The Talk of the Temple

Now his parents went to Jerusalem every year at the Feast of the Passover.  And when he was twelve years old, they went up according to custom.  Luke 2:41-42

We’ve seen the picture of the calm-faced lad with the glowing aura and one finger upraised as though making a point, surrounded by old guys with gaping jaws.  But it wasn’t like that.

His first time in Jerusalem, probably, during the solemn clamor of Passover: the rituals, the formulas, the endless squeals and screams of animals at the altar.  Every Jewish boy knew the q & a and the works of the outstretched hand and mighty arm of the LORD, but let’s suppose this particular Jewish boy has been mightily stirred by it all.  The lamb, the meat, the bitter herbs—he knew what it meant, but what did it mean?  That’s why he stayed behind—this exemplary boy, full of grace, who had never caused his parents a moment of fret, was about to put them through a wringer of anxiety for three whole days.

Three days doing what?  Suppose he packs up dutifully with friends and neighbors from Nazareth and talk-of-the-templeturns his feet toward home.  As they pass through the gates of the city, something catches his attention: maybe two rabbis on their way to the Temple, deep in learned conversation about the Passover lamb.  His ears perk up; he peels away from the Nazareth party so swiftly they don’t notice, follows the rabbis all the way into the Temple complex, to the rabbinical school for promising young Jewish scholars.

It’s an open discussion format, let’s say, where young men ages 12 to 21 mostly sit and listen.  They’re all a little soft around the edges: pale and thin and Levites all, students of special aptitude tapped for a career of holy service.  Perhaps Caiaphas is there, age 15 or so and already betrothed to the High Priest’s daughter.  Nicodemus might be there, striving to follow the twists and turns of the discussion.  The new kid sticks out, with his rough traveling clothes, springy muscles and tanned, keen face.  At first he only listens.

When he starts asking questions, his Galilean accent turns everyone off until they begin to actually hear him.  Why . . . that’s a good question.  He follows it up with another, and only the most learned of the rabbis is able to answer.  But immediately he has another, and another, and by the end of the day he has them stumped; they tell him to come back the next day for answers.

Where does he sleep?  What does he eat?  We don’t get the story from his point of view, only that of his crazed parents who are just realizing he’s not with them.  “Have you seen Yeshua?”  “What, he’s not with you?”  “I remember him tagging along this morning when we set out, but, come to think of it, haven’t seen him since . . .”  Any parent knows exactly what Mary and Joseph are feeling—if we haven’t actually lost a child in a crowd we’ve had nightmares about it.  Do Mary and Joseph start back to Jerusalem immediately, in the dark?  Not a wise plan unless they can catch a lift with a caravan heading south; otherwise they could end up by the side of the road with their throats cut.  If they wait, though, they don’t sleep. Yeshua, Oh, Yeshua—where could he be?  Was he kidnapped somehow, or did he do this on purpose?  Inconceivable!  And yet . . . Mary may be wondering if this is the sword that would pierce her heart.

Meanwhile: suppose there’s some sort of lodging for Jewish boys studying the Torah; the Nazarene might go there and eat what’s put before him, all the while savoring every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.  (My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to finish his work.)  Next morning, he’s the first to take a seat, the first to raise his hand—Who is this boy? everyone wonders.  He wants to know about Messiah—Why do the prophets say he must suffer?  What does it mean, “By his stripes we are healed?”  How will Israel be redeemed?  What? Who? When?  He can hardly sit still; as the Scriptures open to him he is opening the Scriptures, with a delight that’s both contagious and alarming.  He stirs impromptu debates and sharp disagreements; Pharisees and Sadducees and scribes tie themselves up in doctrinal knots until he, this untaught boy from Nazareth, breaks in with the penetrating question that clarifies the issue and gets the discussion back on track.

By the third day he’s answering their questions.

It’s almost a relief to the rabbis and scribes when his parents barge in.  I’m sure he was easy to find once they got to the Temple complex: “Please, sir, we’re looking for a boy, age 12, who–”  “You’re from Galilee?  Nazareth, by any chance?  Oh yes, I can tell you where your boy is.  Everyone knows him by now.”

We know this part of the story.  When his mother berates him, Yeshua seems genuinely surprised: “What?  Where else would I be?”  The words sound rude, but he’s not being rude; he’s simply blurting out the first thought on his mind.  Then he seems to come to himself and look around as though he just woke up from a dream.  Yes, Mother.  Yes, Father.  I’m ready to go home . . .

Though they’re glad to be let off the hook—that boy was just about to take over the whole school!—teachers and students both find themselves missing the electric atmosphere, the incomprehensible air of authority the boy from Nazareth had brought with him.  They murmur amongst themselves: a phenomenon.  Oh yes, we’ll hear from him again.  Better study up before next Passover.

But they don’t hear from him, not for another 18 years.  No one does.  At age 13 he was wiser, at age 14 wiser still, but he had learned to keep his profound thoughts and stirrings to himself.  Still, he lived for Passover, longed for his first view of the Temple every spring, felt its pull while going to and fro during the days of the feast: That’s my Father’s house.  All the while songs play in his head, tunes he can’t remember learning, scraps of Scripture that crackle or glow when he thinks of them:

Here I am!  It is written of me in the scroll—I have come to do your will, O God!

For the first post in this series, go here.

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The Consolation of Israel

And at the end of eight days, when he was circumcised, he was called Jesus, the name given by the angel before he was conceived in the womb. Luke 2:21

Did he cry when the knife cut?  They all do, even though at that age it isn’t supposed to hurt much.  Beads of red appear along the cut, quickly blotted away.  He is now a covenant son, like every baby boy born under the Law of Moses.  Words are spoken over him as he is re-wrapped in swaddling clothes and given back to his mother, to be quickly consoled against her beating heart.

