virtue and special merit—quite the opposite. He stumbles upon it by accident. And he reacts to its finding with a selfishness that borders on avarice. But that's all right. It's that precious. If the treasure were not something altogether precious and desirable, he would not have acted immediately with boldness and sold everything he has to get it. (See Matthew 19:21.) Time and again Jesus tells his followers—Seize of the kingdom of heaven now while you have a chance. Don't quibble over ownership. Don't let anything stand in your way. The treasure you have found is a good that calls for the renunciation of all other goods, and anyone who for any reason hesitates to take hold of it is a want-to-be and not a disciple. (See Matthew 8:18-22.)   

Day 281 (New Testament Day 4). Matthew 10-12

What should our attitude be in the face of hatred and irrational dislike? The reading for today seeks to answer that question in the context of Christian discipleship. In it Jesus tells his followers: "A disciple is not above the teacher. Nor is a slave above the master; it is enough for the disciple to be like the teacher, and the slave like the master. If they have called the master of the house Beelzebul, how much more will they malign those of his household" (Matthew 10:24-15).

As we noted earlier, the Gospel of Matthew is intended as a handbook for Christian discipleship. The words of comfort and command which Jesus speaks to his twelve companions are in fact addressed by the Holy Spirit to the whole Church, and to each of us specifically. This word's for you—and me.

Now some of the Lord's specific instructions do not seem to be addressed to us, and to the modern Christian some of his commands give the impression of being impossible or even absurd. But we have to take into account the situation of Matthew's first century church, a beleaguered Jewish congregation under fierce  opposition from the synagogue down the street. The opposition we face is quite different, but the principles Jesus gives for dealing with it apply equally to us.

Matthew's church was involved in a tragic family feud. The Jewish community was divided, and the reason was Jesus. As we all know, these most vicious fights are within families, and this was a hum-dinger. This was a knock-down, drag-out between two factions of the same extended family—the family of Abraham. In our reading for today the risen Lord is quoted as saying—"Do not think that I have come to bring peace on earth; I have not come to bring peace but the sword" (10:34). The Christian gospel is as often the principle of division as it is of unity.  Jesus makes a list of the family relationships that will be disrupted by lit.

For those involved, this was a deadly serious matter. In ancient times in both the Jewish and Gentile worlds the position of the family in society was invincible. Loyalty to the family—and to the people or nation as an extended family--transcended all other allegiances. Parents exerted life and death power over their children. Family ties, the bonds created of blood and clan, trumped all others. It is no wonder that Christianity, which called its followers to place their ultimate loyalty not in family, clan, or nation, but to the Lord Jesus—see Matthew 10:37-39--was looked upon as a dangerous and subversive movement by all.   

So in the context of this nasty family feud some people on the other side of the fence were saying some bad, bad things about Jesus. The Church called him Lord; their enemies called him Beelzebul, which means literally "the lord of the flies." It was the Jewish name for the prince of demons; it derives from the Canaanite fertility god Baal so roundly condemned by the OT prophets.  It means Satan. So the Lord tells his followers; If they call me—"the master of the house"—Satan, you can imagine what they will call you, the members of my household. So don't be surprised, and so far as possible don't let their slander and hateful language get to you. Remember, it is me they hate, Jesus says. I am the reason.

And that is what we need to remember. If you take your call to Christian discipleship at all seriously, someone is going to hate you for it, just as they hated Jesus. In Matthew's gospel he is the Loving Teacher of the Church. He calls upon his students to study his life—what he does and the way he lives--and to seek to be like him. It is neither easy to do that nor impossible. All we can do is try, but trying is enough. "It is enough for the disciple to be like the teacher," the risen Lord says to the Church, "and the slave like the master." The person of Jesus is a life's study, and imitating it is a life's work—a work never finished.

