Luke – An Informed Faith

Words of terror and despair … hope amidst the turmoil (Luke 21)

I preached this sermon, a reflection on the apocalyptic words of Jesus reported in Luke 21, at Dungog Uniting Church on 16 November 2025.

Conflict. Aggression. Upheaval. Disaster. Destruction. Catastrophe. A cosmic conflagration, as there are “great earthquakes, famines and plagues … dreadful portents and great signs from heaven … on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves”. A time when “people will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken”.

If you have a mental image of gentle Jesus, meek and mild, calling the children to sit on his knee, placidly proclaiming the importance of love, healing the sick and blessing the people who listen to his words with awe and respect—then banish this unbiblical image! For the words we have heard today—words of conflict, aggression, upheaval, disaster, destruction, and catastrophe, are the final teachings of Jesus; the last words he offered his disciples in a lengthy, detailed, and deeply disturbing speech that he made in the shadow of the glorious Temple in Jerusalem.

How kind of the lectionary to give us the solid excerpt from this speech, reported in Luke 21, as the last-but-one Gospel passage in this year when Luke’s Gospel has been in our view. Through this year, we have heard of Jesus blessing the poor, healing a crippled woman, telling stories about a Good Samaritan, welcoming outcasts to a banquet table, and the persistent seeking of justice, as well as recruiting a band of willing helpers to disseminate his message, instructing his followers how to pray, and sharing at table with a chief tax collector. All inspiring, encouraging, positive stories, you will agree.

And yet, today, we hear about deceivers and destroyers, armed troops and prosecuting authorities, upheavals in earthquakes and suffering in famines: quite a contrast, and not what we normally associate with the Galilean preacher, Jesus of Nazareth.

I don’t know if you have seen any episodes of the series being shown on ABC-TV, I Was Actually There. In particular there was an episode about the Black Saturday fires in Victoria in 2009. It put me in mind of the Black Summer fires along the eastern coast in 2019–2020. Living in Canberra during that season, we had a fire that came within 5kms of our house, and we knew people whose memories were jogged of the 2003 fire when whole suburbs of Canberra were incinerated. Two people that we worked closely with had lost their entire house and contents in that fire. From a distance of 5km, the fire seemed threatening enough to us; I can’t imagine what it must be like to see a fierce raging fire come storming along the very street where you live!

Actually, scenes of destruction abound in our news: destruction in the war in The Ukraine, the ravages of genocide in The Gaza Strip, landslides in Nepal and Bangladesh, earthquakes in Afghanistan and Türkiye, cyclones in the Pacific and the Bahamas, floods in Spain, bushfires in California and Greece, famine and droughts in countries in central Africa and southern America. Watching the news, we can’t avoid regular exposure to such “natural disasters”.

So the words of Jesus, on one level, should be no surprise to us. Has there ever been a time when “disasters” have not been occurring on this planet?

And yet, the surprise is, that the particular series of disasters that Jesus describes are all associated with the culmination of his ministry, the climax of his message, the pinnacle of his project: “when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near” (Luke 21:31).

The kingdom of God, which Jesus had preached persistently since emerging out of his 40 days in the wilderness (4:43). The kingdom of God, which he put front-and-centre as the message for his followers to proclaim (9:2; 10:9). The kingdom of God, which he boldly declared to the Pharisees, was “among you” (17:21). It is this kingdom which Jesus boldly declares will come with signs in the heavens, distress on the earth, upheavals in the sea, and great fear in the hearts of people.

Why?

This particular way of speaking and writing is described by scholars in a technical theological term: apocalyptic. That is an ancient Greek word which literally means, “revelation”, “making clear what will happen”, “lifting the lid on what God is planning for us”. God is planning a sequence of cataclysms, disasters, and catastrophes.

Apocalyptic is the essential nature of Jesus’ teachings about “the kingdom of God”. This final speech confirms the thoroughly apocalyptic character of Jesus’ teaching. The parables he tells about that kingdom are apocalyptic, presenting a vision of the promised future that is in view. The call to repent is apocalyptic, in the tradition of the prophets. The demand to live in a way that exemplifies righteous-justice is apocalyptic; it stands firmly in the line of the older prophetic call for repentance and righteous-just living.

In chapter 21 of his Gospel, Luke has drawn his narrative to a climactic moment with the same focussed attention to the vision of God’s kingdom, as was expressed at the start. The beginnings of the birth pangs are pointers to the kingdom that Jesus has always had in view. This call is as demanding and difficult as giving birth can be, Jesus warns. Jesus was, indeed, a prophet of apocalyptic intensity. We should not forget that.

So what do we do with this terrifying language, with the threatening vision that Jesus places before us today? We could put our head in the sane, pretend he really didn’t mean it, and carry on with business as normal. We can hold to the romanticised picture of gentle Jesus, meek and mild, adoring children on his lap, admiring adults by his side.

But that picture is utterly at odds with the passage we have heard today. We need to accept the vision of Jesus, embrace his words, explore what it is that this means, and respond to what he is calling us to do. And his words in this passage are fierce, direct, confronting.

Some want to use these words to read “the signs of the times” and paint a picture of unstoppable decay surrounding us and engulfing us. They want to use these words—misuse these words, I maintain—to threaten us with hellfire and brimstone. “God is coming to get us” they proclaim; “just look at how much of this is happening now”.

But this was not, and is not, the purpose of such language. Tellers of apocalyptic tales have always invited their listeners, living in times of crisis, to suspend disbelief, watch the vision unfolding, hear the angelic interpretation, even undertake the heavenly journey that the author retells; and to do this with expectation and hope. “God will act” is the central message. “Trust in God”.

Apocalyptic is always written in the midst of despair; despair for Israel that had been fuelled by foreign invasion, murder and rape during the pillaging of that invasion, enforced slavery, religious repression, cultural imperialism, and societal oppression, with the loss of much-loved traditional practices and customs, disconnection from the homeland (the place where God resided), and a continuing sense of having been abandoned by God.

In the midst of all of this, apocalyptic texts invite their readers or listeners to have hope: hope that God would act; hope that despair would be dispelled and life would flourish once now; hope that the familiarity of traditions would be reinstated; hope that the evils perpetrated by the invading oppressors would be rectified by acts of divine revenge; hope that life, even in their own time, would be transformed into a realm where righteous-justice was in force, where the evils of lawlessness were dispelled.

All of this, this, it should now be clear, is what Jesus was looking to in his apocalyptic teaching, in his teachings about living with fidelity to the covenant with God, in his invitations to his followers to walk the way he walks, leading to the realm of God’s kingdom. His visions of cataclysmic times, in the apocalyptic speech of Luke 21, provide a hope-filled declaration that, despite the turmoil of the times, God is indeed acting to intervene in events, overturn evil, and institute the righteous-justice of God.

And all of this is intensely contextual, thoroughly political, firmly directed towards the injustices perpetrated under the religious and economic system of the Temple and the cultural and religious oppression of the Roman colonisers. In Mark’s account, Jesus refers to the “birth pangs” that are just beginning (13:8). They herald the coming good times when “the great power and glory” of the Lord is evident (Mark 13:26; Luke 21:26). In Luke’s version, this is the time when “summer is near” (21:30). That is the kingdom of God, in which much fruit is borne (Luke 8:15), much growth occurs (13:19), new life will emerge (9:22; 9:44; 18:33; 20:38); righteous-justice is enacted by God (20:15–17); and love of God and neighbour is practised by those in that kingdom (10:26).

Out of the darkness and despair, the agony of the birthpangs point to the hope of abundance that has been persistently proclaimed by Jesus. And so, we might pray: may that time come, may that kingdom be a reality, even in our time, even in our place; or, as Jesus taught us to pray, in thoroughly apocalyptic terms: “your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth, as in heaven”. And that is a fine way to end the long series of passages from Luke’s Gospel that we have heard throughout this year.

The end will not follow immediately (Luke 21; Pentecost 23C)

At this time of the year, every year, the Revised Common Lectionary offers us passages from the Gospels that are strikingly vivid and dramatic. Each year we end “the church’s year” with an excerpt from the long apocalyptic speech that Jesus delivered to his disciples, some time after they had arrived in the city of Jerusalem. And so, this coming Sunday we will read Luke 21:5–19.

These verses are the first half of a long speech that Jesus gives (reported with slightly different variations in Mark 13, Matt 24, and Luke 21) as his public activities draw to a close. It is a striking speech, with vivid language and dramatic imagery, drawn from the traditions and patterns that are found in the increasingly apocalyptic fervour of prophetic oracles delivered through the history of Israel. The apocalyptic character of the speech means that it certainly makes a mark!

Indeed, this speech confirms the thoroughly apocalyptic character of the teaching of Jesus, right through the Gospel accounts. His parables about the kingdom are apocalyptic, presenting a vision of God’s promised future. The call to repent is apocalyptic, in the tradition of the prophets. The demand to live in a way that exemplifies righteous-justice stands firmly in the line of the prophetic call. Such repentance and righteous-just living is as demanding and difficult as giving birth can be.

“Apocalyptic” comes directly from the Greek language—the language in which the words of Jesus are first recorded, in the Gospels. It means an uncovering, a revealing, a making clear—in other words, a revelation. In Greek, the title of the book of Revelation is “Apocalypsis”. So an apocalyptic message is one that uncovers or reveals what lies ahead, in the plan of God.

Jesus was, indeed, a prophet of apocalyptic intensity. But how do we make sense of this dramatic language in the context of the post-Enlightenment scientifically-aware world of the 21st century? How do visions of turmoil and warfare, oracles about fiery destruction and fierce retribution, relate to our contemporary world?

One way of understanding this kind of language and these kinds of speeches, whether by Jesus or any number of the prophets, is to claim that these words were spirit-inspired predictions, from long ago, of the turmoil and conflict that was to take place in the future. These words may relate to the times immediately in the future of the writer (in the late 1st century in the case of this Gospel passage). Or they may point forward in time, to events well beyond the time of the reader, even into our own times (that is, the 21st century).

Like the final book in the New Testament, Revelation, this speech of Jesus in Luke 21 has been interpreted by fervent believers throughout the centuries as providing evidence that the end of the world was at hand. “Repent, now” is the message that is proclaimed—repent, before the end comes, and it is too late.

