^“Jesus said to them, “A prophet is not without honor except in his own town, among his relatives and in his own home.”  He could not do any miracles there, except lay his hands on a few sick people and heal them.  He was amazed at their lack of faith.”

Sometimes it takes awhile before a set of verses catches my attention.  Sometimes it happens right away.  In this instance, these verses struck me immediately because they have continuity with thoughts I expressed when reviewing Mark Chapter 1.

When the Gospel says “He could not do any miracles,” it once again appears that Jesus’ actions are being dictated by sinful people.  But we already established this is not the case.  Here, as in Chapter 1, Jesus chooses to honor the freedom of those surrounding Him.  When they push him away, He accepts their choice so that the integrity of the “love expansion via free will” system remains uncompromised.

So far, so good.  Seems like this post should have been easy.  Yet its been more than a month since I last wrote.

And for that entire time I have been hung up on the next verse.

“He was amazed at their lack of faith.”

As I pondered these words it became clear this one verse might very well encompass my entire view of the current relationship between religion and government in our country.  How do I express such a big idea in a blog post?

For openers, I must acknowledge a couple things.  Each of us is a brother or sister to Jesus.  Or, in the terms of the Chapter, we are all his relatives.  He is present to all of us, all the time.  Or, in the terms of the Chapter, the entire world is his home town.  He dwells within us.  Or, in the terms of the Chapter, our souls are His home.

These acknowledgements make it apparent that Jesus is not speaking to the people of his day.  He is speaking to us, today, right now.  Issues like abortion and the current attempt within the health care regulations to force the Church to compromise its conscience make it all too easy to see Jesus as “amazed by our lack of faith” on a national or global scale.

When freedom is attacked directly via unjust laws or regulations, or even indirectly by using the tax code to redistribute resources, God’s core purpose and will are at stake.  Without freedom, our ability to act for the expansion of love, or to use our resources for that same expansion, is hampered or even destroyed.  The expansion of love that God desires can not happen the way it should when freedom is restricted.

Perhaps one reason it has taken me so long to tackle this post is a personal weakness when it comes to hope.  I know intellectually that God must triumph in the end, but when I look out at the country and think about how little freedom seems to be valued these days, I experience a paralyzing distress.

I wish I knew what I could do.  Even if I give government the benefit of the doubt and assumes it motives are pure, I know beyond questioning that solutions that limit freedom are doomed to failure no matter how good the intentions might be.

The country is at a crossroads.  In an attempt to meet need, we are spending at an unsustainable rate and there is no will to bring that spending under control despite the dubious results.  Since the great depression government has been ascendant and the Church descendant when it comes to the basic care of the people.  Now their exists an unchallengeable assumption that government is responsible for the welfare of the people.

But I know this responsibility properly rests with God and His Church.  The role played by a highly intrusive government is against the natural order of creation, and thus it is doomed to failure.  When it fails there will be no other structure in place to meet the needs of the people.  The role of the Church has been minimized to such an extent that it can not fill that void adequately.  The consequences to individuals of that failure are daunting, even indescribable.

I would forestall this failure and those consequences if I could.  I would help establish a proper balance between the role of government and the role of the Church when it comes to the moral and economic integrity of the American system if I knew how.  But I have no idea where to start.

I can acknowledge that, indeed, Jesus must be “amazed at our lack of faith” as He watches government influence expand exponentially at the expense of the Church.

I can also acknowledge that He must have a plan to place His Kingdom before earthly kingdoms.

I just wish I knew how I could help.

“And a woman was there who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years. She had suffered a great deal under the care of many doctors and had spent all she had, yet instead of getting better she grew worse.  When she heard about Jesus, she came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, because she thought, “If I just touch his clothes, I will be healed.”

I often suggest that when you pray over a passage from scripture, you should attempt to place yourself in the scene.  So I would encourage you to assume the role of this woman for a moment.

When I do this, its easy at first for me to identify with her.  I suffer from chronic allergies, so I empathize with the need for physical healing even if my ailment is not as debilitating as hers.  I also quickly relate to her turning to worldly sources as the first reaction to her need.  Modern medicine (as opposed to prayer) is obviously our first choice for physical healing when we require it.

But in all honesty, I lose my ability to identify with her when faith takes over.  As hard as I try, I can’t bring myself to reach out for the cloak of Jesus with an actual expectation that this will lead to healing. I know people who have personally experienced miraculous healing or have seen it happen to others.  But I can not shake my skepticism no matter how much I believe, in the abstract, that such miracles are possible.

