Janie B. Cheaney

March 2, 2015March 8, 2016

The Lord’s Trumpet

. . . the word of God came to John the son of Zechariah in the wilderness. And he went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. Luke 3:2b-3.

Years pass. The fullness of time bubbles and swells under the placid surface of unrecorded history until the moment assigned for it to break out. It has a mouth, and its name is John.

The excited chatter that surrounded his birth is finally verified. His father Zachariah is long deceased but there are probably those alive who remember the moment the old man’s tongue was loosened and broke out in impromptu song . . . something about a horn of salvation and being delivered from our enemies, and the sun rising on a defeated nation. The people who dwell in darkness have seen a great light. Is John that light? He’s already living the life of a holy man in the wilderness, with his paleo wardrobe and six-legged diet. In the wilderness the word of God overpowers him, and next thing you know he comes roaring out of the desert. He takes up residence at the Jordan, a river famous for crossing over (Josh. 3:14-17), where Naaman the Syrian was miraculously cleansed from leprosy (II Kings 5). There John begins a ministry of cleansing and crossing over as he preaches the good news.

His news is bad before it’s good: “Brood of vipers!” are his first recorded words. Just part of his job: to shake Israel out of her complacency and convict her of sin. That was every prophet’s job, from Elijah to Malachi—waking up the sleepers. It’s time to get ready, take heed, beware. Most of all: Repent! The Kingdom of Heaven is approaching! Abraham was your father, not your savior. Judgment is on its way, clutched in Messiah’s hand—a winnowing fork for separating wheat from chaff, an ax laid to the bitter root of the tree.

Chop.

The people were in expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Christ. You could hardly blame them—John was every inch the prophet; he even dressed like Elijah (Would he call fire down from heaven? Or raise the dead, or hop aboard a fiery chariot?) The Baptist always denied it when asked, turning their attention to the one whose sandals he was not worthy to untie. Messiah is coming, winnowing fork in hand. Better get ready, because you don’t want to fall with the chaff, come under the ax.

Like all God’s prophets, John was right in substance, but hazy in particulars. Messiah did not hold those tools; he was those tools. And subject to those tools. Judgment was indeed about to fall.

Who knew that he would step in its way?

For the first post in this series, go here.

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February 16, 2015March 8, 2016

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 turns 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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February 10, 2015March 8, 2016

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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February 2, 2015March 8, 2016

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 wrapped 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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January 26, 2015March 8, 2016

His Name Is John

When Elizabeth heard the greeting of Mary, the baby leaped in her womb . . . “And why is it granted to me that the mother of my Lord should come to me? For behold, when the sound of your greeting came to my ears, the baby in my womb leaped for joy. And blessed it she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her from the Lord.” Luke 1:45

This was no ordinary baby—everybody agreed about that.

His father’s inability to speak, so sudden in onset, and now so suddenly undone, signaled great things to come for those who saw it. The very sight of Elizabeth—wrinkles, gray hair, and all—waddling about with her swollen belly like a barely-wed bride, was the talk of the town. When was the last time something like this happened? Does the name Sarah ring a bell? Not since the days of the patriarchs had something like this come about, a sure sign that a new age was at hand. Would the “God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob” henceforth be known as the “God of Zechariah, Elizabeth, and John”? It could happen!

John, the name they originally protested because it had no family pedigree, was obviously divinely ordained. They didn’t call him that: in Hebrew, the name is Yochanan—“the Lord is gracious.” Very fitting, because the Lord’s hand was on him (vs. 66) in such an obvious way that his friends and neighbors probably watched him intently while he was growing up—parsed his every word, noted his every pious action, and nodded sagely to each other when he wandered off into the desert to join the Essene community: “Mark my words—we haven’t seen the last of that young man.” It’s very likely that their hopes and their attention followed him into the desert and seemed close to fulfillment when he appeared again, calling sinners to repent. Could this be the Messiah?