But you will know whenever you have any small success in imitating Jesus because you will arouse the same animosity that he aroused. The Church has always been puzzled by the hatred it inspired, but in our reading the Holy Spirit speaks to assure the perplexed and wounded that this is how it will always be. Haters hate. It is a spiritual law.  But the Lord comforts us with the knowledge that it is he and not us who is the target of their animosity. Where there is Christ there is opposition.  "You're nobody 'til somebody hates you"--I once heard my Mama remark.  She said it sadly, because there was never anyone who so much wanted to be loved as she did. But if you live as a disciple, if you are faithful, your master's enemies will be yours as well. It is a sad situation, but for now that's how it is.  

Day 280 (New Testament Day 3). Matthew 8-9

In our reading for today it says that Jesus goes on his way through "all their cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every sickness" (9:35). First comes the teaching; then come the miracles.

Our reading for today is chock-a-block full of miracles. In the Gospel of Matthew it is a pattern-- first comes the teaching—yesterday we heard the Sermon on the Mount—and now today come the miracles. For the evangelist Jesus' miracles don't just validate his teaching, they are necessary to complete it.

Remember the first words that Jesus speaks in Matthew's Gospel—"Repent, for the Kingdom of God has come near" (4:17). Jesus' miracles—his "mighty acts"--are evidence that God's kingdom is even now breaking into a world bound by disease, decay and death. In Jesus' appearance God's kingdom comes. In Matthew Jesus is presented as the "Great Rabbi," the "New Moses," the "Living Teacher of the Church."  His miracles do not validate his identity—He is who He is—instead they describe and foreshadow the kind of existence he promises by his teaching. They illustrate a world where the meek in fact inherit the earth and where those who hunger and thirst for righteousness are indeed satisfied (5:1ff).

The miracles aren't ornamental; they are crucial to an understanding of his message.  You can't remove them and have Jesus—that's very important to remember. The Gospel stories are in agreement with such Jewish sources as we have available to us in affirming that Jesus of Nazareth did do miracles—acts of power. The source of that power was sometimes in doubt. His enemies alleged that he utilized the power of Satan in doing them (see Matthew 12:24-37). A belief that natural laws are amenable to the will of God lies at the center of the Biblical world view. It would never have occurred to the Gospel writers and their first readers to doubt that the Creator molds his creation to suit his will, and that the power to create is alive and at work in Jesus.   

We modern Christians are uneasy with miracles; we tend to cherry-pick the miraculous stories recorded in the Gospels—some we like and others we tend to ignore. For instance, the healing of the centurion's slave (Matthew 8:5-13) is a particularly appealing miracle, partly because of the remarkable character of the centurion himself. Jesus himself is impressed by this foreign soldier. "In no one in Israel," he remarks, "have I found such faith." He compares this Gentile officer's trust to the cynical hard-heartedness of the "heirs of the kingdom"—Jesus' fellow Jews—and finds them wanting. But it is not just his faith that attracts us. The tender concern of the officer for his slave, who is "paralyzed, in terrible distress," is remarkable in a time when slaves were often treated as mere objects. Though he is a person of importance—the Roman officer in charge of a unit (a century) of foot soldiers—he entreats Jesus' to heal his slave with dignity combined with becoming humility. He shows a remarkable cultural sensitivity; although Jesus is willing to come to his house, the centurion knows that coming under the roof Gentile might well compromise his scruples as an observant Jew, and declines to let him. "Lord, I am not worthy . . . ," he says. Instead he acknowledges the power of Jesus to order the world as he commands his soldiers--"Only speak the word, and my servant will be healed."

This is a very important theme in the Gospel of Matthew--the creative power of the word that made creation is present in Jesus of Nazareth. By a word of power Jesus subdues the chaos of the storm on the Sea of Galilee —he "rebuked the wind and the sea, and there was a dead calm" (8:26).  He says "go" to the evil spirits and the demon-ridden Gadarenes, and they go into a herd of swine which drown themselves in the sea (8:32).  Jesus says "stand up, take up your bed and go home" to the paralytic, and he does—to the consternation of the scribes (9:6)

And so it goes. A word spoken by Jesus has the power to recreate a ravaged world and ruined lives. Where ever Jesus and his disciples go, miracles follow. But first comes his teaching. It is the primary word of power. The teaching of Jesus establishes what the kingdom of God is, and then his miracles embody it. They make his reign immediate and "real" to us. Through them his kingdom comes. So miracles are not ornamental to the gospel story—they are crucial. If God does not do miracles, he is powerless to establish his kingdom among us and within us.   