Another line of interpretation holds that this kind of language needs to be understood as inspired scripture, which provides us with clear doctrinal statements about what is called “eschatology” (the study of the end times, the last days). If this were the case, the words of Jesus could be mined as a source for teachings about “the last days”, instructing us so that we are aware and informed. It may not be that we are right in the midst of those “last days”, but we are able to interpret and understand what is happening—to know exactly where we are, now, in the alleged timetable of events leading up to “the last days”.

However, there are difficulties with both lines of interpretation. Neither understanding actually reflects the nature of the literature, nor the purpose for which each of the apocalyptic oracles and speeches were given in their own time. It is important to understand the literary nature of apocalyptic writings, as well as the social-historical context in which such works came into being. The same applies for Luke 21.

There are three key apocalyptic elements that help us to “make sense” of the intensely dramatic, vivid language that Jesus uses. The first is that we need to be clear about the historical context within which this Gospel was written. The author of this work was writing in a context fraught with tension, conflict, and bloodshed. Israel had been under foreign occupation for centuries. From the time that Roman troops had occupied Palestine, in 63 BCE, tension and conflict had grown.

In the year 66 CE the governor, Florus, demanded money from the Temple treasury in Jerusalem. This was too much for some Jews; hostilities broke out in various places across Palestine. The war which resulted lasted eight years; in 70 CE, the Temple in Jerusalem would be burnt to the ground, and by 74 CE, all active Jewish resistance to the Romans would be quashed.

In this setting, amidst the battles fought in Galilee, Samaria and Judaea, apocalyptic hopes were inflamed. Many of the Jews actively fighting the Romans believed that their actions would help to usher in the long-promised kingdom, in which God would reign over Israel and foreign troops would be banished. Perhaps a significant number of the followers of Jesus also believed that the kingdom of God was drawing near, as Jesus had proclaimed some decades earlier, in the events of their own day.

Should the followers of Jesus, then, join with the rebel groups in rising up against Rome? Was the way to the kingdom to be won through conflict, martyrdom, and military victory? Or was there another way? In this context, one writer chose to answer these questions by writing a whole story in which he remembered what Jesus said about how people were to follow him. We call this work the Gospel of Mark.

Some decades later, it had become clear that this uprising did mark the end of Jewish practices in Jerusalem (the Romans had expelled Jews from the city and renamed it with a Roman name). The Romans had won the war, and their grip on power was unshakeable. (Their Empire would continue to expand for some centuries to come.)

So as Luke writes his account of Jesus, a few decades after Mark, he has to come to grips with the fact that “the end” did not, indeed, come with these events. God did not intervene. Life continued on under Roman rule. So whilst Jesus is remembered for his apocalyptic fervour—Luke maintains the structure and content of the speech found in Mark, with a number of variations—the message of Jesus is put into a different context, with an emphasis on the fact that ongoing faithfulness, and bearing witness to that faith, was to be a key marker.

Luke, even more than Mark, backs away from having Jesus call for a radical uprising. Luke intensifies the Markan call to discipleship, and throughout this Gospel he provides still more examples that indicate that Jesus is calling for faithful following of the way that leads to the cross. The initial apocalyptic fervour of Jesus is somewhat muted in this later account; but the cost of discipleship and the urgency of the call to follow remains strong.

So, as Jesus is in the forecourt of the magnificent Jerusalem Temple (Luke 21:1, 5), he sets out the way that his disciples should respond. During this apocalyptic discourse, Jesus has indicated that the situation still to come will be one of persecution: “they will arrest you and persecute you” (21:12), there will be betrayal and death (21:16), “you will be hated by all” (21:17), and false preachers will arise (21:8).

In this context, the fundamental act of discipleship will be to bear witness to the way of Jesus: “this will give you an opportunity to testify” (21:13) and “the words and wisdom” for this testimony will be given by Jesus himself (21:15). The role of the disciple will be to remain faithful throughout these trials: “by your endurance you will gain your souls” (21:19).

The need for such faithfulness is underscored by the closing words of Jesus’ teachings: “be on guard … be alert” (21:34, 36). Jesus had not advocated joining in the armed uprising; he counselled faithful following of his way of service. Luke’s account underlines and emphasises the importance of this response.

In reading apocalyptic material (such as Mark 13 and Luke 21), we also need to consider their typical literary characteristics. There are a number of common features in apocalyptic texts, which are striking in their impact and powerful in their capacity to invite attention. What is central to all apocalyptic writings is a clear portrayal of a stark conflict between good and evil, which often comes to a head in a grand cosmic battle. To put it in populist terms, apocalyptic texts “spin a good yarn”. They use the techniques of dramatic storytelling, or of good action films. They are vivid and compelling accounts.

Jesus is, by and large, adhering to the conventions of the genre, as he presents his graphic portrayal of what lies on store for his followers in this speech, which Mark says was delivered on the Mount of Olives, opposite the Temple (Mark 13:3)—although in Luke’s account, he is still within the Temple itself (Luke 21:1, 4; see also 21:37–38). In making use of this genre, Jesus demonstrates that speaking in apocalyptic terms is actually doing political theology within a specific socio-historical context. This is the third key element in seeking to understand apocalyptic.

Apocalyptic is “political theology” because it explores faith in the context of the realities of life in the polis, the city. It often provides a counter-narrative to the dominant story of the rulers and those in power, exposing the evil of their ways and proposing an alternative world in which righteous-justice will reign supreme.

The people of Israel, even from the time before they were taken into exile, had lived under the shadow of the dominant world power of the time—the Assyrians, who conquered the northern kingdom; then the Babylonians, who took the southern kingdom into exile; then, after a return under the Persians, an apparently more benign power, there came the crushing power of the Macedonian empire as Alexander the Great and his troops swept into the Jewish homeland.

Tellers of apocalyptic tales invited their listeners, living in times of crisis, to suspend disbelief, watch the vision unfolding, hear the angelic interpretation, even undertake the heavenly journey that the author retells; and to do this with expectation and hope.

Apocalyptic is always written in the midst of despair; despair fuelled by foreign invasion, murder and rape during the pillaging of that invasion, enforced slavery, religious repression, cultural imperialism, and societal oppression, with the loss of much-loved traditional practices and customs, disconnection from the homeland (the place where God resided), and a continuing sense of having been abandoned by God.

There are clear, sharp pointers to the political situation of the time in which many works of apocalyptic are written—from the time of the Seleucid rulers (from the 180s BCE) through to the Roman conquest of Judaea (63 BCE) and on into the period we call the first century CE, when Jesus lived and then the Gospels were written. These works are political.

All of this, this, it should now be clear, is what Jesus was looking to in his parables of the kingdom, in his teachings about living with fidelity to the covenant with God, in his invitations to his followers to walk the way he walks, leading to the realm of God’s kingdom. His visions of cataclysmic times, in the apocalyptic speech of Luke 21, provide a hope-filled declaration that, despite the turmoil of the times, God is indeed acting to intervene in events, overturn evil, and institute the righteous-justice of God.

Shamelessly persistent: a widow and a judge, the Christians and the system (and Nathan Taylor). A sermon on Luke 18 (for Pentecost 19C).

A sermon that I preached at Dungog Uniting Church on Sunday 19 October 2025.

He was the seventh child—seven of ten. That had to be lucky. And all bearing biblical names: Joseph, Sarah, Daniel, Benjamin, Rebekah, Elizabeth, Nathan, Hannah, Mary, and Joshua. Biblical names, reflecting the strong religious convictions of their non-conformist parents, Joshua and Mary.

Young Nathan was born surrounded by promise and hope. What would his life turn out to be? His parents hoped, and prayed.

As a young adult, Nathan Taylor was joined in marriage to Betty Clegg. He had known her all his life. They lived in adjoining houses, in their West Yorkshire village of Almondbury, a few miles to the south-east of Huddersfield. Perhaps Nathan had married up in the world; non-conformist as he was, his marriage was conducted by the vicar, on 15 September 1839, in the Almondbury Parish Church. It seems that the Clegg family were members of the established Church of England.

A son, William, was born that same year, in 1839. (Perhaps he was the reason that Nathan and Elizabeth married?) Then, two years later, a daughter, Mary, was born. The Census for 1841 lists a family comprising Nathan Taylor, 25, Clothier, his wife Elizabeth, 20, and their two children, living in Schofield Lane in the township of Huddersfield. Sadly, William later would die by drowning at the age of 18; and no other trace of Mary can be found beyond this 1841 Census.

A second son, John, was born to Nathan and Betty in Huddersfield in January 1845. He was given the maiden name of his mother, Clegg, for his middle name, and appears in official records as John Clegg Taylor.

However, within two years, the family, was torn apart. On 6 March 1847, at the age of 33, Nathan Taylor was tried at the York Assizes, on the charge of “Warehouse breaking”. He was sentenced to ten years imprisonment. All the promise of a fine son, that his parents had invested in him, was broken.

Also tried with him that day were John Johnson, 33, and Thomas Waddington, 37, both of whom received the same sentence for their crime of “Robbery in company with violence”. These three men were amongst 302 convicted men who subsequently were transported to the colony of New South Wales on board the ship Adelaide. This was the last of the ships bearing convicts to come to the colony of NSW. Later convicts were sent to Moreton Bay (now Brisbane), and then later to the Swan River (now Perth). But none followed the Adelaide to New South Wales.

Indeed, further investigations reveal that Nathan Taylor had already served time, for an incident of aggravated assault, a couple of years earlier. He was not, by any means, a fine, upstanding, law abiding citizen, it would seem.

So Nathan came to NSW. So, too, did Betty, with sons William and John. They were reunited, and went on to have further five children, three daughters and two sons, who were all born in the Richmond River region in northern New South Wales.

Nathan himself appears to have lived a full life in the Richmond River Region, where he was employed initially as a Labourer. In 1858 he bought land in East Ballina, and in 1862 additional land in Casino. He was appointed as a Foot Constable in the Northern Police District, on 22 November 1858. Police records describe him as 5’8” tall, with light brown hair, brown/grey eyes, and a sallow complexion. He worked as a Constable for six years (Number 782) before resigning on 31 October 1864.

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Nathan had come good. From being a criminal, breaking the law, serving time in prison, and being transported to the colonies, he had ended up as an enforcer of that law, a solid, upstanding citizen.

After leaving the police force, Nathan conducted a store and then was licensed as the publican of the “Horse Shoe Inn” in Lismore in the 1870s. He later bought the warehouse and hotel of Henry Brown, which he kept until his death in 1874. He was a valued citizen of Lismore in his later years.