I am conflicted.   On the one hand, I don’t even think the gesture of touching the cloak is required.  I think Jesus could heal my allergies today if He willed it, just as He healed the centurion’s servant from afar.

On the other hand, I am too well conditioned to modern views for me to actually accept that my prayers for healing will result in a personal miracle.  I have been fighting the flu for the past two weeks.  In that time, I tried to voice such prayers, but I could not muster any enthusiasm as I did so.  Even with a clear and present need, I have not been able to find enough faith to develop a true expectation that healing would come.

I hate to say it, but perhaps my inner conflict will not be resolved unless I experience a healing miracle personally.

As I consider that, I arrive at this conclusion:

My true ailment is spiritual, and it takes the form of a catch-22.  The lack of faith that prevents me from accepting that a personal healing miracle is possible is a much more serious ailment than the allergies I suffer.  But it would seem that I must have that faith before my lack of faith can be healed.

The bad news is I don’t understand how this catch-22 gets resolved.

But the good news is I accept that God is a mystery beyond my understanding.  The limits on my understanding are part of His plan for creation, and I affirm that His plan is good by definition.

I don’t know how you will do it, but Jesus, I ask that you please heal my lack of faith.

If it is at all possible within the plan of creation, please hit me upside the head as you do so, so I don’t miss the healing when it comes.

But also be assured that if that’s not possible, with the help of your grace, I will continue to love you with all my heart just the same.

“Still others, like seed sown among thorns, hear the word; but the worries of this life, the deceitfulness of wealth and the desires for other things come in and choke the word, making it unfruitful.”

In the post “Putting Prayer and Devotion First”, I lamented the state of American culture.  These two verses, as soon as I read them, reminded me of that distress.

“The word” is not some inanimate manifestation of scripture in the corner of my mind or soul.  Its not what I hear when the Priest gives his homily expounding on that scripture.  Its not even the personal graces I receive when prayer over that scripture bears fruit.

“The word” is nothing less than Jesus incarnate.

In the last chapter, when I read of Pharisees plotting to put Jesus to death, I assumed a large distinction between myself and these schemers.  “I would never do that.  If blessed to be in the physical company of Jesus, I could never do anything to bring Him harm.”

Maybe I need to be careful in making such a proud assumption.

Because I am regularly consumed by the worries of this life.  I still succumb to the deceits of wealth and the sins that follow.  Desires for other things creep in daily, if not hourly.

Once again, these distractions are common in the culture.  Common enough that the culture would not typically label them distractions.  Few would take me to task for skimping on my spiritual life in order to concentrate on work, money, generating opportunities for my kids, etc., etc., etc.

Yet whenever I am distracted by the worries, deceits, and desires of my everyday life, whenever I lose mindfulness, the result is harm to “the word.”  “The word” is choked and its fruitfulness is diminished or even lost.

And if “the word” is the incarnate Jesus, how far am I from the company of those Pharisees?  “Choking the word” is not the same as flogging the incarnate Jesus and nailing Him to a cross, but the violence inherent in that image is enough to give me pause.

I may not be consciously seeking to harm Jesus, but a loss of mindfulness also means I am not consciously, consistently, actively engaged in the perpetuation and support of His life so that anyone who encounters me, encounters Him.  If He does not have life in me, then where does He have life?  If I am not His face to all I meet, then where will others immersed willfully in this culture ever meet Him?

I can’t escape the feeling that no matter how hard I try, the worries and deceits and desires will get the best of me and cause me to fail.  The balance between being a positive force in the culture and a man drowned in the culture is hard to find, and even harder to maintain.

I don’t want to fail.  I don’t want to drown.  But often I feel as if I don’t understand how to succeed, how to keep my head above water.

So I pray, and trust, and hope, over and over.

• Jesus, I need you.  Jesus, I love you.  Jesus, heal me.
• Jesus, guide me.  Jesus, strengthen me.  Jesus, transform me.
• Jesus, hold me.  Jesus, help me.  Jesus, keep me.

]]> http://emboldenme.com/2012/03/mark-chapter-4/feed/ 0 http://emboldenme.com/2012/02/mark-chapter-3/ http://emboldenme.com/2012/02/mark-chapter-3/#comments Wed, 29 Feb 2012 17:05:24 +0000 Tim http://emboldenme.com/?p=1339 Continue reading →]]> Here are verses 2-6 from Mark Chapter 3.