In the early days of motherhood, completely dominated by this little scrap of a person as all new mothers are, his unique origin is apt to slip Mary’s mind.  He’s so like any baby: small, weak, not a thought in his head or a single muscle under his control, just a bundle of sensation and emotion.  He’s not one of those continually wailing ones that make everyone within earshot suffer as much as they suffer.  He’s calm; a blessing.  She loves him fiercely, overwhelmingly, like any mother.

And when the day came for them to be purified as laid down by the Law of Moses, they took him up to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord, observing that stands written in the Law of the Lord: “Every first-born male must be consecrated to the Lord.”  Luke 2:22-23

simeon

In his room in the temple complex, an old man feels a jolt.  He know what it is–his old companion, the Spirit of the Lord, is speaking to him.  His weary back straightens; his rheumy eyes grow bright–Yes?  He’s here?  Now?  He rises, and with the firm step of a much younger man he leaves his room and passes through a portal leading to the temple courtyard.

Old Simeon has a reputation and profound respect; when he appears in public–rare enough these days–people notice and whispers follow.  Learned teachers and priests even break away from their occupations and trail discreetly after him to see what he’s up to, sol purposeful. He approaches the corner of the courtyard where babies are dedicated to the Lord and sacrifices offered for the mother’s purification.  A very common sight, couples with babies, and one quick glance would tell any observer that this couple is dirt-poor.  The little wooden cage the man is holding gives them away–two pigeons is all they can afford for the purification sacrifice, unlike the wealthier family, walking proudly away with their own newborn son, their clothes lightly spattered with the blood of a lamb.  The officiating priest has just taken the second bird from its cage; with bored, practiced movement he wrings its neck, choking off its startled cry.  When Simeon barges upon the scene the priest looks up with a peeved scowl, quickly smoothed over when he sees who it is.

The parents don’t know who it is, but the old man carries an aura of authority about him, and when he stretches out his arms with the eagerness of a youth reaching for his bride, the mother hands over her baby without hesitation.  The bystanders glance at each other, their curiosity piqued.  Some may have murmured to each other, “Look at his face.”  It is transformed—almost youthful, or like Moses perhaps, come down from the mountain with his face alight.  Those who look to the Lord are radiant . . .  Simeon places one trembling veiny hand on the baby’s head.  Then he speaks, in clear tones that those who know him had not heard for years, even though he was not speaking to them.  He is speaking to God: “My eyes have seen your salvation . . . “  What, the baby?  The squirming infant who opens his dark wide eyes and stares hard at the old prophet, almost as if he understood?

The priests and Levites debated for years afterward what Simeon had actually said, especially after he was no longer around to tell them.  They should have just asked his mother, because the old man’s words had cut into her mind–one of the many, many peculiar instances surrounding this child she would recall and brood over for years to come.  The words rise like the sun, spreading warmth through her taut bones: deliverance, salvation, light to the world . . .

But then:  “He will be like a sword that meets opposing flesh and cleaves joint from marrow, and the sword will also pierce your soul.”

His eyes meet hers as he delivers the child back to her arms.  For the slightest moment he hesitates, as though reluctant to give the baby up, or reluctant to deliver this last word.  But the word is on his heart, and forever after it will burden hers.

The couple from Galilee return home, after a sojourn in Egypt.  And then, years of silence.  We’re not told much about Jesus’s boyhood, probably because there’s not much to tell: no miraculous works or perturbing words, just peasant boy growing up in a provincial village, causing no trouble.  No trouble at all.  Except for that one time.

To be continued . . .

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For the first post in this series, go here.

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What the Angels Said; What the Shepherds Saw

“Today a Savior, who is Messiah the Lord, was born for you in the city of David.  This will be the sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped snugly in cloth and lying in a feeding trough.”  Luke 2:11-12, Holman Christian Standard Bible

We’re so used to those words we don’t really hear them anymore.  Usually it’s, “You’ll find the baby angelwrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger”—”swaddling clothes” and “manger” being archaic terms that we only use around Christmas.  It’s a little shocking to read manger translated as “feeding trough” in the HCSB.  Like pigs would eat from, if these people kept pigs.  The angel may have seen no incongruity in the combination of Savior, Lord, and feeding trough–angels, as pure spirit beings, live an existence completely incomprehensible to us, and vice-versa.  The shepherds would have noticed a contradiction, if they weren’t so immediately dazzled with the glory of the Lord.  It might have struck them later.  At any rate, it was the first real-world, real-time indication of what sort of Savior this would be: homeless, gritty, secret, glorious, spun out of earth and sky with dust and pollen in his nostrils and the whole universe in his heart.

A question, Dr. Luke: Was this an objective event that anyone within 50 miles could see, or was it limited to the shepherds only—a phenomenon that they, and they only, were allowed to see?  Skeptics ever since have asked why this wasn’t a bigger news story at the time.  I mean, really: a otherworldly glow lighting up the darkness, multitudes of angels singing at the top of their lungs (provided they have lungs)—just a flash in the pan?  Possibly; the heavy tread of time has a way of treading under even the most earth-shaking happenings if they aren’t followed up.  But God was already on record for pulling back the curtain for selected viewers at rare, selected times, as he did for Elisha’s fearful servant in 2 Kings 6:17.  If I had to guess, I’d guess this was one of those times.  The witnesses talked it up far and wide, and everyone “wondered,” but in years to come even the shepherds may have come to question what, exactly they’d seen.  But Mary had one more memory to treasure.

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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