Nathan Taylor, my great great grandfather, intrigues me. He intrigues me because he was a convict: the sixth one of my ancestors to have been sent to the colonies as convict, as far as I have been able to ascertain thus far—three on my mother’s side, three on my father’s side, although there are still another three ancestors that I haven’t been able to nail down precisely, about whom I suspect they may well have been convicts.

Nathan Taylor intrigues me, also, because he was a Chartist. Nathan Taylor, as well as John Johnson and Thomas Waddington, along with many others on board the ship Adelaide, were Chartists. A whole group of a Chartists had been sentenced to ten years imprisonment, and then sent to the Colony, under special arrangements.

Now, Chartism was a movement in Britain during the period of 1838 to 1857 which was initiated by the promotion of a Peoples Charter in 1838. The Chartists held mass protest meetings and collected petitions which were presented to Parliament. There were protest activities by Chartists in many English cities. It was especially strong in the northern regions of England—precisely where Nathan Taylor was living as a young adult in the 1840s.

The Chartists were seeking a series of reforms to the political system (reforms which were eventually adopted, and which are taken for granted in modern democracies)—the vote for all adult males, the use of a secret ballot, the removal of a requirement for property ownership by Members of Parliament, payment of Members of Parliament, electorates with equal numbers of electors, and annual Parliamentary elections.

The arrangement concerning convicted Chartists was that such men would be sentenced to ten years and then sent to the colonies, and if they exhibited “exemplary” behaviour on the voyage to the south, they would be pardoned on arrival. This appears to have been what was done in relation to Nathan Taylor, for he was promptly pardoned and then his wife and two sons were brought to the colony, under the arrangements made by the Poor Law of the United Kingdom.

There is an annotation in the records of the ship that Betty Taylor and her two sons, William and John, travelled on, that reports “£5.0.0 paid by self and £10.0.0 paid by the Relieving Officers of Huddersfield”. Relieving Officers were appointed under the Poor Law Act of 1834, to oversee the administration of relief to the poor. It appears that the system was such that Elizabeth was able to petition to be reunited with her husband in the Colony.

And so she was. Had she not, I would not be here!

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The story of Nathan Taylor, Chartist, convict, and copper, and his wife and family, came to my mind as I thought about the Gospel reading we have heard today (Luke 18:1–8). In a sense, the Chartists were very much like the widow in the story which Jesus told. Like her, they were seeking justice. Like her, they were met by indifference, or resistance. Like her, the Chartists pressed, arguing their case, disrupting the society of their day, and even, it is clear, resorting to violence in order to fly their flag and gain wider attention.

And, like the judge in the Gospel parable, eventually the British system relented, and began to adopt a number of the reforms that the Chartists had argued for over the years: the vote for all adult males, the use of a secret ballot, the removal of a requirement for property ownership by Members of Parliament, payment of Members of Parliament, electorates with equal numbers of electors, and annual Parliamentary elections.

If that list sounds familiar, it should—for we, today, have inherited these reforms (and more) in our own Australian parliamentary and legal system—inherited directly from British society. We owe our current democratic system to the agitation, the persistence, of those Chartists.

The parable which Jesus tells, is regularly understood to be a parable about persistence. Don’t give up! Keep on pressing the point! Knock on the door of that judge, and keep knocking, until he rises from his sleep and opens the door to you. Don’t let the authorities ignore you or marginalise you. Make a noise! Rouse the sleepers! Agitate! Work to see your demands brought to fruition!

Now, a standard way of interpreting parables is to allegorise them. That means, drawing clear lines of connection between the characters in the story, and people in real life. Classically, the judge who was being disturbed by the persistent widow, knocking on his door, perhaps crying out in the dead of night, this judge is usually equated with God. The persistent widow, by contrast, is equated with faithful people, praying to God.

If that is done, then we are provided a most disturbing picture of God. Do we really see God as unjust, oblivious to the cries of need around him, asleep in bed as the needs of the world grow larger and more pressing? It is not, I would suggest, how people of faith really conceive of God.

What about turning this interpretation on its head? Even though the text suggests that we interpret the judge as a symbol for God, that isn’t the end of the matter. If the text is about prayer, then it is about the two-way interaction that happens when we pray. Prayer is as much about what we say to God, as it is about what God says to us, what we hear when we pray, what is pressed upon us from our close and intimate engagement with our Creator.

So, if we flip things in the parable—what about if we see the judge as a symbol of systems in our human society? Like our systems often become, the judge was inflexible, aloof, resistant to interference, opposed to alteration. And why not see the woman as a picture of God? Persistent, incessant, calling out the injustices of our society, raising a ruckus when things are unfair or inequitable.

Read like this, the parable is about the way that God continues to press on us, challenging us, confronting us, pushing us to grow in our discipleship and deepen in our faith.

Now, there is one more aspect of this parable that I want to raise before we finish. If we explore the word used to describe the widow in the original Greek of this Gospel, the word that is usually translated as “persistent”, we will find that the original Greek is more accurately rendered as “shameless”. How about that picture of God—the one who is utterly shameless—shamelessly persistent in making demands of us?

In this way of reading the parable, the widow acts in precisely the way that Lady Wisdom is portrayed in Proverbs 8:1-4. She, a female, is on the public arena of ancient Israel: “On the heights, beside the way, at the crossroads she takes her stand; beside the gates in front of the town, at the entrance of the portals she cries out.” These locations were where men were expected to be active, and the gates to the town were the places where men gathered to discuss Torah and determine cases brought to them as judges.

For a woman to be there, and to be vocally active in such a public way, was a breach of the honour-shame code. Women speaking out in public were acting in a way that challenged the honour of the men who alone “rightly” belonged there. They did not adhere to the posture and action of shame that they were required to demonstrate, as the flip side of honour. They were acting in a way that demonstrated they were shameless.

The widow, pressing the point with the judge, is not only persistent, but—like Lady Wisdom, like God as we listen to and engage with God—utterly shameless.

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So for each one of us, the question stands: how does God call us to account, in the covenant by which we have committed ourselves to God? What knocking do we hear on our doors in the middle of the night? What voice cries out to us, persistently and shamelessly, at all hours of the day?

Where is God challenging us to deeper discipleship in active ways? How is God beckoning us to gracious openness, to offer lavish hospitality, to provide friendship and fellowship to those from outside our indeed circle?

In the Wesleyan tradition, which entered the Uniting Church through the Methodist Church, there is a Covenant Service, which was first used by Charles Wesley in 1755, drawing on a liturgy that is believed to have been created by the 17th century English Puritan, Richard Alleine.

Wesley’s Covenant Prayer includes words which I take as the start of our Prayers of the People for today.

Let me be exalted for you,

or brought low for you;

let me be full,

let me be empty,

let me have all things,

let me have nothing:

I freely and wholeheartedly yield all things

to your pleasure and disposal.

Sell your possessions, and give alms (Luke 12; Pentecost 9C)

“Sell your possessions, and give alms”. So Jesus instructs his followers, in the midst of a lyrical section of teaching in which he praises the way that God feeds ravens, bedecks lilies in flowery glory, and assures his followers that “it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom” (Luke 12:22–34). This is the passage from Luke’s Gospel—which largely parallels a passage also in Matthew’s Gospel (Matt 6:25–34)—that is proposed by the Revised Common Lectionary for reading in services this coming Sunday.

The passage gives the impression that Jesus was advocating a life of asceticism, marked by poverty, lived in complete dependence on the provisions of God. Indeed, some interpreters have claimed that Jesus was born in poverty, deriving this from the “born in a manger … no room at the inn” element of “the Christmas story” (Luke 2:7), as well as Luke’s later comment that when Mary brought the offering for her purification (Luke 2:22), it was the lesser option prescribed for one who could not afford to offer a sheep (Lev12:8). Further, that he was known as “the carpenter”(Mark 6:3) or as “the carpenter’s son” (Matt 13:55) is seen to be evidence of his lowly status.

More careful analysis, however, indicates that this is too simplistic. British Anglican scholar Ian Paul has posted a detailed consideration of this matter, in which he draws on very helpful research by historians and economists who have turned their attention to the ancient world. (Ian Paul can be aggressively dismissive of arguments that do not align with his clear-cut conservative-evangelical-Anglican perspective, especially when it comes to the debate about sexuality and gender in the. Church of England; but in this post—as in many others on his page—his careful scholarly analysis is most helpful.)

Paul notes what others before have observed—that a tiny minority of people in the Hellenistic world had power and wealth, but a substantial proportion of people were at the other end of the social stratum. At the very bottom, in the most precarious position, were those who were desperately poor: orphans, widows, unskilled workers, beggars, prisoners, and disabled people—perhaps 25 to 30% of the population. Above them were those who were dependent on their labour to meet their day-by-day needs—perhaps 30 to 40% of the population; and then above them, a further 20 to 25% of the population who generally lived just above the minimum level required to sustain a reasonable life: most merchants and traders, skilled artisans, freedpersons (formerly slaves), and families living on larger farms.

This breakdown is based on estimates by biblical scholar Bruce Longenecker in his analysis of social levels in Pauline churches (Remember the Poor, Eerdmans, 2010). Longenecker in turn draws on the work of historian Peter Oakes, who had undertaken careful analysis of demography and housing in Pompeii (Reading Romans in Pompeii; SPCK, 2009).

The Gospels provide a number of clues as to where the disciples might have fitted into this schema. The toll collector Matthew (or Levi) was a small business man operating to collect tolls from travellers along the roads (Mark 2:14; Matt 9:9); the four Galilean fisherman ran their own fishing businesses with their “hired men” (Mark 1:20). As for Jesus, Paul observes that “as a tekton, a general builder (Matt 13:55; Mark 6:3) working with stone and wood (though not metal), it is more than likely that Joseph (and therefore Jesus) … was above either 55% or 82% of the population not including slaves, across the Empire as a whole”.

See https://www.psephizo.com/biblical-studies/was-jesus-actually-born-into-a-poor-family/

So we can see that the teachings of Jesus that instruct his followers on the matter of wealth and possessions are designed to stimulate the consciences of his followers, who were not beggardly poor, to alert them to their responsibilities towards those in the lowest socio-economic levels of society. They are to act towards them remembering that God has long had good news for the the poor and liberty for the oppressed (Isa 61:1–2, quoted at Luke 4:18), knowing that Jesus blesses those who are poor, hungry, and weeping (Luke 6:20–21), and recalling how Mary sang that God has “lifted up the lowly [and] filled the hungry with good things” (Luke 1:52–53), which itself evoked the ancient song of Hannah that God “raises up the poor from the dust [and] lifts the needy from the ash heap” (1 Sam 2:8, repeated at Ps 113:7).