“Some of them were looking for a reason to accuse Jesus, so they watched him closely to see if he would heal him on the Sabbath.  Jesus said to the man with the shriveled hand, “Stand up in front of everyone.”  Then Jesus asked them, “Which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to kill?” But they remained silent.   He looked around at them in anger and, deeply distressed at their stubborn hearts, said to the man, “Stretch out your hand.” He stretched it out, and his hand was completely restored.  Then the Pharisees went out and began to plot with the Herodians how they might kill Jesus.”

In the last post, I focused on the faith of the friends of the paralytic.  Here we get the utter opposite.  We get men so disinterested in faith that their response to a healing miracle is to plot the death of God.

As with the last post, I turn to my Franciscan formation materials as a starting point.  The chapter we reviewed last weekend began with paragraph 5 of the SFO Rule:

“Secular Franciscans, therefore, should seek to encounter the living and active person of Christ in their brothers and sisters…..”

The material makes it clear that “brothers and sisters” is all inclusive by stating this:

“We understand this simple statement leaves no one out of the circle……...”

Then it instructs us that enemies are part of that circle by quoting Henri Nouwen:

“When we meet the “other” in our lives, and label him/her as enemy, our heart must change from suspicion to welcoming, from hostility to hospitality.”

Does this instruction extend all the way to the Pharisees who are plotting the death of Jesus?  During my prayer, when I put myself in the synagogue, I am easily able to gaze upon Jesus.  But can I also see Jesus when I turn and look at the silently sitting Pharisees?

Does Jesus see Himself in these men even as they look for a reason to accuse Him, and then again as they exit the room to begin plotting His death, breaking the sabbath themselves in the process, by the way?

What is the nature of Jesus’ anger and distress?

The Gospels are supposed to be relevant to today’s world.  There are equivalents to the Pharisees holding power now.  God is under attack today just as He was in the Gospels.  No doubt some even seek His death as part of their agenda.

How would Jesus have me react to these modern day Pharisees?

Am I supposed to somehow emulate the anger and distress of Jesus?

Or is the most important thing what happens next, the act of love and healing that follows the anger and distress?

When I look at the Pharisees I see men that are, at best, deluded.  They think they are doing the right thing by challenging a blasphemer, but their stations and worldly concerns make them blind to the truth.  At worst, they are intentionally pursuing a course of evil.  They recognize who Jesus is, they view him as a threat to their worldly position, and they seek to preserve what is important to them, ignoring what is important to God in the process.

Either way, I have hard time seeing Jesus in them.  I am going to suggest that Jesus’ anger and distress is rooted in a similar difficulty.  I think, perhaps, that He looks at these men and sees an ocean of rejected potential.  If they emulated Jesus in their public lives they could accomplish so much.  But, instead of serving God and His people, they choose to serve themselves.  They deliberately disfigure themselves by that choice.  Jesus is angry because His likeness in them is hidden, so distorted that, even though it remains, it’s next to impossible to see.

It is similarly hard to see Jesus in many of today’s leaders.  They are similarly distorted by poor choices in who or what they serve.

This makes me angry.  It causes me distress.

But I cannot get lost in the anger and distress.  I have to follow the example of Jesus, who let go of the anger and distress in order to transform bad to good by healing the man with the shriveled hand.  He used the opportunity given Him by the Pharisees to increase the amount of love in the world, offering them a miracle as the basis for reforming themselves, and prefiguring His passion in the process.

To follow His example, I have to look for ways to embrace healing and increase love in the world.

Maybe I even have to be willing to embrace the possibility of a modern day miracle.

Becomes sometimes it seems it would take a miracle for enough people to let go of their anger and distress, their worldly concern, for a focus on healing and love to take flight.  A miracle for enough people to comprehend that political leaders of all stripes are most often an impediment to healing and love, not its source.  A miracle to grasp that nothing prohibits the Church and the faithful from demonstrating so much love outside the current political structure that no one who encounters us could doubt that government and its distorted figureheads are not the source of hope, and justice, and everything good.

God is.

A miracle to understand this simplest of truths is just as applicable now as it was when Jesus proved it true by healing that hand despite the threat of the Pharisees.

The question is, how can a sinner such as I help enable such a miracle?

Mark Chapter 2

“When Jesus saw their faith…..”

The night of Ash Wednesday I woke up about 3 AM with a sore throat and could not go back to sleep.  In the morning, I stayed home from work to try and catch that sleep up, hoping I would feel better.  I read this chapter, and then I napped for awhile.

