journey onWord with us

I believe God built me with a bent toward the one. Whether it’s speaking, writing, joining, or any number of other things, my sweet spot is an audience of, or presence with, one. So, it will be no surprise, then, from all that can be observed from a jam-packed Tuesday in this week in the life of Jesus, it’s a moment where Jesus stole away to be fully present in observing just one.

I don’t know Jesus’ movements that morning and midday. There is story after story of questions and answers and challenges to and from Jesus. There is an assumption of crowds or groups that surrounded Him from multiple pages that chronicle His Tuesday. But there are a couple of clues from the NKJV reading of Mark’s gospel that have Him, in my mind’s eye, stealing away in this particular moment.

The four verses that end chapter twelve begin with these two words, “Now Jesus.” That seems to suggest some manner of break from the previous. Yes, it could just be a clarification of the spot where He was already sitting, but then there are the first several words that begin the third verse in that passage. “So He called His disciples to Himself…” (v.43a) These two little bits—perhaps influenced by my personal bent—have me imagining a discreet slipping away from where He’d been.

There is another detail anchored in one word that draws me deeper in. The passage’s second verse (42) begins this way, “Then…” From this, I believe it’s right to imagine Jesus arriving at the spot “opposite the treasury” ahead of the poor widow. Why does that make a difference? Because, for me, it exponentially emphasizes the importance, beauty and meaning in that moment. What “Then” speaks to me is Jesus knowing exactly when His beloved daughter would be at the treasury box. And of all the other places He could be and people He could be with, He chose her.

Can you see the warmth and anticipation in Jesus’ heart as he stole away? Can you see His knowing and loving eyes as He found a seat and waited. Can you hear what His voice sounded like when “He called His disciples to Himself…”?  I believe there were childlike qualities in the expressions and emotions of our fully God, fully man Savior. I feel them—with my whole self—in this scene.

The poor widow with the rich heart. The one who gave all in giving two. There’s rich application here. There’s deliberate attention drawn by our Savior to the poor widow, but let’s choose to see our Savior most in this moment. The One “who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped” (Philippians 2:6 ESV). The One who would give His all for us, stealing away to find the very best spot from which to wait and watch the one who gave her all to Him.

The day before Tuesday, in this most meaningful of weeks, was a two’s day. What the Bible tells of the activity of this day centers on a tree and a temple, and at the heart of the matter with both was their two-faced truth. I’ve often written about the shocking curse Jesus gave to the fig tree they “happened upon” as they started for Jerusalem the morning after parade day. I’ve written equally about His temple tirade (that understood rightly encompasses a quiet, deliberate visit the day before to take full stock of how God’s house of prayer had been corrupted). What I see uniquely this year is the single sentence that centered on the two-faced ones Jesus was most at odds with during His public ministry. The religious “leaders” who closely resembled the tree that gave the appearance of fruit and the temple that had come to stand a bit too proudly and loudly for something it was never intended to be.

Then the chief priests and the scribes heard it and started looking for a way to destroy Him.
Mark 11:18a

Two-faced. An adjective describing a person, place or thing. Deceitful or hypocritical—its dictionary definition. The sandal that surely fits the aforementioned “leaders,” does it not? I’m currently reading a book (Smoke on the Mountain by Joy Davidman) whose author says this about a hypocrite:

You can usually tell when a hypocrite has been sinning; he denounces that sin in public—and in somebody else. The mere halfhearted sinner may try to wriggle out of his guilt by some verbal quibble; he hasn’t really lied to his wife about how he spent the week end, he just hasn’t told her all the truth. But the real, thoroughgoing, incarnate lie of a Pharisee covers his guilt by trumpeting loudly about his virtue; he comes forward boldly and denounces her for lying to Mrs. Jones about that horrid new hat.

Sound anything like the ones with whom Jesus found himself most at odds? Sound anything like me? The latter is a question I should be quick to accept and engage honestly, lest I think myself to be fundamentally different than the Pharisee (the declaration in Luke 18:11 comes immediately to mind).

What must the disciples have thought about the bold curse of a fig tree mere moments after finishing breakfast and starting out on their way to Jerusalem? And what must the temple goers have thought about the thrashing about of the Man who sat lowly, riding on a small donkey just the day before? Yet, this is how God’s anger responds to deliberate deception—the plain and simple murder of truth. It was a really bad day for the two-faced. It was a profoundly meaningful day for those who turn their eyes upon the only one face of their precious Savior.

He knew it was time. It wasn’t that every other day before was lived on the periphery of His central purpose—every day for our Savior was a purposed and deliberate step in the direction of where He’d now drawn near. Setting out from His home base of Bethany would be His pattern as this week began. A pattern in going and returning from appointments God the Father had set in eternity past. Today, at a purposed pause very near the capital city already abuzz, Jesus gave clear instructions to two. His entry would only be triumphant in its reception. His part would be exceedingly humble. His will was set. His will was his Father’s.

I expect there were ones in the crowd that day who had eyes to see. Although, I feel certain they couldn’t have known how quickly and violently the shouts of “Hosanna!” would turn to “Crucify!” I wonder whether the seeing ones were uneasy about how much of that day didn’t fit with the Jesus they’d experienced. Surely, they wouldn’t have believed His silence was acceptance, nor that His ride into town was meant for either adulation or a coronation.

What seems crystal clear from the biblical account, is how striking the difference was between His will and that of the thirsty throng. “Save us!” they cried. “Save us from hundreds and hundreds of years of brutal torment, exile and oppression!” But the rescue they longed for was from suffering at the hands of flesh and blood oppressors. The rescue Jesus would give, in the sacrifice of his flesh and blood, was from sin and death itself. They longed for a rescue from right now. He was here for a rescue that would be forever, world without end.

Lest we judge the ancients wrongly, can we attest to the moments and seasons of our own lives that are not wholly unlike that day (question mark deliberately omitted). The moments and seasons where we desired or expected Jesus to be or do something that wasn’t His will. In those moments and seasons, what kind of king were we hoping for?

In drawing attention to the two disparate wills, I do not intent to personalize a “lesson.” Walking deliberately through this week should not first—or most—draw attention to applications for our own lives. It should cast the brightest light on the Light of the World and what He deliberately walked through for us. The point is a Person. Our Savior. God With Us. May we find the space and time this week to see Him more. And in the same way He emptied Himself to save us, may we empty ourselves so He can fill us and use us for His will.

As He rode into the city that day, Jesus was not arriving for, He was submitting to. He hadn’t come there for a crown; He had an appointment with a cross … and He wouldn’t be late, and He wouldn’t be deterred. His will was set. His will was his Father’s.

It is my solemn privilege to renew what has been a mostly annual return to writing during a week that has deep meaning to every believer and offers an unfailing hope to all. Why things feel more labored as I sit and ask the Spirit to speak, I honestly cannot say. In one string of moments, ideas flood and a pattern seems clear and good. And then, all at once, nothing. But a nothing that suddenly becomes a something that brings doubt and a wrestle with the things that not so long ago felt right and sure.

And so I let go of a desire for things to feel certain. I let go of a thing that sometimes takes no time at all to subtly and suddenly become mine and not His. Your words, Father. Thank you for this privilege of pushing all else aside and walking intentionally through this week your Son walked intentionally through for us. Thank you to you each and all for your time and intention in reading and walking alongside with me.

In His dying and rising again love,
Mark