Accordingly, in instructing his followers to give no regard to food and clothing, Jesus is not necessarily saying, “remain in poverty”. Rather, I think he is admonishing them—and us—not to be caught in the perpetual circle of seeking more, to enjoy more. Rather, his message is that, what we have, must be shared; what we gain, we should use judiciously, to help those in greater need than we are. For this is what “the kingdom” is about, surely.

Good works and acts of charity: a strong, consistent biblical motif (Tabitha, Acts 9)

Tabitha (also known as Dorcas) is an unlikely role model for disciples. There is no record of her preaching the Gospel, or casting out demons; and no direct statement that she was hosting a house church or offering hospitality; although she did make clothing for widows and this could be seen as an act of hospitality, perhaps. Rather, Tabitha is known simply for the fact that she was a disciple who was “devoted to good works and acts of charity” (Acts 9:36, NRSVUE translation).

Quite strikingly, she is a woman who is named (a striking feature, as many women in scripture go unnamed); and we are given her name in two languages, Aramaic and Greek. It is possible that Tabitha is derived from Tsibiah, the name of the mother of King Jehoash (1 Ki 12:1). So Tabitha is worth remembering. Mostly, however, she is remembered for the fact she had fallen ill and had died; when Peter and two other disciples came to Joppa, where she lived, she was brought back to life (9:37, 40–41).

A depiction of Tabitha, from the work of James C. Lewis

Whilst this may mean that Tabitha exemplified the pathway that Jesus trod (into death, then back to life), she is not put forward as an example of that paradigmatic pattern (which Paul, for instance, sees as fundamental; see 1 Cor 15:3–4; Rom 6:3–8, 11; 2 Cor 4:8–11; Gal 2:19–20; Phil 3:10–11). Why, then, is this story included in Acts? Tabitha is part of a group of stories that form a crucial pivot in the storyline of Acts, from the time of the church in Jerusalem (chs.1—7) to the activity amongst the Gentiles (chs.13 onwards) that begins to spread the good news “to the ends of the earth” (cf. Acts 1:8).

The way that Tabitha is introduced may well serve to point to her ultimate significance in this book which records various incidents because of their foundational importance for Christian faith and life. In the very first verse, Tabitha is praised for “doing good works” and performing “acts of charity”. This is reminiscent of the introductions offered for a number of other characters, all valued for their piety and the good things that they did (not just “what they believed”).

Good works and acts of charity

Elizabeth and Zechariah, at the start of Luke’s Gospel, are described as “righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord” (Luke 1:6). They did what was considered to be good, performing the acts of charity required by Torah. Simeon is introduced as a man who was “righteous and devout” (Luke 2:25) whilst Anna “never left the temple but worshiped there with fasting and prayer night and day” (Luke 2:37). They too did what is good, as they adhered to Torah. And in Acts, immediately after the story of Tabitha, we meet Cornelius, “a devout man who feared God with all his household; he gave alms generously to the people and prayed constantly to God” (Acts 10:2). Cornelius is yet another example of someone who did good.

So Tabitha “was devoted to good works and acts of charity” (Acts 9:34). Often these terms are viewed through a narrow lens, based on a hardline reading of Paul’s affirmation that “a person is justified not by the works of the law but through faith in Jesus Christ … we [are] justified by faith in Christ, and not by doing the works of the law, because no one will be justified by the works of the law” (Gal 3:26). He offers a similarly strenuous affirmation along these lines at Rom 3:24–25, 28–30, followed by his detailed argument that Abraham was justified by his faith, and not by any “works of the law” (such as circumcision; see Rom 4:1–25).

This Pauline focus on “faith, not works” generated a negative attitude towards “doing good”. This came to full fruition amongst the Reformers, when they rejected the medieval Roman Catholic system of indulgences (accruing merit in the eyes of God through the support of charitable works, amongst other things) and declared that “doing good” and “charitable works” were of a lesser value than “simply believing” and “having faith in Jesus”. From this perspective, amongst more recent Protestant churches, a healthy disdain for these good deeds has developed. Good works were not “the heart of the Gospel”. Tabitha would hardly be seen by them as a role model for a faithful disciple.

Doing good

Yet “doing good” and performing “charitable deeds” are valued as positive and advocated as necessary by many voices in scripture. Prophets instructed the people of Israel to “learn to do good, seek justice” (Isa 1:17; see also Isa 41:23; Jer 4:22), following the example of the Lord God who does good (Micah 2:7; Zech 8:15). Psalmists sang a refrain to “depart from evil, and do good” (Ps 34:14; 37:27) and to “trust in the Lord and do good” (Ps 37:3), once again following the example set by the Lord God, who is acknowledged in this manner: “you are good and you do good” (Ps 119:68).

Similar advice appears in later Jewish literature. In the story of Tobit, the angel Raphael in the guise of “brother Azariah” instructs Tobit and his son Tobias to “do good and evil will not overtake you” (Tob 12:7), whilst in Ben Sirach Wisdom herself advises, “if you do good, know to whom you do it, and you will be thanked for your good deeds. Do good to the devout, and you will be repaid—if not by them, certainly by the Most High” (Sir 12:1–2). Wisdom also offers advice to “do good to friends before you die, and reach out and give to them as much as you can” (Sir 14:13).

This focus on “doing good” continues throughout Second Temple Judaism. As this period draws to a close, Jesus himself instructs his followers to “love your enemies, do good to those who hate you” (Luke 6:27), reminding them that “if you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you?” (Luke 6:33). He further reinforces these instructions with the words “love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return” (Luke 6:35).

Jesus extends the image of the tree bearing fruit first spoken by John (Luke 3:8–9) with his teaching that “no good tree bears bad fruit, nor again does a bad tree bear good fruit; for each tree is known by its own fruit”, noting that “the good person out of the good treasure of the heart produces good” (Luke 6:43–45). The commitment to “doing good” which is seen in prophets, psalms, and wisdom writings, is expressly affirmed also by Jesus.

Furthermore, in Matthew’s Gospel Jesus declares that “not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven” (Matt 7:21). He tells his disciples they are “the light of the world” and then says, “let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works” (Matt 5:14-16). Later in that Gospel, he makes it clear that those doing this “will of my Father” by performing “good works” are those who feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, welcome strangers, clothe the naked, take care of the sick, and visit those in prison (Matt 25:35–36).

This, of course, itself draws on the guidance provided by the post-exilic prophet whose words are included in the book of Isaiah, posing the rhetorical question about “the true fast”: does it not include, amongst other things, “to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin?” (Isa 58:6–7). And this is how Peter remembers Jesus when he preaches to Gentiles in Caesarea about “how God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power; how he went about doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil, for God was with him” (Acts 10:38).

Followers of Jesus who wrote letters to encourage and instruct other followers in the next few decades repeat the same instruction: “see that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all” (1 Thess 5:15); “do not neglect to do good and to share what you have” (Heb 13:16); “let those suffering in accordance with God’s will entrust themselves to a faithful Creator, while continuing to do good” (1 Pet 4:19).

Even Paul notes that “to those who by patiently doing good seek for glory and honor and immortality, he will give eternal life” (Rom 2:7), while a later writer of the first century CE evoking the authority of Paul includes amongst the requisite qualities of a widow that she is “well attested for her good works, as one who has brought up children, shown hospitality, washed the saints’ feet, helped the afflicted, and devoted herself to doing good in every way” (1 Tim 5:10). Finally, another letter writer concludes that “it is better to suffer for doing good, if suffering should be God’s will, than to suffer for doing evil” (1 Pet 3:17). “Doing good” is a persistent biblical motif.

Acts of charity

Closely related to this is the statement that Tabitha was known as one who performed “acts of charity” (Acts 9:36). This, too, is a strong biblical theme. The word translated by the NRSVUE as “acts of charity” is ἐλεημοσυνῶν (eleēmosunōn), which derives from the root word meaning “to have mercy”—a quality that is advocated for at various places in scripture. In other translations, it is rendered “almsdeeds” (KJV, ASB), “acts of mercy” (WEB), “compassionate acts” (CEB), or “helping the poor” (GNB, NIV).

Mercy was a quality seen in God by the Israelite prophets. Isaiah declared that “the Lord waits to be gracious to you; therefore he will rise up to show mercy to you, for the Lord is a God of justice; blessed are all those who wait for him” (Isa 30:18). Hosea says that the Lord promises Israel, “I will take you for my wife in righteousness and in justice, in steadfast love, and in mercy” (Hos 2:19).

Jeremiah tells the returning exiles that God has said, “Is Ephraim my dear son? Is he the child I delight in? As often as I speak against him, I still remember him. Therefore I am deeply moved for him; I will surely have mercy on him” (Jer 31:20). and Habakkuk prays, “in wrath may you remember mercy” (Hab 3:2). And in a recurring song various writers affirm that “the Lord is gracious and merciful” (Joel 2:13; and see Exod 34:6; Num 14:18; Neh 9:17b; Ps 145:8–9; Jonah 4:2; as well as 2 Kings 13:23; 2 Chron 30:9).

Many psalms contain an indication that God was seen to be merciful (Ps 69:16; 86:15; 103:8; 111:4; 116:5; 119:156; 145:8) and a number of times, the psalmist prays “be merciful to me, O God” (Ps 57:1), “be mindful of your mercy” (Ps 25:6), “do not, O Lord, withhold your mercy from me” (Ps 40:11), or simply “have mercy on me” (Ps 51:1) or “on us” (Ps 123:3). Of course, in Christian tradition, it is the simple prayer, “Lord, have mercy”, that draws on this tradition; and in the original Greek, kyrie eleison, the verb is derived from the same root word found at Acts 9:36 (“acts of charity”, eleēmosunōn).

It is mercy for which the prophets consistently advocated. Zechariah declared that the Lord is instructing Israel, “render true judgments, show kindness and mercy [hesed] to one another; do not oppress the widow, the orphan, the alien, or the poor; and do not devise evil in your hearts against one another” (Zech 7:9–10). Micah asked his potent question, and then answered, “to do justice, to love mercy [hesed] ” (Mic 6:8). Hosea offered this clear summation: “I desire mercy [hesed], not sacrifice” (Hos 6:6).