When I woke from the nap, I was thinking about the chapter.  It occurred to me that I should just ask Jesus to heal me.

But I hesitated.

I have long refused to ask for things for myself in prayer.  I explain my refusal away as an act of humility.  I think of myself as unworthy and I rationalize that God already knows my needs.  If it suits Him to heal me, He will do so.  If not, I will stoically bear the burden.

But after praying over these words, I wonder if my refusal indicates a weakness in my faith?  Perhaps not asking is actually an act of pride, not humility?  Perhaps I take pride in my supposed embrace of humility?  By not asking, I am determining my worthiness instead of opening the door for God to make the determination.  That is surely an act of pride, is it not?

The Gospels are full of incidents where a request of Jesus is equated to an act of faith.  The blind and the leper are healed because of their faith.  The Centurion’s faith leads to his servant being healed.  The woman who touches his cloak is healed because of her faith.  The faith of a Canaanite woman leads to her daughter’s healing.

In all honesty, in this modern world, I have a hard time believing in miraculous healing.  Is my doubt the reason I do not ask for healing for myself?  Do I not have enough faith to believe that Jesus can heal me if He wills it?

Am I perhaps afraid that I do not have enough faith to endure His inaction if that is how He responds?  If healing does not come, is my faith strong enough to accept that Jesus loves me all the same, and His reasons for withholding the healing are just even if they are a mystery to me?

I don’t think I actually prayed for healing directly.  But by Friday afternoon I was feeling well again.  Did He heal me, or was it the two days of rest?  I don’t know the answer.

But I think I will ask for healing going forward.  Not just physically healing, but spiritual as well.  Perhaps I can even embrace confession in a way I have not been able to before.

It is easy to not ask, and justify it as humility.

But it takes faith to ask when I am not sure it is possible.  And even more faith to trust in the result whichever way it turns out.

No longer can I refuse to follow the example of these truly humble people in the Gospels, people humble enough to trust entirely in the decisions of Jesus.

Mark Chapter 1 ends like this.  (I have used the alternate language for Verse 41):

“A man with leprosy came to him and begged him on his knees, “If you are willing, you can make me clean.”  Jesus was filled with compassion. He reached out his hand and touched the man. “I am willing,” he said. “Be clean!” Immediately the leprosy left him and he was cleansed.  Jesus sent him away at once with a strong warning:  “See that you don’t tell this to anyone. But go, show yourself to the priest and offer the sacrifices that Moses commanded for your cleansing, as a testimony to them.” Instead he went out and began to talk freely, spreading the news. As a result, Jesus could no longer enter a town openly but stayed outside in lonely places. Yet the people still came to him from everywhere.”

Recent materials for my Franciscan formation group include this quote in reference to Jesus’ incarnation:

“…..since God’s nature is love, it would be impertinent on our part to give sin the power to dictate to God.”

I agree with this quote.  I do not think the presence of sin in the world dictated to God the need for the incarnation.  I believe God came amongst us because He loves us.  That He dealt with sin while He was here is a happy side benefit of His loving desire to be present in our lives.

At first pass, this gospel passage seems to be in conflict with the sentiment expressed in the Franciscan quote.  How could the sinful response of the cleansed leper dictate to Jesus that He could not enter a town openly? Would Jesus let such an action interrupt His ministry if He truly desired to enter these towns?

Here’s my attempt at reconciling this seeming conflict.

The leper is each of us.  His leprosy represents our sinful state.  Jesus cleanses him (us) of his (our) sinful state when he (we) sincerely desire it.  But he (we) often fall back into sin immediately.

What does his (our) relapse say to Jesus?  Is it an invitation for Jesus to stay close?  Or is it an act that tells Jesus “thanks, but no thanks.  As much as I wanted to be cleansed, I am not willingly to give my will over to yours.  Please stay distant from me until I feel the need to be cleansed again!”

I don’t think it was crowds or fame that led to Jesus no longer being able to enter towns.  I think Jesus chooses to honor our free will.  He does so because our ability to love is dependent on that free will.  We would not be able to love Him if He forced himself into “our town” when our behavior indicates He is not welcome.

When we push him away, He is content to follow His own rule, the rule that allows an unstoppable expansion of love when we choose it.  He “stays outside,” where He is truly “lonely” as He awaits our change of heart in order to make the expansion of love possible.

