And while some were speaking of the temple, how it was adorned with noble stones and offerings, he said, “As for these things that you see, the days will come when there will not be left here one stone upon another that will not be thrown down.” Luke 21:6
The city is never more glorious than at sunset, when thick golden beams fall upon its marble and gold. From the Mount of Olives, where they are headed, it was the crown of creation: “Beautiful in its loftiness, the joy of the Earth.”* Deep in its crevasses lie squalor and grit and grime, like any other city. At Passover, the holiest celebration of the calendar, the filth intensifies with all the bleating, screeching, and bawling of sacrificial stock. A day in Jerusalem at Passover was like wrangling in a cattle pen. But from the temple rises majestic and cool on Zion’s Mount, the solid stuff of legend, the gleaming dream of the ages.
“What beautiful stones,” a disciple murmurs, walking backwards for a few steps so he can take in the magnificent view.
“What massive buildings!” exclaims another.
To tell the truth, they have begun to feel somewhat proprietary over all of it, for once their Master claims his crown, they might well be governors and administrators. The Kingdom is coming; its capital is before them. Surely they would come to know it well, from the Procurator’s palace (good-bye to Rome!) to the meanest twisty street, as they went about the business of Setting Things Right—which they feel supremely qualified to do. Isn’t this what the Master has been preparing them for?
“Yes,” he says. “Beautiful stones, massive buildings. But listen—can you hear it? The screams of women and children, the clash of swords and whir of arrows? The day is coming when not one of those alabaster slabs will be left upon another.”
His words fall like a slab—large, flat, and crushing—upon their expectations. One can almost feel the dry dust rising from it. They look at one another, dismayed, and Peter finally asks: “Master . . . when will this be?”
The last light of day thickens as the sun pauses on the horizon—and so does he, stepping off the road. Other pilgrims on the road look his way as though they would love to linger, but all hurry past, anxious to get to their lodgings in Bethany or Bethlehem before dark.
“Don’t be deceived,” he says to his disciples. “Many will tell you the hour of triumph is at hand, but time must first have its say.”
Then he begins to speak of terrible things: of retribution falling on them personally, of being dragged before rulers and magistrates (but won’t we be the rulers and magistrates?!), of betrayal by those closest to them, of being put on the spot by those demanding an account. “But don’t prepare a defense for that time, for I will give you words to say.”
(But Lord, where will you be?)
Then he speaks of even worse things: the holy city surrounded by armies, pressed in and destroyed, nursing mothers slaughtered, massive stones scattered like pebbles, “until the time of the Gentiles is fulfilled.”
(But Lord, what about your Kingdom?)
Even worse: conflict spreads to the heavens, where sun, moon, and stars flash angry signs at each other—and on earth, roaring seas, shaking land. The inhabitants of earth will collapse from terror, but as for you: “Lift up your heads, because your redemption is near.”
(But Lord . . . )
“You know when summer is coming,” he says, nodding toward a nearby fig tree: “Buds swell on the on a frosty morning, and in the next few weeks the tender green leaves unfurl on every branch.” He steps over to the tree and strokes a limb—caresses it, really, as though it were his own creation. For a moment he seems absorbed in the pattern of a single star-shaped leaf, plucked from the branch, twirled in his fingers like a street dancer. With such, scripture says, guilty Adam and Eve tried vainly to cover themselves.
“You want to know when the kingdom is coming. I’ve given you the signs. It will happen in this generation; watch for it. From now on you are on alert. Your lives will never be the same, so don’t behave as though they were. The Kingdom is not a continuous celebration—not yet. It is a call to arms, and continual vigilance, and unceasing prayer.
“I establish my word with you. These stones will crumble to dust, but my words will never pass away.”
On to the Mount of Olives, their camping place. All are troubled; one is deeply disturbed.
*Psalm 48:2
____________________________________________
For the original post in this series, go here.
Next>
each other gravely in the marketplace. They love to score the head tables at banquets and front seats in the synagogue. They make sure to settle estates in their favor, leaving widows the short end, and then they spout long eloquent prayers in the temple court for our edification. Their reward is waiting—only it’s not a reward.”
nother and another, belatedly realizing he’s left his stick behind. And his alms-box. Step after step, hands outstretched and fingers spread, he feels the crow both pulling back from and directing him, with a nudge here, a touch of the shoulder there. Until he finally comes to the glowing, living center.