It is this last saying that Jesus twice quotes (Matt 9:13; 12:7), both times in rabbinic-style disputations with scribes and Pharisees. This usage indicates that he saw this text as a proof text which could be used to conclude such argumentative debates. He continues the prophetic commitment to “doing mercy” in everyday life. In the final amd most aggressive interaction between Jesus and these Torah teachers, he berates them for their skewed priorities, and identifies “justice and mercy and faith” as “the weightier matters of the law” (Matt 23:23).

In the same Gospel of Matthew, Jesus affirms that the merciful are blessed, “for they will receive mercy” (Matt 5:7), and concludes his parable of the unforgiving servant by having the master declare to him, “should you not have had mercy on your fellow slave, as I had mercy on you?” (Matt 18:33).

Then, in telling a much-loved parable found only in Luke’s Gospel, Jesus responds to the lawyer wondering “who is my neighbour?” by telling a story about a wounded man and three passers-by, and ending with the question, “who do you think was the neighbour?”—to which the lawyer declares, “the one who showed him mercy” (Luke 10:37). Luke, of course, had highlighted the quality of God’s mercy in the songs that appear in the opening chaps of his Gospel (Luke 1:50, 54, 58, 72, 78).

Finally, James the brother of Jesus offers a succinct summation of the importance of mercy: “mercy triumphs over judgement” (James 2:13), while the short letter of Jude concludes by adjuring those who hear it to “have mercy on some who are wavering … and have mercy on still others with fear” (Jude 22–23). Mercy, as a quality which is evident in the lives of followers of Jesus, continues as a clear theme in the works written by his followers.

However, perhaps the weight of understanding of what “mercy” means as Christians read the New Testament has shifted to a sense of mercy as “loving forgiveness and acceptance”, whether by God or by others, rather than mercy as “acts performed in love to assist people in need”.

Tabitha (or Dorcas)

So, to return to Tabitha (or Dorcas), “the gazelle” (which is what her names means, both in Aramaic and in Greek): she was a disciple who was known for the fact that she was “devoted to good works and acts of charity” (Acts 9:36). She was a faithful, diligent, compassionate person, attending to the scriptural injunction, repeated and reinforced by Jesus, to “do good” and to carry out “acts of charity” in the knowledge that the Lord God “desires mercy, not sacrifice”.

The Lord opened her heart to listen eagerly to what was said by Paul (Easter 5C; Acts 16)

Two weeks ago we heard Luke’s account of the speech that Peter gave to the church, gathered in Jerusalem, about the moment when the Spirit fell upon the Gentile household of Cornelius and the conclusion that he drew, that “God has given even to the Gentiles the repentance that leads to life” (Acts 11:1–18).

Then, last Sunday, we heard a portion of Luke’s narrative from later in the book, which takes place soon after Paul and Barnabas had travelled to Jerusalem to report to a later gathering about their activity about “all the signs and wonders that God had done through them among the Gentiles” (Acts 15:1–21).

This Sunday’s passage (16:9–15) begins in Troas. Paul, Silas, and Timothy had travelled through Asia Minor (16:1–5), bringing to the assemblies they visit the decree of the Jerusalem council (16:4). As they went through the region of Phrygia and Galatia, they hear an instruction not to speak in the southern region of Asia from the holy spirit (16:6). Then they are forbidden by “the spirit of Jesus” to head north and enter Bithynia (16:7), so they go to Troas, where a vision is seen in the night with a petition to “come across into Macedonia” (16:9).

Luke is keen for those who read his work and hear it read to understand that Paul, Silas, and Timothy are guided by the spirit, seeing visions sent by God. These are common occurrences in Acts. The move into Macedonia is supported with the succinct statement that “God has called us to preach the good news to them” (16:10). It is completely consistent with “the plan and purpose of God” that the apostles have consistently been declaring (see 2:23; 4:28; 5:29, 38–39; 10:42). See

Accepting, or rejecting, the purpose of God (Narrative Lectionary for Epiphany 6C; Luke 7)

This statement (16:10) begins the first of the so-called ‘we-sections’ of Acts, which are narrated in the first person plural. Three of these are but brief notes concerning journeys (from Troas to Philippi, 16:10–17; from Troas to Miletus, 20:5–15; from Miletus to Jerusalem, 21:1–18). Each of these passages contain lists of the places visited and the means of travel (16:11–12; 20:5–6,13–15; 21:1–3,7–8,15) and small vignettes concerning one incident that took place on the journey (16:13–15; 20:7-12; 21:4–6, 10– 14).

The fourth ‘we-section’ encompasses the extensive series of journeys by which Paul travels from Caesarea to Rome (27:1-28:16). It includes mention of places and means of travel, as well as a number of particular incidents.

Scholarly opinion over the historical value of the ‘we sections’ is divided. Some have argued that there is evidence for an ancient literary convention, by which an author can alternate third person (“he”, “they”) and first person (“I”, “we”) narratives. In this view, Luke makes use of the first person narrative to strengthen the sense of unity felt between author and audience, and the characters in the events narrated.

However, others have criticised this claim and argued that the use of “we” indicates that these passages, at least, must go back to an eyewitness. The likelihood of ever being able to prove that the author of Acts was himself present with Paul in these journeys is low; at best, we might conclude that Luke had available to him a very brief source which may possibly have had its origins amongst Paul’s fellow travellers. (See also 20:5).

As the group crosses over into Macedonia, an ancient province of Greece which had been the dominant political power four centuries earlier, they arrive in Philippi (16:11–40), a city founded by Philip of Macedonia in 356 BCE, taken under Roman rule in 167 BCE, and declared a Roman colony (as Luke accurately notes, 16:12) in 31 BCE.

The group proceeds, in typical fashion, to find a place of worship on the sabbath (16:13)—not, as expected, a synagogue (see 13:5), but “a place of prayer” (16:13) for some women. (That the place of prayer was, in fact, a synagogue, is argued by a number of scholars. One scholar, Matson, describes the house church in Philippi as “a subversive contrast society”.)

One of this number, Lydia, is singled out for attention. Lydia is a godfearer (16:14), as was Cornelius (10:2) and probably the Ethiopian (8:27); what will occur here will place Lydia in a paradigmatic position akin to that occupied by Cornelius. Lydia is the first individual convert identified once Paul, Silas and Timothy, under divine guidance, have crossed over into Macedonia (16:6–10).

So Lydia presents a paradigm for the process of conversion and leadership; as the first convert in Europe, she models a faithful response to the message of Paul. Indeed, what takes place in this scene is directly interpreted as an act of God, for “the Lord opened her heart” (16:14) to listen eagerly to Paul’s words. The “opening of her heart” (16:14) echoes the discoveries made by the archetypal disciples on the walk to Emmaus (Luke 24:31,32) and by the larger group of followers gathered in Jerusalem later that day (24:45). Her “eager listening” (16:14) repeats the response evoked by Philip in Samaria (8:6).

Lydia is judged as being “faithful to the Lord” and, with her household, is baptised (16:15), in accord with the programmatic declaration of Peter’s Pentecost exhortation (2:38–39). The baptism of her household follows the pattern already seen in Caesarea (10:24–48; 11:13–16) and foreshadows a pattern which will be repeated soon in Philippi (16:31-33), and subsequently in Corinth (18:8).

Her belief leads to the offer of hospitality (16:15), as was also the case with the Gentiles in Caesarea (10:48); this same pattern follows in the story of the conversion of the Philippian gaoler and his household (16:34). Belief, baptism and table fellowship have also been linked in the accounts of the conversion of Saul (9:18-19), Cornelius and his household (10:24-48) and the events on Pentecost in Jerusalem (2:41-47). Lydia’s role as a patroness echoes that of Mary, the mother of John Mark, in Jerusalem (12:12) and prefigures that of Priscilla (with Aquila, 18:13). She is a striking figure in the overall narrative of Acts.

*****

Some of this material is from my commentary on “The Acts of the Apostles” in the Eerdmans Commentary on the Bible (ed. J.D.G. Dunn and John Rogerson; Eerdmans, 2003). I have also explored the theme of the plan of God at greater depth in my doctoral research, which was published in 1993 by Cambridge University Press as The plan of God in Luke-Acts (SNTSM 76).

On Lydia, see also

Lydia, Dorcas, and Phoebe: three significant strategic leaders in the early church

Seeing and believing as Jesus passes by (Luke 18; Lent 5C)

The man sits on the ground, beside the road leading into Jericho. Sensing what was happening, who was passing by, what was being spoken about; unable to use his eyes, he was undoubtedly attentive through his listening ears, through the sounds he could hear, as well as the fragrances he could smell. Because of this, he knew the identity of the person passing by, so he calls out with confidence, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me” (Luke 18:38).

Jesus pauses, engages with the man, and responds to his plea. “Receive your sight; your faith has saved” (18:42). The man, all of a sudden, could see; all was clear, so he took his place among those following Jesus on the way (18:43).

This incident takes place towards the conclusion of the lengthy journey that Jesus undertook with his disciples, from Galilee in the north (4:14, 31; 5:17; 8:1, 26, 40), through Samaria (9:51–56; 17:11–19) and into Jericho (18:35; 19:1) en route to Jerusalem (19:11, 28, 41). That journey had I commenced soon after Jesus had been transfigured on the top of a mountain (9:28–36). This striking event, at which Moses and Elijah appeared, pointed towards the exodon (NRSV, “departure”) which Jesus “was about to accomplish at Jerusalem” (9:31).

The essence of that exodon is revealed by Jesus in the words he speaks to his disciples both immediately prior to, and soon after, his transfiguration. Before, he declares “the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, chief priests, and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised” (9:22). After, he provides a brief summary: “the Son of Man is going to be betrayed into human hands” (9:45). The journey to Jerusalem would be a journey to his death. When this journey is almost at an end, Jesus returns to this teaching, reminding them “we are going up to Jerusalem, and everything that is written about the Son of Man by the prophets will be accomplished” (18:31).

At the start of the journey, the disciples had exhibited a thorough and complete lack of understanding at the teaching of Jesus. Luke provides a succinct threefold declaration that “they did not understand this saying; its meaning was concealed from them, so that they could not perceive it”, before noting that “they were afraid to ask him about this saying” (9:45).