Day 279 (New Testament Day 2). Matthew 7-9

In our reading for today Jesus says to his disciples—"You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored" (5:13).

When at the beginning of today's reading Jesus goes up on the mountain and sits down, the evangelist Matthew is deliberately reminding his Jewish Christian readers of Moses going up to the top of Mount Sinai to receive the Law. In Matthew's Gospel Jesus is the New Moses. And he gives his disciples--a New Law. The Old Law came to Moses from God; the New Law comes directly from Jesus himself, who, we are told, astounds his listeners by teaching "them as one having authority, and not as their scribes" (7:29).  For Israel the Law of Moses was a handbook for righteous living within the covenant community. It defines life in right relationship to God. For the Church the gathering of remembered sayings we call the Sermon on the Mount represents a handbook for Christian discipleship, an answer in the most practical terms to the question—"What does it mean to follow Jesus?"

 It is a question for which each of us needs a clear and personal answer, but not a hard and fast answer. Our answer must change as the circumstances of our lives change. But to follow Jesus means to live as he lived, not to satisfy our selfish ego but for the sake of other people. And our service must be public and unashamed. Jesus warns us against "practicing [our] piety before others in order to be seen by them" (6:1)—against serving in order to draw attention to ourselves. But the risen Lord intends us to be visible disciples. If our lives appear exactly like everyone else's—if we are blandly indistinguishable from the rest of the world—then we are not the salt of the earth. Or rather we are salt that has lost its savor.

Salt really is the perfect metaphor for the Christian life. We taste salt in food only if there is too much of it—or too little. When there is exactly the right amount, all we taste are the enhanced flavors of the food itself. In Christian living balance is ideal. Moderation is the key.

When we over-salt our lives, when we make a spectacle of our service, we reduce our discipleship to an empty show and become all those things Christians are sometimes accused of being—hypocritical, self-righteous, and insincere. But on the other hand if we talk and act and spend like everyone else, if we live our lives in such a way that no one can tell that we are followers of the risen Lord, what's the point, beloved? Our faith is indeed "good for nothing, but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot." What each of us, with the help of the Holy Spirit, needs is to find our equilibrium between the extremes of blandness and an overpowering saltiness .

I remember once driving through Wisconsin and seeing a sign on a roadside restaurant that read—Good Food!—Indian Moccasins!—Wisconsin Cheese!—Home-Made Pie! It was four in the afternoon, and nothing tastes as good as pie and coffee at four o'clock in the afternoon. So I went in and found a place at the counter. The waitress, of hearty Norwegian stock, had mane of blood hair and disarming blue eyes. Her teeth were a little funny, but she was pretty anyway.

She wore pink uniform with her name embroidered on the pocket—Erica. Erica poured me a cup of coffee without asking, like they do in Wisconsin. "What can I get ya' then?" she asked with a bright Wisconsin smile. "Is the pie here really home-made," I asked.  "Yah, well, I suppose it was made in someone's home," she said, never letting her smile waver. "I'll have a slice of apple then," I said.

"Come'n right up," said Erica. And in a couple minutes she reappeared with the most beautiful slice of apple pie I had ever seen in my life—chunks of plump, luscious fruit enveloped in a flakey crust that whispered wickedly of real lard. But when I took the first bite I had to shudder and spit. "Miss? Miss? Miss?" "What's wrong?"asked Erica, still sunny and bright as Wisconsin cheddar. "I think someone made this pie with salt instead of sugar," I sputtered. "Yah," said Erica, shaking her pretty head. "I don't doubt it. The food in this place is terrible. I'd never eat here myself." A moment later there was the sound of laughter in the kitchen.

The challenge of Christian discipleship is balance—living our faith openly but without false advertising, having enough salt in us and not too much. "Oh taste and see that the LORD is good," the psalmist says.  In the places where we live and work and worship what people should taste in us in not our salt or its lack, but the Lord. Moderation in us allows others taste what is good in him.