The key to our hope (His as well) resides in the last paragraph of this passage.  No matter where our actions locate us, we can still go to Him.  Even when He is in “lonely places,” He is immediately accessible from “everywhere.”

In the last couple posts I have been writing about mindfulness.  The lenten season lays a requirement of prayer upon us.  I encourage you during this lenten season to go to Jesus in His “lonely places.”

Pray over the Gospel every day so that He will be lonely no more, at least where you are concerned.

Create as much love as you can by using the Gospels as a tool to keep Jesus at the forefront of your mind as this Lenten season unfolds.

“After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb.”

On first blush, given all the profound verses in the last chapter of Matthew, this hardly seems the most likely candidate for a post.  But the anniversary of my mother’s death and her birthday both fall in early October, so when I read this chapter for the first time a week ago, those memories drew me here.

The truth is, I have never gone to visit my mother’s grave.  I often wonder, if I admit this to people, will they think me odd or strange?  Will they think that I didn’t love her as much as I should have, or that I don’t care about preserving her memory?

I don’t feel that’s the case at all, and I think this chapter confirms my sentiments.  This is because I am certain that just like Jesus wasn’t in his tomb, my mother is not in her grave.

As her son I am surely biased.  But if my mother isn’t in heaven, then no one is.  Just putting up with me as a teenager had to guarantee her admittance.

While I might miss her on occasion, I don’t mourn her.  I honestly think that to mourn her would be selfish on my part.  If I sincerely believe that Jesus died to make salvation possible, then how can I mourn when death is not death, but simply a transition to a place where the ultimate promise is fulfilled?

When I think of my mother, I am filled with happiness to know that she is with Jesus, rewarded for all the love and kindness that she engendered in this world.  How could I put any personal feeling of loss or emptiness or angst or woe in front of the perfect love that she must now bask in?  How could I wish for her to be anywhere else?

Its not easy to lose a loved one.  But as usual, the Gospels give us the recourse we need to deal with whatever troubles us.

One of the basic tenets of successful prayer is the ability to place yourself in the scene.  I have never understood myself to inadvertently do this before, but after praying over this chapter its clear that I’ve already found my way into this scene, assuming the role of the Marys.  They approached the tomb on the first morning of the week deep in mourning.  But before that morning was over, their mourning had turned to jubilation.

They saw and understood the mystery of the life of Christ.  They knew death had been conquered by Jesus not just for Jesus, but for all.

And I find myself privileged to share some small part of that jubilation when I think about my Mom.  I just don’t feel the need to be at her graveside to do it.

“So Judas threw the money into the temple and left. Then he went away and hanged himself.”

If my assertion about Jesus’ silence is correct, if He is indeed silent because He is preoccupied with praying for His antagonists, how does that translate into the story of Judas, His betrayer?

Matthew 26:24 contains these words:

“But woe to that man who betrays the Son of Man! It would be better for him if he had not been born.”

This is a strong condemnation.  But if Jesus was willing to pray on behalf of his antagonists throughout the passion, would he not have also been willing to pray on behalf of Judas?  In fact, would it not be more likely that Jesus would pray for a seemingly repentant Judas than for those who are either ambivalent or openly hostile to Him?

What woe does Jesus speak of?

Is the woe the act of betrayal?

Or is the woe perhaps the inability of Judas to understand and accept that forgiveness is possible if he is willing to seek it?

And would Judas have had to specifically seek it, or would the act of returning the money been enough if he had not proceeded on to suicide?

Sometimes the hardest thing is to have enough courage to accept and acknowledge my failings and to be willing to seek the forgiveness I need.  The tendency is to believe that I am unworthy of forgiveness, or to be so afraid of judgment as to be unwilling to risk an encounter that could end in forgiveness.

Why can the Sacrament of Penance fill me with trepidation as I approach it?

My worthiness is not mine to decide.  I have to be courageous enough to hopefully place myself in God’s hands, faithful enough that I am able to trust in His love, humble enough to let Him decide my fate.

I have to bring my trepidation to Him, and ask that He take it from me.

What would have happened if Judas, instead of going out and hanging himself, had followed Christ to Golgotha?

What would have happened if Judas had laid his guilt and repentance at the foot of the Cross and asked Jesus for forgiveness in those last moments?

Would he have wished he had never been born?

Or would he have been blessed beyond any reasonable expectations?

“And what about Jesus?  Even though He was silent, it doesn’t seem likely He was idle. What was He doing behind that veil of silence while the passion was unfolding around Him?”