Over the course of the journey, Jesus has taught, healed, told parables, and cast out demons, all of which (we might imagine) could have alerted the disciples to the true nature of the mission of Jesus. So, when the group approaches Jericho, Jesus reminded them of his earlier words, giving more extensive details about what this entails: “he will be handed over to the Gentiles; and he will be mocked and insulted and spat upon; after they have flogged him, they will kill him, and on the third day he will rise again” (18:32–33).

Whilst the disciples were completely ignorant at the start of the journey—at the end, sadly, they were apparently none the wiser. Luke again offers a succinct threefold exposé of the continued ignorance of this group: “they understood nothing about all these things; in fact, what he said was hidden from them, and they did not grasp what was said” (18:34).

So the healing of the blind man functions as an enacting of the teaching of Jesus; it is a moment of revealing that Jesus was, no doubt, hoping would become evident to his followers. As the blind man hear the noise of a nearby crowd, he enquires and is told, “Jesus of Nazareth is passing by” (18:37). The man, it seems, does not share the ignorance or hesitancy of the disciples; he immediately reaches out to the man passing by, calling out “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” (18:38), and then repeating the plea when he was told to be quite (18:39).

The request, “have mercy on me”, sounds much like a prayer to God; it exactly echoes the prayer in a psalm attributed to the penitent adulterer-murderer, David (“have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love”; Ps 51:1) as well as the cry of the pilgrim travellers heading towards Jerusalem (“have mercy upon us, O Lord, have mercy upon us”; Ps 123:3) and another psalm ascribed to the time “when David fled from Saul in a cave” (“be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me, for in you my soul takes refuge”; Ps 57:1). This phrase has, of course, become the basis of a much-repeated prayer amongst pious Christians: “Lord, have mercy on me”.

Indeed, God’s mercy is acknowledged in many psalms—most notably in the well-known affirmation, “surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life” (Ps 23:6), but also in another dozen places (Ps 25:6; 40:11; 69:16; 79:1; 86:15; 103:4; 111:4; 116:5; 119:77, 156; 123:2–3; 145:8). God’s mercy is integral to the repeated biblical affirmation, “the Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love” (Ps 103:8; see also Exod 34:6; Neh 9:17; Ps 86:15; 145:8; Joel 2:13; Jon 4:2).

The man by the road knows of this divine mercy, and believes he will receive it from Jesus. He stands as a striking contrast to those walking with Jesus along the road who, despite an extended time of learning from Jesus, fail to understand him. This man knows exactly what Jesus offers, and he pleads for it. And the immediate response from Jesus was to restore his sight, affirming “your faith has saved you”(18:42)—the same affirmation given to the woman who, before he had set out on this journey, had anointed his feet (7:50).

The conclusion to the story is clear and impactful: “he regained his sight and followed him, glorifying God; and all the people, when they saw it, praised God” (18:43). This man responds to the actions of Jesus as he “followedm him”; he joins those already following him, his committed disciples (5:11, 27–28; 7:9; 9:11, 23, 57–62; 14:27; 18:22, 28), as they walk into Jerusalem.

The man’s response of “glorifying God” shows that he knows the source of the power that Jesus had to heal. It replicates the response of the paralytic man who had been healed by Jesus (5:25). The response of the crowd, “praising God”, echoes the words of Simeon over the infant Jesus soon after his birth (2:28), and anticipates the response of the centurion at the very moment of the death of Jesus (23:47). It also resonates with the responses of the crippled woman (13:13) and the Samaritan leper (17:15), each of whom recognises the divine source of the power manifested by Jesus.

How will the father and his two sons each navigate the discomfort of ambiguity? (Luke 15; Lent 4C)

This blog relates to the parable in Luke 15 offered in the Narrative Lectionary this coming Sunday, Lent 3. It also appears in the Revised Common Lectionary for the following Sunday, Lent 4.

At the beginning of the season of Lent, some 26 days ago, we heard again of the time that Jesus spent in the wilderness. Sometimes, when I have been in a placement where I was responsible for leading worship each Sunday throughout Lent, I have shaped the weeks around the theme of a Wilderness Journey. As well as the Sunday services, there were offerings of Bible Study groups that meet each week, designed to focus, specifically, on aspects of that theme, Wilderness Journey. It is a good way—one way among many ways—to foster an intentional Lenten discipline.

This theme continues, this coming Sunday, as the Gospel passage proposed by the lectionary invites us to consider the notion of being lost—an entirely understandable element in a Wilderness Journey! In this passage (Luke 15:11–32) we hear a much-loved and very familiar story. It’s a story about losing; but also about finding. About the wandering away of a much loved son; but also about the wondrous returning home of that once-was-lost son.

Often, taking this particular focus of “the one who was lost is now found” (v.24), this story is called The Parable of the Prodigal Son. (The adjective “prodigal” seeks to capture the “dissolute living” on the younger son, as described in vv.13–16.) The focus is on the character regarded as central—the younger of the two sons, whose decisions in life are seen to reflect the innate human sinfulness that a dominant stream in orthodox theology has attributed to all human beings. The younger son is a symbol for every one of us.

However, this is a story that has more than one character in it; more than just this one “prodigal son” who so often gives his name to the parable. Sometimes, I wonder whether it might be better to rename The Parable of the Prodigal Son, and call it The Parable of the Two Prodigal Sons, recovering the emphasis on both sons in the latter part of the parable.Or perhaps, The Parable of the Gracious Father, reorienting the focus to the acts of kindness and compassion displayed by the father as he welcomes one son back home. How would you name it?

Of course, this parable sits in a chapter where there are three stories in a row, focussed on the same dynamic: what was once lost, is now found. The sheep, once lost, now found (v.6). The coin, once lost, now found (v.9). And the son, once lost, now found (v.24). Or, is that, the two sons, each lost: one, a runaway who came to his senses and returned; the other, a stay-at-home that came to his senses without ever having to leave home (v.32). In each case, joy is the central motif of the parable that is told (vv.7, 10, 32).

Whatever you call it, this parable is a story that invites us to reflect on our own journeys. In those journeys, there are moments of being lost, as well as moments of being found, within our own lives. Moments when we ventured afar; moments when we realise that we are lost; moments when we set out back home to be with the family; and (hopefully) moments of joyful reconciliation on our return.

Can you remember a time when you wandered off from your faith? And a time when you returned to the community of faith? Perhaps a time when you felt alone, rejected, sitting in poverty in the midst of a pen of swine, as it were? Or perhaps the time when you were met by the loving embrace and joyous celebration of the community, rejoicing as you returned into the family, to share in the feast that had been prepared?

This parable invites us to think about the experiences of losing, and finding—or being found—not only within our own lives, but also within this community of faith. Think about the community of faith to which you belong. What have you lost as a community, together? And what have you found, together, in that community? Found, for the very first time—or perhaps a rediscovery of something that was once lovingly held?

A little while ago I ministered for an agreed period of time (12 months) as an Intentional Interim Minister (IIM). It was a community which had been through a process of loss. I knew that, within such a community, a group of people gathered around a common cause, there would be many who have felt the experience of loss quite acutely. But there would also have been some for whom the loss was less-intensely felt. The experiences of loss felt by individuals would be quite varied. That is certainly what I encountered in the particular community where I was ministering.

Some had experienced the loss of a beloved and respected minister. Their thinking was along the lines of “We had an opportunity to move in new directions, but we haven’t done so. We had the experience of many new people joining us to participate in our common life, but they have now gone. We were given different ways of understanding our faith, but that is no longer offered to us each Sunday. We have experienced loss”

Others, I found, had experienced loss in a different way: the disruptions of previous years had led, in their view, to a loss of a familiar pattern of worship, a familiar way of understanding God, a familiar set of practices and customs on a week-by-week basis. I suspect they were thinking: “We have lost a sense of reverence in church. We no longer have a large and flourishing youth group. We seem more oriented to doing particular works in our community, less oriented to praying and studying scripture together. We have experienced loss.”

But although there were different ways in which that loss was felt and understood, it was an experience held in common across virtually all the congregation. I spent some time encouraging people to name their loss, and to know that “if you are experiencing this sense of loss, you are not alone; you, and your neighbour, and the people who regularly sit on the other side of the church, are also experiencing that sense of loss. It may be in relation to different issues. But you are all experiencing loss.”

Bear with me. I will come (back) to the story of the gracious father and his two sons, for that is the focus of this post. But first, a little more theory.

An important factor that helped to guide me in the situation in which I was ministering, a few years ago, was a theory was something known as Transition Theory. This had formed an integral part of the training I had received in preparation for serving as an Intentional Interim Minister (IIM); it was one plank in the foundation that undergirded the work I undertook with the people of the congregation in the transitional process that I guided them through during the course of the year.

The particular form of Transition Theory that I used was developed by William Bridges, in a book he wrote, entitled Managing Transitions (2009). In this book, Bridges talks about transitions in terms of three stages: first, there is the letting go; then there is the neutral zone of being in-between; and finally, the connection into a new place, a new way of being. In that neutral, in-between zone, there is a need for us to nurture and develop a capacity to live within the discomfort of ambiguity which arises during the experience of loss, as we move away from the familiar.

What Bridges calls the neutral zone, is actually akin to what appears in the biblical story, time and time again, as the wilderness. Moving through the neutral zone, is the journey that is undertaken through the wilderness. That is what Jesus did for those “forty days” in the wilderness, that we reflected on in the first Sunday of Lent. That is what the people of Israel had done for those “forty years” in the wilderness, which ended with the story told in Joshua 4, which is offered by the lectionary as the Hebrew Scripture passage for this coming Sunday, Lent 4.

In Hebrew, the word we translate as wilderness (midbar) means literally, “land uninhabited by humans”, or “land in between the places where human beings live”. It can be a dangerous, threatening place to be. Remember that when Jesus was tested in the wilderness, he was without human company, but the wild beasts were present with him in that wilderness.

(And let’s also note that the length of time—40 days, or 40 years—is not an exact chronological period. Rather, it reflects the ancient Israelite way of expressing “a long, long period of time” in each case. Jesus spent a long time in the wilderness. Israel had spent a heaps long time in the wilderness!)

Bridges proposes that, if we are able to sit within the neutral zone, the wilderness, and engage with the discomfort of ambiguity, then it need not be a threatening, dangerous place. If we engage with the wilderness constructively, as Jesus did when he was tested, then we can experience change and transition as a constructive and life-giving experience. If we can emerge from the wilderness with a plan and a hope for the future, as Israel did, that ambiguous place will have prepared us well. The wilderness can become a pivot away from the past, into the future. That is the best outcome of a process of transition.