But did any of them know of his encounter, while yet unborn, with the gracious hand of the Lord? The incarnate Lord, that is, barely formed enough to possess an actual hand. Only John’s mother knew at the time: imagine her sitting quietly in her own house with her six-month belly, expecting a visit from her young cousin. Word had come to her of a band of pilgrims on their way to Jerusalem, and Mary among them. With news. Now her ears perk up at the sound of a young woman’s voice calling her name. And then she bolts upright, clutching her sides.

She’d felt the baby kicking for some time now—the normal twitches and jerks that every expectant mother feels. But this is different, not a random jerk of an arm or a leg, but a whole-body, intentional movement. He springs, he dances—he may even have turned a somersault. She holds her breath as Mary’s voice comes closer, and when the young woman enters the house, slim and breathless, Elizabeth is so full of her own news she doesn’t even pause to embrace her. Words bubble up, fill her mouth, pour out: Blessed are you, above all women . . . the mother of my Lord . . . My baby heard your voice, and do you know what he did?

Mary stands there, the mother of our Lord, speechless with surprise. First at the sight of the old pregnant lady, and then at what she said.

In days to come, she will not always feel blessed: eyebrows will raise, whispers will increase the bigger she grows. The joyful wedding she had always hoped for will be hasty and quiet, if Joseph agrees to take her. But those are only the obvious, predictable inconveniences. She doesn’t yet anticipate giving birth anywhere but her mother’s house, not in a smelly cave 90 miles from home.

But blessed is she who believed in the fulfillment, though she doesn’t know what fulfillment will look like. Her own heart fills with spilling-out words: My soul magnifies the Lord . . . David could have sung this song; it’s all about the Almighty showing strength, scattering the proud, bringing down the mighty and exalting the humble, filling the hungry, sending away the complacent. But where is all this happening? All we see is two women clutching hands, prophesying giddily to each other with one bouncing baby between them, destined to become a superstar. Much more famous, for a while, than his embryonic cousin, before whom he dances like David before the Ark.

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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January 20, 2015December 11, 2017

Then It Happened

And the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus . . .” Luke 1:30-31.

About six months have gone by on earth before Gabriel again leaves the presence of the LORD to appear in Galilee, a province of Roman-occupied Palestine and the breeding ground of prophets, cult leaders, and zealots. The object of the angel’s visit is none of those notable persons, just an unremarkable Jewish girl of fifteen or so, going about her business.

She’s a good girl; we can say that much. An obedient, dutiful girl, most likely busy with the same domestic chores as all her friends and acquaintances, and her mother’s and grandmother’s friends and acquaintances. Like most girls in their mid-teens, she is engaged—betrothed, in the formal, legally-binding sense of that word. Her parents have made a suitable match with Joseph the carpenter, and within the year she’ll be married. A good girl, but nothing in the record indicates she was notably pious or holy.

Then Gabriel shows up.

Does her world go sideways when he appears? Yes, although she may not recognize at first just how disruptive his presence is.

How can this be? is her first question, and though it sounds similar to the response of Zechariah, it’s not. He was asking for proof; she, for clarification. She knows how babies are made, and is quite certain that the necessary deed has not yet taken place. Gabriel’s explanation can’t be that helpful, for he describes something that has never, ever, happened before—not even to the revered matriarch Sarah, who conceived in her nineties.

“The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be called holy—

the Son of God.”

We only see Mary. We can’t read her mind. I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me as you’ve said is a positive response—but really, what can you say to a heavenly being who suddenly blazed up beside your kneading trough? The angel’s words make grammatical sense but don’t match up with anything in her experience or knowledge. Her answer does not indicate comprehension, merely obedience. And that is enough. Her faith may be smaller than a mustard seed, but it’s real faith.

Perhaps not even Gabriel knows the full dimensions of what he’s saying, or how this story will tell itself. The Lord of Hosts is making his move, that’s certain, but what does it mean? The very heavens will look on with growing wonder while events unfold.

Meanwhile, Mary waits.

When did it happen? Sometime between the messenger’s visit and Mary’s journey to visit her cousin Elizabeth; that’s all we know. The Holy Spirit will come upon you . . . In the old days, the Spirit was known to “rush upon” people, like the mighty Samson;¹ Mary may have wondered if it would be like that. Did she recognize the moment of conception, or did it steal secretly upon her? Only one thing we can know for sure: There was a moment. A biological clock was ticking as a tiny egg made its way down the fallopian tube, in the manner of all women since Eve, and in a moment, the power of the Most High overshadowed it.