Its out of character from my intentions to skip ahead to another Gospel, but an exception is in order here because Luke 23:34 gives more insight into Jesus’ silence than any words I’ve been able to come up with so far.

Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”

During the passion, Jesus is menaced by antagonists in ways that I barely comprehend.  Anyone who has seen The Passion of the Christ can empathize with the difficulty of describing what that day was like.  The violence and brutality that Jesus endures leaves me feeling so desolate and disheartened that there is nothing in my previous life that I can draw on in order to provide a description.

The royalty of the Jewish faith arrange to put Him to death because His life is a condemnation of theirs.  The crowd joins in the arrangement, hoping to be rewarded by that royalty for their loyalty.  The politics facing Pilate are somehow too inconvenient for him to do what he otherwise knows to be right.  The soldiers revel in power over another so deeply that their actions are barbaric and even incoherent.

Jesus’ silent endurance as portrayed in the Gospel of Matthew is gripping, but somehow incomplete.  His inner workings are too hidden for me to find the answers I seek solely by relying on Matthew.

But in Luke I find that His silence has purpose.  I recognize in Him a preoccupation so taxing, so intense, and so overwhelmingly urgent that I understand His need for silence.  That preoccupation is prayer, but not prayer on His own behalf.  He is not seeking respite or relief from the cup His Father has presented to Him.

Instead, unbelievably, He prays on behalf of His antagonists.  He seeks forgiveness for those who are literally torturing Him to death.

In that first post I wondered why Jesus isn’t teaching in the face of this antagonism.  But after further consideration, I find that He is teaching.  In fact, what He teaches via His prayerful silence is perhaps the most seminal teaching that He offers throughout His entire public ministry.

Because in that teaching I find out how I am expected to react to my own antagonists.  I find a message about peace and surrender to the Will of God so deep, so compelling, and so breathless that I am left speechless.

Really, I would like to write more about it.  But no matter how hard I try, I have no words to describe the intensity of feeling that arises when I contemplate a sacrifice so extreme that it encompasses even those whose unworthiness seems so clear to a human like me.

How can I ever hope to model that?

“But Jesus made no reply, not even to a single charge—to the great amazement of the governor.”

As I spent time praying over this chapter, I also found the silence of Jesus a little amazing.  In Matthew’s version of the passion, Jesus only speaks twice.  Once rather cryptically in response to the question, “Are you the King of the Jews?”  And then again to ask, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

My first response was to wonder why He wasn’t giving out warnings?  So many people are engaged in such violent sinfulness in the course of the passion that I wondered why Jesus was passing up this last opportunity to teach?  Why does He not caution them about the potential consequences of their actions?

Then I wondered why He did not simply thunder against them, at least pronouncing a dire fate upon them in a speech reminiscent of an old testament prophet.

But then I decided I had to find some explanation for His silence.

I settled on the notion that there is a warning implicit in His silence that speaks to anyone looking at these events in retrospect.

If you consider the chief priests and elders, Pilate, the soldiers, and the crowd, they do have one thing in common despite their otherwise distinct differences in station and religious outlook.  They are all essentially closed to anything Jesus might have to say.  Despite being in His presence, they are so caught up in their worldly concerns that they are absent from any message that Jesus could offer.

The major point being,

Even if He had spoken to them, they would not have heard.

Their hearts were just too lost, too centered on worldly things like personal power, the politics of the day, or blind obedience for them to have any chance of grasping the spiritual gifts that Jesus was so willing to bestow on anyone who would follow Him.

So Jesus chooses silence in order to pass on a message to those who follow because we too are at risk of becoming so caught up in worldly affairs that our hearts can become lost.  We also routinely place ourselves out of the reach of His teaching.  Our hearts stray, causing us to become essentially absent from His presence, and thus absent from the benefits His presence brings.

Sometimes, it seems words simply don’t suffice.  God has to use other methods to gain our attention.  Here we see the curtain of the temple torn, and an earthquake, and tombs opening to allow the dead to walk among the living.  But even then we see that not everyone has been reached.  We hear the centurion say “Surely he was the son of God,” but the chief priests and elders remain steadfast in their ignorance, asking Pilate to set a guard even in the wake of these greater portents.

Where do I fit in?  How often do I place myself beyond the teaching of Jesus?  How many times when I am absent do I miss even the great portents that ought to refocus me on what truly matters?

And what about Jesus?  Even though He was silent, it doesn’t seem likely He was idle. What was He doing behind that veil of silence while the passion was unfolding around Him?