If we are not able to sit within that zone of ambiguity, feeling completely dislocated and wanting to move out of that wilderness zone, then we will experience change and transition as threatening, disruptive, and even destructive. We will be stuck in the wilderness, moving neither forwards nor backwards, hankering for the past, yet unable to move on into the future. Or, worse, we will retreat back into the past, seeking security in familiarities which may not any longer be realities.

*The Return of the Prodigal Son* (1773)
by Pompeo Batoni (1708–1787)

So, then: back to the Gospel passage. How might this insight of a Bridges relates to the story told in the Parable which forms our Gospel reading for the week (Luke 15:11–32)? In the parable of the prodigal son—or should that be the parable of the two prodigal sons—or perhaps even the parable of the gracious father—there are a number of key, pivotal moments; moments where characters enter that neutral, in-between zone; the wilderness; moments that can well be described as having the discomfort of ambiguity for one or more of the characters involved.

The younger son, unhappy at home, launches out on his own—proud, confident, self-assured; yet perhaps he has some anxiety, some ambiguity, about what lies ahead for him? Some slight discomfort, perhaps.

The father, seeing his younger son departing, undoubtedly considers whether, or not, he will provide him with his share of the property; but this is a fleeting moment of ambiguity, a brief sense of discomfort, which he apparently readily resolves in the affirmative.

The younger son, some time later on, having run through all that he had been given and in the midst of a serious famine, looks at his impoverished state and considers: “am I doomed to this life of poverty, or do I put my tail between my legs, and return home in humility?” Uncertain, highly anxious, this is the place of deep discomfort in ambiguity. That is the wilderness experience.

*The Prodigal Son* (1618) by Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640)

The son decides to remove this discomfort, and resolve the ambiguity, by turning to head home. He wants to leave the wilderness behind. He does not know how he will be received when he returns. But he commits to the journey back home, and looks to transition into a new place, a new status.

The elder son is happy to stay at home, enjoying all the benefits … and yet, perhaps he is wondering, “what if I asked for my share of the property, like my brother did? Could I make it good out there in the big wide world?” More ambiguity, some measure of discomfort, for him.

But that bursts into full-on, large-scale ambiguity, and intense discomfort, at the moment he sees his brother returning. “What will I do? Should I be glad to see him? Will he be welcomed back? Will I be happy that he comes back into his privileges as a son, even though he has spent his inheritance? Or will he be put with the servants, accepted back, but put into his place? Will I be happy to have him back here, again? Will he be a son, or a servant?” In this moment, he feels with intensity the discomfort of ambiguity.

And the father, now consumed by the swirling, seething rush of hope, experiences his own moment of the discomfort of ambiguity: “should I ignore him? Should I rush to welcome him? Will he expect to return as a son? Could I simply offer him a role, here, as a servant? What should I do.” The discomfort of ambiguity. The in-between, uncertain and destabilising experience, of being in an emotional wilderness.

*The Return of the Prodigal Son* (*Le retour de l’enfant prodigue*)
by James Tissot (1836–1902)

And so the father runs, joyously, to greet his son. He remains in the zone of discomfort and ambiguity; there is no certainty about what will happen next; but he is able to step into the future, to rebuild his relationship with his son, because he has embraced the ambiguity and recognised the discomfort that he was feeling, as an opportunity to grow, change, and transform. The pressure of ambiguity is not completely resolved, but the father is able to move on with hope into this future. He is stepping out of the wilderness, into the future.

Accepting and valuing the ambiguity is a key element in the transition into the future zone. It is the key as to how we move on in our wilderness journey.

And yet, at this moment, the discomfort intensifies for the older son. “Now that my brother is back, I cannot abide this. Stand firm. Stay put. Do not greet him, do not celebrate with him, let them have their fatted calf without me!” And surely there is ambiguity, discomforting ambiguity, in this moment, for him? The future is uncertain. What will it hold? What will his relationship be with his brother? What will it be with his father? The ambiguity remains. The parable ends with the elder son still caught, discomforted, in the wilderness of uncertainty and ambiguity.

This is a story of being lost, and being found. The parable contains a sense of discomfort in multiple moments of decision. The ambiguity of belonging, detaching, reconnecting; farewelling, welcoming, reconnecting; deciding.

We all face moments that are filled with the discomfort of ambiguity. William Bridges, as I have noted, writes about the capacity that we each have—and that we need to nurture and develop—the capacity to live within the discomfort of ambiguity. We need to embrace the wilderness. We cannot escape it by running away. We need to explore our wilderness experience to the fullest.

If we stay within the wilderness, the zone of ambiguity, then we can experience change and transition as a constructive and life-giving experience. If we are not able to sit within that zone of ambiguity, and are always wanting to move out of that zone, then we will experience change and transition as threatening, disruptive, and even destructive.

Perhaps the most widely-known depiction of the parable:
*The Return of the Prodigal Son* (1662–1669)
by Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn (1606–1669)

I am left with many questions from this parable of Jesus. How might we move through our own sense of being lost, in whatever way that is manifesting, to the assurance of being found? What steps do we need to take? Whose path are we following in this process?—the younger son, or the older son?

How can we take our steps towards the God who runs to meet us, “filled with compassion ([who] puts his arms around [us] and kisses [us] … [and cries out] bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet; and get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this [child] of mine was dead and is alive again; [they were] lost and is [now] found!”?

*****

I close with a prayer for the week, from the mystic, Thomas Merton, which appears on a regular cycle in my daily devotions (with the Northumbria Community), and which is pertinent to these reflections.

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.

I do not see the road ahead of me.

I cannot know for certain where it will end.

Nor do I really know myself,

and the fact that I think that I am following your will

does not mean that I am actually doing so.

But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you.

And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.

I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.

And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road,

though I may know nothing about it.

Therefore will I trust you always,

though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.

I will not fear, for you are ever with me,

and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

— Thomas Merton, 1958

On a collapsed tower, mingled blood, and repentance (Luke 13; Lent 2C/3C)

This blog relates to a part of the passage from Luke 13 offered in the Narrative Lectionary this coming Sunday, Lent 2. It also appears in the Revised Common Lectionary for the following Sunday, Lent 3.

In John’s Gospel, there is an extended narrative that concerns a resident of Jerusalem who was born blind, and lived his life into adulthood as a blind man. John reports that this man sat every day, begging for assistance, beside the pool of Siloam (John 9:1-41).

In this story, when Jesus encounters the man, he spat onto the ground to make mud, rubbed it on the man’s eyes, and told him to “wash in the pool of Siloam (which means ‘sent’)” (9:6–7a). The man obeyed Jesus, “he went and washed and came back able to see” (9:7b). This healing formed the basis for the controversy that ensued.

The site believed to be of the Pool of Siloam,
in a recently-opened site in Jerusalem

The Pool of Siloam is said to have had a significant history dating back to King Hezekiah’s reign in the late 8th century BCE. Hezekiah was worried that the water supply to Jerusalem would be interrupted during the seige of the city that was expected from the Assyrians that were pressing south (2 Ki 18:13; Isa 36:1). Hezekiah needed to act. He did so by commissioning a long tunnel (over 500 metres) to take water underground from the Gihon Spring, the main source of water for the city, all the way to the city’s southern end.

At the end of his life, his death is recorded in this manner: “The rest of the deeds of Hezekiah, all his power, how he made the pool and the conduit and brought water into the city, are they not written in the Book of the Annals of the Kings of Judah?” (2 Ki 20:20). This conduit and the pool that it fed were his crowning achievement. The pool is the Pool of Siloam.

The Pool of Siloam takes its place in Christian tradition because of the story of John 9. It was neglected, however, after the Romans destroyed Jerusalem in 70 CE. Centuries later, Byzantine-era Christians built a commemorative church at what they believed was the pool’s location, near the City of David’s southern end. Yet, in 2004, sewer construction unexpectedly revealed the actual Second Temple period pool, about 200 meters south of the Byzantine site. The whole structure was “225 feet long, with corners that are slightly greater than 90 degrees, indicating a trapezoidal shape, with the widening end oriented toward Tyropoeon valley”, according to the Biblical Archaeology Society. See

The Siloam Pool: Where Jesus Healed the Blind Man

We find in Luke’s Gospel a reference to a Tower of Siloam (Luke 13:4). This is the only reference in the New Testament—indeed, the only reference in any ancient document—to this tower. Speculation as to its location, height, and function have abounded: was it part,of the aqueduct built to,transport the water? a pillar supporting a porch beside the pool? a fortress built by the Romans as part of their defensive network around the city? I suspect the definitive answer will never be known.

Other elements mentioned by Jesus in the passage, however, are plausibly historical: the existence of Pontius Pilate, of course, and his mistreatment of people under his charge—in this case, the Galileans whom he had slaughtered and whose blood was then mixed with the sacrifices they were offering (Luke 13:1). Pilate’s regular cruelty towards the Jews places him in the company of other Roman governors of the region who consistently acted against any local discontent with imperial military force. Josephus provides evidence for the actions of various governors.

Coponius acted against an uprising led by Judas in 6 CE; Cuspius Fadus was involved in an incident involving the vestments of the high priest (in the mid-40s CE). Ventidius Cumanus was embroiled in a series of incidents (48–52 CE) while Antonius Felix regularly deployed his soldiers to disperse Jewish gatherings because of the emergence of the Sicarii (52–60 CE). Of Albinus (62–64 CE) Josephus declared “there was no form of wickedness which he omitted”, Jewish War 2.272; 62–64 CE). This sequence of Jewish—Roman antagonism culminated under Gessius Florus (mid-60s CE), with Josephus scathingly noting that Albinus seemed “a most excellent man by comparison” with Florus (Jewish War 2.277).

Because Pilate was governor for a full decade (26–36 CE), he was involved in a number of documented actions against Jewish people. On Pilate and the incident with the ensigns, see Josephus, Jewish War 2.169–174; Antiquities of the Jews 18.55–59. On Pilate’s refusal to remove some dedicated gilt shields, see Philo, Legatio ad Gaium, 38. On the time when Pilate appropriated Temple funds for the construction of an aqueduct, see Josephus, Jewish War 2.175–177; Antiquities of the Jews 18.60–62.

