Here Come the Grooms

There came some Sadducees, those who deny that there is a resurrection, and they asked him a question, saying, “Teacher, Moses wrote for us that if a man’s brother dies, having a wife but no children, the man must take the widow and raise up offspring for his brother.  Now, there were seven brothers . . .”  Luke 20:27-29a

“Let us try,” say the Sadducees.  “We have a question that’ll make steam come out of his ears.”

They are the political class, the priestly class, the church-and-state party, the ones who understand how the world really works.  They’ve seen messiahs come and go; these days, the so-called anointed ones are mostly zealots or country boys who saw a vision once.  Under clever questioning they fall apart, and then head for the caves if they know what’s good for them.  For the gallows if they don’t.

“Teacher.”  The teacher looks up; there stand two priests and a Levite, quietly but elegantly dressed in their ecclesiastical authority. “We have a question, if you can spare a moment.  As you recall, Moses wrote for us that if a man dies childless, his nearest brother should take the widow and beget upon her heirs to the dead man’s estate.

“A very curious case came before us some years back: the oldest of seven brothers took a wife, but died without producing an heir.  So the second took her, but also died childless.  Then the third, then the fourth, and so on until all seven had married this woman in turn but left no children.

“So we were wondering: in the resurrection–” the Sadducee’s voice embraced that word with subtle but obvious sarcasm–“whose wife will she be, after legally marrying all of them?”

A little group of scribes nearby glare at the challenger: they recognize a trick question even though they can’t answer it, and it touches on a sore point.  Scribes and Pharisees believe in the resurrection; Sadducees do not.  The teachers answer will put him on one side or the other: which?

“The people of this age,” he begins, “may be duty-bound to marry.  But there is another age, and those resurrected to it” (take that! think the scribes) “will find they have no reason for marriage, for they will never die again and will not produce offspring.  They are like angels in the new age—children of God by the resurrection.”

The scribes suck in their collective breath at this.  They picture the resurrected life as something like this life, only longer.  Maybe forever.  But he speaks as though it’s a different quality, a different kind of life altogether.  As children of God?

“Moses himself knew that the dead are raised—what did he hear when he encountered the burning bush? I am the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.  The patriarchs were still alive to God, as they are now.  He is not the God of the dead, but of the living.”

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After a stunned silence, one of the scribes speaks up.  “That was very well put, Teacher.”  And it went in a direction we didn’t expect.

As for the Sadducees, they have no follow-up questions.  No more questions at all.  They bow stiffly, gather up their robes and take their leave.  And when out of earshot, they ask each other how he could know such things.  “He speaks with authority,” one says, unconsciously echoing a long-ago observation from the Galilean hills.  “Maybe . . . he speaks the truth?”

But no.  That can’t be.  Their world is not for shaking.

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The Denarius Question

So [the scribes and chief priests] watched him and sent spies, who pretended to be sincere, that they might catch him in something he said, so as to deliver him up to the authority and jurisdiction of the governor.  Luke 20:20

“Let us devise a question that will trip him up,” say the Pharisees.  “We’ve been dealing with him since the beginning and we’ve figured out where his weaknesses are.  It’s the followers who hang on his every word—they expect him to set up the new kingdom with himself as the king.  You’ve heard them shout “Son of David!” at him, haven’t you?  That may not be his plan—some of the things he says seem in direct contradiction to it—but who knows what his plan is?  He’s notoriously hard to pin down . . . But anyway—let us choose someone to ask a political question, and watch how he squirms.”

The chief priests, elders and scribes agree that tripping up Jesus of Nazareth will be trickier than they first thought.  Accordingly they allow the Pharisees to devise a question and a questioner: young Jacob, a promising student from the provinces with the proper fresh-faced country demeanor.  They even role-play the teacher’s possible answers so that Jacob will be able to counter each one.

Next day, as the teacher is again in the temple court, holding forth while the priestly class stands on the sidelines observing and noting, here comes Jacob—the very picture of earnest rabbinical zeal.  “Please, Rabbi—I have a question.”

The teacher pauses, nods at him to go on.

“It’s troubled me for some time, so I rejoiced to hear of your arrival.  Your reputation precedes you—I know you’re a faithful teacher from the Blessed One, and you’re not swayed by the latest fad.  Nor do you—forgive the expression—suck up to the elites.”

The priests and elders steal glances at each other.  That was a Pharisaical jab at them, but well played—just the right mix of deference and defiance.  And now for the hook:

“Sir, please tell me.  Is it lawful for us to pay taxes to Caesar, or not?”

Zing!  The trap sounds even better spoken than when they’d planned it.  If he says Yes, his peasant admirers will soon be up in arms, not to mention the Zealots among his own followers.  If he says No, word will get back to Pilate himself, who will kindly save them the trouble of dispatching the troublemaker.  Either way—

His eyes are upon Jacob’s Pharisee friends: serene, even amused.  And not very comfortable. “Do any of you have a denarius?  Show it to me.”

caesar

Tobias, the ranking Pharisee, bristles at the way the man orders them about.  But yes, he has a coin and everyone, following the teacher’s lead, is looking his way.  He lifts his hand and beckons to Jacob, who obediently trots over and takes a denarius from him.

Once the coin is in his hand, the teacher studies it as though he’d never seen one before.  He flips it gracefully, a whirl of gold.  He knows how to command attention—they’ll give him that.