They say the universe exploded from a single, impossibly dense speck of matter. The power that exploded the universe is suddenly packed into a single cell.

How can this be?

The first time Yahweh visited his people it was on a mountain with thunder and lighting and an earthquake—they couldn’t miss it. This time, almost everybody missed it. The last time, Yahweh delivered detailed instructions for a tent and holy furnishings and elaborate sanctification rituals to accommodate his Presence. The main ingredient was blood—lots of blood.

This time he delivers his Presence, slipping silently into the forward motion of time. Rather than gold and incense, he is surrounded by pulsing veins and twitching cells. The holy has taken up residence within the lowly. From a single cell, Christ is formed.

And he brings the blood. Six weeks pass as cells feverishly divide and separate, knitting the Son of God in the form of a son of man: a head, eyes, limbs, lumps of flesh that will become fingers and toes and then . . .

With a spasm, a tiny, mighty heart clenches in its first heartbeat. Ka-thump ka-thump ka-thump Ka-thump Ka-thump—

the life

is in

the blood.²

It beats and beats and beats and floods the little body with the same oxygen, the same fuel and food as we all receive in this stage of our lives. But the life of the world is in that blood.

Our mothers don’t know exactly when our hearts began beating, and Mary isn’t aware of it either. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit keep their counsel. But she knows the unthinkable has happened—she has been caught up in heavenly councils and entrusted with a heavenly secret. “My soul magnifies the Lord, sings the peasant girl, because her soul has been magnified.

When did your heart begin beating? When will it stop? Does it make any difference to you knowing that there was a similar moment for Jesus (both starting and stopping)? Do you think his heart beats even today?

¹ For example, Judges 14:6

² Lev. 17:11

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July 5, 2014March 29, 2016

An Awful Tension

I just finished reading Isaiah, for the 10^th time at least. In the past I’ve been struck with how confusing, relentless, even numbing it is. This time I was struck with how schizophrenic it is.

The literary style, I’m informed by those who know, is “stream of consciousness,” simply because nothing else fits. But whose stream of consciousness? The character who’s mostly speaking is God himself. If the monologue is read and taken as continuous, the only way to make him appealing to us would be to mentally insert interruptions or transitions. Otherwise, the kindest adjective would be bipolar. Is this the God we Christians worship? Snarky atheists wouldn’t even let him out of the house, much less put him on a pedestal.

The quick and easy answer is that unbelievers don’t understand holiness. Which is true, but we believers don’t understand it all that well either. We tend to err on one side or the other. If we want to focus on his inclination to us, we lean on passages like this: “Because you are precious in my eyes,/ and honored, and I love you,/ I give men in return for you,/ peoples in exchange for your life.” Or, if we want to warn of his absolute sovereignty, there’s plenty to choose from there too. How about: “I form light and create darkness, I make well-being and create calamity.”

What we often overlook is the great dilemma for him. The terms he allows to be used are very telling in themselves. Though we know he has complete control and exists in perfect peace, God is torn. I hope I’m not being irreverent: he allows the issue to be cast in that light. He swings between retribution and reconciliation in the same chapter, sometimes the same verse. He demands justice but yearns after mercy.

When you think about it, it can’t be any other way. “God with us” is a beautiful and comforting thought at Christmas, but what it meant in Isaiah’s time was an awful (awe-ful) tension. My pastor said in a recent sermon that God-with-us in the Old Testament inevitably meant death: one slip, and wrath breaks out. But God’s absence means chaos, conflict, and conquest. Unholy beings like us can’t live with him, but we can’t live without him either. And he can’t live with us. But he does not desire to live without us.

“I will give men in return for you . . .” Might that mean, “I will give a man in return for you; I will walk among you in man’s flesh, and take man’s punishment, and be raised again for man’s life? I will be just, but I will also be the justifier; someone must pay, but it will be me.” The lines of mercy and justice will finally come together, and the place will be a cross.

Blessed schizophrenia . . .