American scholar Bart Ehrman argues that Pilate “was a brutal, ruthless ruler with no concerns at all for what the people he governed thought about him or his policies. He was violent, mean-spirited, and hardheaded. He used his soldiers as thugs to beat the people into submission, and he ruled Judea with an iron fist.” (See https://www.patheos.com/blogs/rationaldoubt/2019/05/pilate-released-barabbas-really/) The claim that on one occasion he mixed the blood of murdered Galileans with sacrificial blood thus appears to be quite plausible.

The other historical element in this passage is surely the warning of Jesus: “unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did” (13:3,5). Although the popularised caricature of Jesus today is that of “gentle Jesus, meek and mild”, the historical reality was surely that Jesus was a fierce apocalyptic-style preacher, calling people to repentance in the light of the imminent coming of the kingdom of God.

This portrayal of Jesus is clear from the start of Mark’s Gospel (“the time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news”, Mark 1:15) to its end (“they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory; then he will send out the angels, and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven”, Mark 13:26–27; and then “beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come”, Mark 13:33).

It is picked up with persistence through Luke’s narrative. Jesus declares “I have come to call not the righteous but sinners to repentance” (Luke 5:32) and rejoices that “there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents” (15:10). He tells a powerful parable about the importance of repenting (16:19–31; see v.30) and shares in table fellowship with a prominent sinner, Zacchaeus, who publicly declares exactly how he has repented and changed his ways (19:1–10; see v.8).

Preaching repentance and calling the people to seek forgiveness from the Lord is the central task in the commission given to so many prophets. “Come, let us return to the Lord”, cries Hosea (Hos 6:1), “put on sackcloth and lament, you priests”, Joel demands (Joel 1:13). “You did not return to me” is the consistent accusation raised against Israel by Amos (Amos3:6,8,9,10,11), and so he called the people to “seek good and not evil … hate evil and love good, and establish justice in the gate;” (Amos 5:14–15).

“Zion shall be redeemed by justice, and those in her who repent, by righteousness”, says Isaiah (Isa 1:27), declaring that “[the Lord] expected justice, but saw bloodshed; righteousness, but heard a cry!” (Isa 5:7). The same message of repentance is echoed by Jeremiah (Jer 3:12–14; 22:1–5), Ezekiel (Ezek 14:6–8; 18:30–32), and Zechariah (Zech 1:1–6). And the whole farcical story of Jonah is told to underline the importance of the prophet holding fast to the charge to “cry out against [the city], for their wickedness has come up before me” (Jonah 1:2; and see 3:3–5).

Jesus stands in this long line of prophetic voices. He declares the need for repentance, and says that forgiveness will be offered to those who repent. Repentance, in turn, brings salvation. This is the heart of the mission of Jesus; “the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost” (Luke 19:10).

The declaration that salvation has come to the house of Zacchaeus (19:9) indicates how what we prophesied of Jesus before his birth is now being fulfilled: “the Lord God of Israel … has looked favorably on his people and redeemed them”, the people has been “saved from our enemies”, they have been given “the knowledge of salvation … by the forgiveness of their sin”, and so “the dawn from on high [has broken] upon us” (1:68–79).

So this passage of the two incidents—mingled blood and a collapsed tower—although found only in Luke’s Gospel, nevertheless sounds some key elements in the story of Jesus. The call to repentance is highlighted by these two dramatic stories. It is a clear warning to those following Jesus and listening to him: “unless you repent, you will all perish”. It is a warning to us, today, as well. Preaching on this passage requires fortitude; hearing and receiving it in faith requires obedience and commitment.

*The Tower of Siloam* by C19th French artist James Tissot
(from the Brooklyn Museum collection)

Your faith has saved you; go in peace (Narrative Lectionary for Epiphany7; Luke 7)

How many stories about Jesus are told in all four Gospels? Apart from the trials and crucifixion of Jesus (Mark 14–15 and parallels), not very many. The passage which is put forward in the Narrative Lectionary for this coming Sunday is one such story—an account of a woman who anoints Jesus during a meal (Luke 7:36–50).

The earliest version of this incident is in the Markan account of the beginning of the good news of Jesus, chosen one (Mark 14:3–9). This version is repeated almost the same in Matthew’s book of origins (Matt 26:6–13). A similar account is included in the fourth Gospel, the book of signs (John 12:1–8).

All three accounts are placed at a key place in the narrative arc of each Gospel; the story forms the hinge between the public activities of Jesus and the events that take place in the last week of his life. All three accounts offer a symbolic looking-forward to the fate that lies in store for Jesus—his betrayal, arrest, trials, crucifixion, and burial.

Two Synoptic accounts specifically state that the anointing of Jesus prefigures the anointing of his dead body (Mark 14:8; Matt 26:12). The unnamed woman in the Markan account is honoured for her symbolic action: “what she has done will be told in remembrance of her” (Mark 14:9; so also Matt 26:13). She performs a valuable and deeply spiritual role, signifying in advance the death of Jesus.

As this unnamed woman expends “an alabaster jar of very costly ointment of nard” in anointing the head of Jesus, she is doing in advance what a group of women will later attempt to do early on the morning after the Sabbath, as they “bought spices so that they might go and anoint [Jesus]” in the tomb where his body lay (Mark 16:1). The women likewise “prepared spices and ointments” in Luke’s account (Luke 23:56–24:1). The parallel in Matt 28:1 simply states that the women “went to see the tomb” (28:1); there is no mention of perfumes for anointing the body in this account.

The Johannine account of this anointing at a household meal is more subtle; Jesus indicates that the perfume had always been intended for “the day of my burial” (John 12:7); it would appear that this day now draws near. In fact, in John’s narrative, rather than the women, it is curiously Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus who “took the body of Jesus and wrapped it with the spices in linen cloths, according to the burial customs of the Jews” (John 19:38–41). They perform the actions traditionally ascribed to females by Jewish custom.

The story of the anointing of Jesus is substantially reworked by the author of the orderly account of the things being fulfilled, to produce a quite different account—the one we hear this coming Sunday. In this version (Luke 7:36–50), it is a different woman (unnamed, but identified as “a woman in the city, who was a sinner”), who anoints the feet of Jesus, rather than his head (as in Mark and Matthew).

In Luke’s version, rather than pointing towards his death, the anointing of the feet of Jesus appears to express the respect and deep veneration that the “sinful woman” has for him (Luke 7:38). The point of the story is not to prefigure the death of Jesus, but to focus on the gracious forgiveness of sins which characterises the ministry of Jesus (Luke 7:39–50).

The story is set in a different location, in the house of “Simon the Pharisee” rather than “Simon the leper” of the Mark and Matthew version. And the story, set in Bethany in Judea by Mark, Matthew, and John, is placed in a different location in the narrative flow of Luke’s story—much earlier, in Galilee (Luke 4:14 appears to set the general geographical location for all of chapters 4 to 9).

The woman, anonymous in the other three accounts, is named in the book of signs as Mary, sister of Martha and Lazarus. (There is nothing here, or in other Gospel accounts, that in any way identifies her as Mary Magdalene.) In John’s telling of the story, the meal is linked with the previous story of the raising of Lazarus (11:1–44). That was the incident, according to John, which propelled the opposition to Jesus to crystallise into a fully-fledged plot to arrest and kill Jesus (11:45–57). So the narrative flow is clear: Jesus raises Lazarus, the chief priests and Pharisees order the arrest of Jesus, the woman anoints Jesus, the chief priests plan to kill Lazarus also, and Jesus then enters Jerusalem to the shouts of “Hosanna!” (John 11–12).

This is in contrast to the Synoptic narratives, in which dissension regarding Jesus, evident from early times (Mark 3:6) is later crystallised into a full scale plot to arrest him and have him put to death. The camel that broke the straw’s back in those narratives was the politicised way Jesus entered the city and caused havoc in the Temple courtyard (Mark 11:18; Luke 19:47–48; Matthew softens this immediate impact at Matt 21:15, but describes the full plot at 26:3–5). The debates that Jesus undertakes with various Jewish figures whilst teaching in the Temple precincts (Mark 11:27–13:1; Matt 21:23–24:1; Luke 19:47–21:38) simply aggravates the dissension and accelerates the plot to arrest and kill him (Luke 21:37–2:2).

Perhaps the extravagant amount of perfume used to anoint the feet of Jesus, as was also the case in Luke’s account (not his head, as in Mark and Matthew) reflects the joy of the household in Bethany, as Mary and Martha rejoice that their recently-deceased brother, Lazarus, was now once more alive? Surely extravagant celebration was acceptable after such an event.

But that is not the focus in the Lukan version of this story. In fact, there is no reference at all to the large amount or the lavish expense of the ointment being used. Rather, the Lukan version turns our attention to the matter of the forgiveness of sins—an important theme that has already been sounded in this Gospel in words of Jesus (5:24, 31–32), the proclamation of John (3:3), and the song of Zechariah (1:76–77). That message of forgiveness becomes an integral part of the message that the followers of Jesus were commissioned to share “to all nations” (24:45–47).

The theme is highlighted in the middle of the scene, when Jesus responds to the criticism of the host, Simon the Pharisee, about the woman who has anointed Jesus. He tells, as is typical, a short parable-story about a creditor dealing with two debtors—one who owed owed five hundred denarii, the other who owed fifty. The creditor, presumably modelling the unlimited grace of God, cancelled both debts. The parable then ends, typically, with a pointed question: “which of them will love him more?” (7:42).

The parable uses significant language in discussing the cancelling of debts. First, the verb ὀφείλω (7:41) which appears also in the wording of the prayer which Jesus gave to his followers (11:4), is a clear statement of owing something to someone else. It has a specific material sense. Second, the verb ἀφίημι (7:47,48), which also appears in that prayer (11:4), refers to the forgiving, remitting, or cancelling of such a debt.

Whilst this language can be applied in a “spiritualised” sense to apply to the “forgiveness of sins”, it also has a far more “realist, material” sense in applying to the “cancelling of debts”. So whilst the initial use of the language is in a realist context of the cancelling debts, the conclusion to the story is that Jesus applies it in the spiritualised sense of forgiving sins. And it is this climactic saying of Jesus to the woman, “your faith has saved you; go in peace” (7:50), which sets the scene for viewing “forgiveness of sins” as a key motif in the ministry of Jesus (1:77; 5:24; 11:4; 24:53).

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