Holding the denarius between thumb and forefinger, he raises it, face out.  “Whose inscription do you see?”

“Why . . . Caesar’s, of course,” Jacob mutters warily.  They hadn’t anticipated this resopnse.

“And whose face?”

“The same.  Caesar’s.”

“Then–”  He tosses the coin back to Jacob, who fumbles the catch.  “Give to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.  And give to God the things that are God’s.”

“But . . .”  Jacob is flailing around for a follow-up question, as none of his prepared ones seem to fit.

“There’s your answer,” the teacher says.

Awkwardly, Jacob bows, then turns to give the coin back to Tobias.  The temple delegation has already begun their retreat, followed by the Pharisees.  He has to run a few steps to catch up with them.

Meanwhile he’s puzzling over the teacher’s answer, and while reaching out to Tobias, it strikes him like a douse of cold water.

“Oh!  I see it now: what bears Caesar’s image lawfully belongs to Caesar, but that which bears God’s image . . . namely us, of course.  Brilliant answer!  Did you notice how he gets right to the heart of the Law, about loving God with all our heart, soul, mind, and–”

“Thanks.”  Tobias snatches his denarius back, his voice curling with sarcasm.  “We hardly need your instruction to see that.”  They walk on in a sour mood while young Jacob holds back, looking toward the teacher.  What a way he has, of making old things seem new.  He would be worth hearing again, for sure.

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The New Song of the Vineyard

And he began to tell the people this parable: “A man planted a vineyard and let it out to tenants and went into another country for a long while . . . Luke 10:9

vineyard

He’s raised his voice just loud enough for them to hear—the delegation of elders, chief priests, scribes.  Almost as if they can’t help themselves, they turn to listen.

The story is simple: a man plants a vineyard.  He rents it out and leaves the province to attend to matters elsewhere.  It’s an arrangement not unknown among priests and the Levites who  own land outside of Jerusalem entrust their fields to local farmers while they tend to their duties in the city.

“When the time came, he sent a servant to the vineyard to collect his share of the produce.  But the tenants beat the servant and sent him away empty-handed. He sent another servant, and another after that.  But in every case, the tenants treated the owner’s servants shamefully, and sent them away with nothing.”

What a way for tenants to behave!  How would they expect to get away with that?  Some of the teacher’s stories make sense, but this one is completely outside human reasoning.

“Then the owner of the vineyard said, ‘What shall I do?  I will send my only son; perhaps they will respect him.’  But when the tenants saw him, they said to themselves, ‘This is the heir: Let us kill him, to the inheritance may be ours.’  And they threw him out of the vineyard and killed him.  What should the owner of the vineyard do then?”

Listening hard, the elders, priests, scribes and Pharisees begin to suspect a trap.  There he goes again, speaking of a father and a son (my Father; my house); is he implying that they are the spiteful tenants?

And speaking of vineyards, it’s almost impossible for the learned among them to block out a passage of scripture.  It steals upon them unbidden, a song of supreme disappointment:

I will sing about the one I love, a song of my beloved’s vineyard;

My beloved had a vineyard on a very fertile hill.

He broke up the soil, cleared it of stones, and planted it with the finest vines . . .  (Isaiah 5:1-3)

Yahweh expected good grapes from them and got worthless grapes.  But that was in the old days, when Israel practiced the most blatant idolatry and refused to learn the lessons their God continually tried to teach them.  It led to exile—they lost everything and had to sojourn in a foreign land before Yahweh allowed them to come home again.  Lesson learned: now they were a people obedient to the law—rigorously, relentlessly.  No idols in the temple, no wild orgies to Astarte, no high places sanctified to Baal.  They are better than their ancestors.  Do you hear that, Jesus of Nazareth?  Better.

No better, he seems to be saying.  For, what should the owner do?  “He will come and destroy those tenants and give the vineyard to others.”

“Surely not!” a voice among the scribes cries out.  At least some of them have no doubts at all: this parable is against them.

And so is the teacher.  He is looking directly at them, now; no pretense of speaking only to his closest followers.  “You don’t think so?  Do you recall the psalm which testifies,

The stone the builders rejected

Has become the cornerstone?*

Of course they do.  And they know how it continues: This is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes.

The teacher continues, “Everyone who falls on that stone will be broken to pieces, and when it falls on anyone, it will crush him.”

This is intolerable.  No longer is it “my” (as in my house, my Father)—now it’s me.  For what else does he mean by this “cornerstone,” except himself?  Like a stone he stands among them now, like the massive building blocks that still lie around the temple complex, rejected by the builders for some imperfection, but too much trouble to move.  Careless pedestrians have tripped and broken bones over them, and unfortunate souls have been crushed to pulp when they came between a slipping stone and a faulty pulley.

That’s the obvious object lesson.  But who would do such a foolish thing as to reject the Lord’s clearly anointed Messiah?

The chief priests, scribes, and Pharisees, now looking on with stony faces.

The fans, the crowds, who have set their hearts on their own expectations,

Even the disciples, the inner circle, who don’t suspect how shallow their loyalty really is.

“You’ve walked over it, around it, past it, but now it lies in the middle of your path.  It won’t move; if you fall on it you’ll be broken, but if it falls on you you’ll be crushed.”

The only thing to do, it seems, is climb up on it and take a stand.

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