The Gospel set for this Sunday, Luke 14:1-14,
is wonderful. Let’s take a closer look. (The Lectionary skips over verses 2-6,
but I’m including them.)
It begins like this: Once, Jesus was invited to a
sabbath meal at the home of a prominent local Pharisee, and those present were
observing him scrupulously.
The Pharisees were a grass-roots movement, committed
to working out what it looked like, in practice, in practical ways, to live
according to God’s law in their day, many centuries after it was given to their
nomadic ancestors. They were passionate about God’s law, and how it sustained a
righteous life, a life that embodied the justice and mercy the Lord desired. They
were committed to scrupulous observation, being careful not to cause offence to
God, even unintentionally, in how they worked-out their faith. To this end,
they had developed an Oral law of interpretation of the Written law.
And like everyone else, they were intrigued by Jesus.
Like everyone else, they were trying to work out what to make of him; and as
with the wider community, we see Pharisees who approve of Jesus and Pharisees
who oppose him.
In this instance, there is no hint of opposition, only
approval. Jesus is the most-honoured guest at the table on the most-honoured
day, and they are observing him scrupulously: it is important to the host that
no offence is caused his guest, even unintentionally. The Written law
prohibited cooking on the sabbath, but the Oral law upheld the principle of
sabbath meals as celebratory occasions and enabled the eating of hot food by determining
that food should be cooked on the previous day and maintained over a steady low
heat. Indeed, the Pharisees made a point of eating hot food on the sabbath,
while the Sadducess—the ruling class who controlled the Temple, and who
rejected the Oral law—made a point of only eating cold food. What would Jesus
eat? Would serving him hot food offend him, or be acceptable to him? The host
longs to share their celebration of God’s goodness with Jesus but has an
underlying anxiety that the intention might be spoiled by unintended offence.
Just then, right in front of Jesus, there is a man who
has swollen legs, who suffers from fluid retention that would make walking
painful, be a cause of shame, and perhaps an indicator of a slow but ultimately
fatal internal organ failure. And Jesus asks those present, who are passionate
about living in harmony with God and neighbour, whether it is permissible to treat
an invalid on the sabbath?
Last Sunday we saw Jesus heal a woman in the synagogue
on the sabbath, and the leader of the synagogue, indignant, argues that the law
prohibits attending to invalids on the sabbath. In fact the community had been
debating whether it was permissible to treat an invalid—which, undoubtedly,
might require the preparation of medicines (which, like food, might be prepared
the day before)—for two hundred years before Jesus, and would continue doing so
for two hundred years after Jesus, before settling on a definitive answer that
the higher principle of saving life was an exception—indeed, a mandatory
exception—to the prohibitions of the law. In Jesus’ day, several prominent
rabbis had argued that it was permissible to extinguish a light on the sabbath—something
prohibited—if that light were preventing an invalid from the sleep that
sustains life.
In the synagogue, Jesus calls the view that adherence
to the law overrules saving life, hypocritical. But what happens at the home of
the leader of the Pharisees is the absolute opposite of what happened in the
synagogue. Before he acts, Jesus asks, is it permissible to treat an invalid on
the sabbath? We know that, strictly speaking, it is prohibited; but is it
permissible? I am a guest in your house: do I have your permission?
My English translation tells me, ‘But they were
silent.’ Which could suggest that they were put to shame or being defiant. But
Jesus does not come to bring, or add to, shame. Rather, he comes to usher-in
sabbath rest, and to still the storms. The Greek text conveys the sense that ‘they
rested from work, ceased from altercation, lived quietly.’ In other words, they
took sabbath seriously, setting aside the work of interpreting the law
(winnowing, prohibited). That is to imply, they had come to a sense of
completion on this issue. Their silence is not hostile, but an affirmative
response: Great Physician, you are welcome to attend to any invalids present
here.
So, Jesus heals the man with the physical condition,
and, in contrast to the synagogue, no one disputes it. (Jesus articulates the principle
that rescuing life is more essential than sabbath observance—given the context,
I’d suggest that he is affirming the view of those present; in contrast, at the
synagogue, Jesus had cited a milder example—basic care for life, rather than
rescue—as an example of the hypocrisy of his critics.) And so, Jesus continues
to attend to the infirm, bringing healing, first to the other guests, then to
the host.
The guests are anxious, lest, in determining the order
they reclined at the table, they should cause offence, should unintentionally
rupture relationship. In an honour-shame society, everyone needs to know their
place—who I ought to defer to, and who ought to defer to me—and, unless you lack
any self-awareness and other-awareness, can cause considerable awkwardness. Again,
there is no confrontation here. This story is not like Jesus rebuking his
disciples for each arguing that they are the greatest. Rather, he seems to be
observing a group tying themselves in knots in their desire to get it right. And
Jesus unties the knots. (Both tying knots and untying knots are prohibited on
the sabbath.) Assume the lowest place, Jesus says, and let the host decide. Moreover,
Jesus reveals a fundamental principle of the heavenly banquet that the sabbath
meal anticipates: God, the host, longs to honour you. So many of us have been
raised, often subconsciously, to believe that we can unintentionally offend God,
a God who is watching closely for this very thing to happen; whereas Jesus, the
healer, says, God is longing to honour you, to exalt you, to delight in you in
the presence of others.
Having healed the man who was retaining fluid, and the
guests paralysed by anxiety, Jesus at last attends to his host. Again, the
issue at hand is anxiety, around social standing; and, underlying this, just as
internal organ failure can underly presenting dropsy, anxiety about our
standing before God. When you host a meal, Jesus says, don’t do so on a
reciprocal basis, inviting those who can invite you to be the guest of honour
at their table in return. Instead, throw banquets for those who cannot
reciprocate, the poor, the crippled who have no social standing. For you will know
happiness in this present time, and you will be recompensed at the resurrection
of the righteous—that is, when Israel is restored, and those who lived unjustly
will be humbled, and those who lived justly will be raised up.
Again, this is not a rebuke, but an affirmation. For
Jesus’ host is already living this way. He has invited as guests to his sabbath
meal a man afflicted by dropsy, and an itinerant rabbi who, if he carries on
like this, is going to get himself killed. Jesus is affirming his host and
ministering to his anxiety that his desire to please God, costly as it is
likely to be, will turn out to be for nothing. No, says Jesus, you are on the
right track; you are modelling the table of the life to come. May your
determination be renewed and restored. May you always have at your disposal the
resources of the kingdom of God.
May you, also, know the presence of Jesus in our
midst, untying your burden and setting you free.
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