On the Road

He went on his way through towns and villages, teaching and journeying toward Jerusalem.  And someone said to him, “Lord, will those who are saved be few?” . . .   Luke 13:22-23a

He’s touring the towns and villages that the seventy disciples scouted out for him earlier.  It looks like a meandering path—now east, then west, veering north, turning south—but the destination is never far from his mind.  Everyone is going somewhere, whether they realize it or not; all those wrong turns and backups are ultimately headed in one direction.

the-road

A man falls in beside him as they walk along the road.  “Lord!  I have a question for you.  Are only a few on their way to salvation?”

There’s a whole context here.  Anyone who asks this question, in this way, probably considers himself among the in crowd, however exclusive it may be.  The Lord spares him barely a glance.  “Don’t worry about the number of the saved—just make sure you’re one of them.”

“But—“

“There’s a door, not wide.  And there’s a time, not long.  And there are those, not few, who think their place is assured, so they choose their own route and presume on my Father’s patience.  They will be shocked to find the door locked against them, after strangers and sinners have already gone in.  When they pound on the door and cry out, “Lord, don’t you remember us?  We ate and drank with you and sat at your feet.  We even walked beside you in the road.”  He sent a quick, sharp glance to the questioner, a look that peeled the pretentions from the man.  “And what will he say then?  ‘I don’t know you.  I never knew you.  Depart from me.’”

At that, Jesus stepped up his pace, leaving the man in the dust, bewildered and suddenly fearful.  But then Jesus stops and turns back, his face a little softer as though offering another chance.  “Remember this: some who are last in line now will be first then.  And some who are first will be last.”

Speaking of those who are first in line: a couple of miles down the road, on the outskirts of another town, a delegation of Pharisees and village elders meet him.  “Are you Jesus of Nazareth?  We have word that Herod is trying to kill you.  If you value your life you’d better not stop here.”

“Is that so?”  Jesus barely breaks his stride while brushing past them.  “I have a word for you.  If Herod asks, tell him I have business to attend to: evil to cast out and diseases to heal.  If he wants to kill me he can line up with the rest.  We can meet up in Jerusalem—everyone knows that’s the only place to kill a prophet!”

As he moves on, the Pharisees are stunned silent (as usual) and the disciples exchange uneasy glances.  There he goes with Jerusalem again; what’s up with that?

At the top of a rise offering a clear view for miles around, he suddenly stops and turns toward the southeast, his face full of sadness.

“Jerusalem . . . my city!  How many of my prophets have you slaughtered like lambs?  How many times have you stopped up your ears?  My arms ache with longing to pull you and your children toward me, but you were not willing—you dig in your heels and fold your arms and refuse.  I see your ruined temple, like an abandoned watchtower in a vineyard.  But you don’t see me.  And you won’t, until the day you cry “Hosanna!” in the streets, and “Blessed it he who comes in the name of the Lord!”

There’s a glimmer on his face—would it be a tear track?  Those closest to him are distracted by that; it’s only when he turns back to the road that they are struck with what he said.  My city?  My prophets?  He talks like he owns the place.  Even more: as if he always owned it . . .

For the original post in this series, go here.

<Previous

Next>

Daughter of Abraham

Now he was teaching in one of the synagogues on the Sabbath.  And there was a woman who had a disabling spirit for eighteen years.  She was bent over and could not fully straighten herself.  Luke 13:10-11

He’s still teaching in the synagogues.

And why not, since the people are still listening, but it has to be a hostile atmosphere by now.  On this particular day, while he’s speaking his eye falls upon a women who is bent over from the effects of a “disabling spirit.”  It seems unlikely that Luke, a physician, would have used that term to describe her condition if Jesus had not used it himself later on.  It might have taken unusual discernment to notice her because a woman would not have been sitting up front with the men.  Would she had been behind a screen?  Tucked away but still there, either because it was her habit or because Messiah was teaching?  She didn’t ask to be healed.  Maybe she had tried to get close to him before and wasn’t able—obviously, she didn’t get around too well.

bentoverwoman

Anyway, she’s there: bound and bent and old before her time.  Leaning forward probably, listening with her head down, looking at the ground (like always), entranced by his words, though she doesn’t understand them all.  All Kingdom he speaks of . . . can she get there?  Or can it come to her?  Is it for her at all, or only for the powerful and knowledgeable?  Perhaps she could come close.  I’d rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of wickedness, for—

“Woman!”

Even without looking, she knows he’s speaking to her—that shiver down her frozen spine feels like the very word.

“You are free of your affliction.”

And those words . . . They’re like warm water seeping into her bones.  Her back flows as the vertebrae loosen one by one.  For eighteen years they were locks in place and could not move without shrieking pain.  For eighteen years, crabbed and stunted, she had crept along like an insect, scarcely looking up, unable to lift her head.  His few words pour into her, the high and low tones of his voice seek out the tiny nerves and blood vessels and muscle fibers, massaging them to life again.  Slowly she . . . straightens . . . up.  with no pain—the opposite of pain—the rush, the vigor, the dance of body parts working as they were created to work.  It’s perfectly normal, and normally perfect; she feels like Adam in the moment he stood up and stretched and felt his body for the first time.  Her entire body surges; every nerve tingling, every bone rejoicing.

She can’t help herself; she bursts out in song.

I will sing unto the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously! . . .

Meanwhile, an argument is going on.  She notices with half a mind.  The ruler of the synagogue is lecturing someone.  Oh.  He’s lecturing her, along with everyone in earshot which is a big audience because she has attracted quite a crowd.  Somehow her dancing feet have carried her right out of the synagogue and into the street, where Jesus is—she must rush up and thank him—along with the rulers and scribes.  She notices they’re angry.  What about?

“. . . . six days out of the week you have to come and be healed.  You know the text: Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the Sabbath day is holy to the Lord.  On it you shall do no work . . .

Silly men!  What’s happened to her is holy to the Lord.  Satan bound her, God healed her.  The word is very near, in her mouth and in her heart.  The Lord is speaking—about her!  His voice sounds angry—but not at her.  She’s a daughter of Abraham who walked by faith . . . but bound by Satan—for eighteen years!  The experts of the law would untie an ox or donkey to water it on the Sabbath, but throw a fit when this woman—her!  I’d rather be an ox or donkey in the stable of my God than . . . than anything.

But he lets me be myself.  Look, this is me, free at last!

Her joy is contagious, spreading through the crowd of relatives and neighbors and perfect strangers, all giving glory to God while his Messiah contends with that little surly knot of naysayers.  She feels like Miriam (Exodus 15), leading the women of Israel in their victory song:

The horse and its rider he has thrown into the sea!

For the first post in this series, go here.

<Previous

Next>