9/28/14
In 1980, I was the male understudy in a play coming to Broadway. The two leads in the show were a big Broadway star, and a big TV and film star, and the director was one of the most famous, and best, in all of show business. The playwright had had several big hits on Broadway back in the sixties, and this play, in 1980, felt a bit old-fashioned; but in our two out-of-town engagements in Wilmington and Washington had been quite successful.
However, when we got to New York and started previews, which (for better or worse) has the most sophisticated theatregoers in the country, the first couple of audiences treated the play with derision, bordering on contempt: people reacted to the play as a cliché at best. During previews, prior to the formal opening, during the day, you’re still working on the production, getting notes from the director and rehearsing, refining it right up until opening night; and when we all met in the theatre the day after the third preview to get to work, the cast was deeply demoralized. The TV and film star, who had not previously done much theatre before, let alone act on Broadway, said, “I feel like they think the play’s stupid, and we’re stupid, and it’s all a waste of time, and I don’t want to go on tonight”; and she started to cry.
At that point the director – again, probably the best in the business – threw everybody but the actors out of the theatre. And he told the actors to go up on stage and lie on their backs on the floor of the set (which was a living room in an expensive house in the Hamptons.) Once they were lying down – and he left them lying there in silence for a minute – he said, Okay, we’re going to go through the play now. But don’t move: just as you’re lying there, do the play. Forget the fact that you’re in a Broadway theatre. Forget the fact that it’s a comedy and you know that people are supposed to laugh. Forget about the audience reaction you got used to in Wilmington and Washington. Forget the fact that you’re actors. Throw all that out. Just talk to each other.
And it did the trick. That exercise enabled them to get back in touch with the truth that was in the play, and in themselves; it showed up in the performance that same night, and subsequently; audiences responded, and the production went on to get decent reviews and have a respectable run.
Sometimes it’s necessary for us to step back from our lives, intentionally to abandon the patterns of behavior that we’ve become accustomed to, and take a fresh look at what we’re doing, and at who we are. This is because our lives get ahead of us: life is new every day, and for all of us there’s an element of risk in that. We want life to be comfortable, we want it to stay the same. So we lose touch with what’s real, with the truth. This happens regularly, in countless areas of life, as we all know: it happens in marriages, it happens between parents and children, it happens at work, it certainly happens in addictions, in all the shapes and sizes in which addictions occur. And it takes courage, and work – sometimes very hard work – to reestablish touch with what’s real. That’s a big part of what we do in church.
This all has to do with what’s at issue in the gospel story we heard today. It’s easy to miss the core of this story, for one thing because of the tension in the situation: this is during the very last days of Jesus’ life. He has made the triumphal entry into Jerusalem, which we commemorate on Palm Sunday, about to enter into what he knows will be the final conflict with his enemies: the scribes, the Pharisees, the chief priests, and the elders. These groups that we hear about in the gospels were all different components of the religious power structure in Palestine, which in that society was also the social and political power structure as well. So we’re talking about the powers of this world with which Jesus is coming into direct conflict at this point in the story; the stakes are at their highest.
And Jesus does not flinch from this challenge: it is his misison. The first thing he does on arrival in Jerusalem is to commit what today we would call an act of civil disobedience (to put it mildly): he goes to the Temple and drives out the buyers and sellers, and overturns the tables of the money changers. Because of the nature of the animal sacrifice that went on daily in the Temple rituals, and because Jews from all over the Mediterranean world made pilgrimages to Jerusalem for the great festivals all through the year to make those sacrifices, the Temple had become a place of commerce; the economy of Jerusalem largely depended on it; and that activity had smothered its existence as a sacred space, a house of worship. It had become a factory. Jesus feels so revulsed by this that it drives him to an act of violence, the only one in the gospels.
What Jesus sees in the Temple is a perfect example of what I’m talking about: the people of the Temple had lost touch with the reality of God’s presence in their lives, the reality which had created the Temple in the first place. It had become something completely different. And people were comfortable with that. So it was going to take a wrenching experience for them to see it.
Our gospel story takes place the next day. Jesus is teaching in the temple, and the chief priests and elders confront him with two questions. The first is, By what authority are you doing these things? The very question acknowledges that “these things” Jesus is doing have real substance, with which they must contend. They don’t treat him like a crazy man, or a common outlaw. It is plain to everyone that “these things” Jesus is doing have real meaning, which is why the people in power are so threatened by them.
The second question they ask is, And who gave you this authority? They make authority the basis on which they challenge Jesus: By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority? And it’s a challenge he picks up in a particular way; because Jesus never misses a teaching moment: even when he’s angry, as he is here. He accepts this challenge because he knows his opponents have a different understanding of authority than he does; in fact, they have a complete misunderstanding of authority; and that’s exactly what’s wrong. This is the kernel of the story that’s easy to miss. They challenge Jesus on his credentials: that is, the human source of his authority. They want to see his hall pass, which they know he doesn’t have, so they know they’ll win, on that basis, and the problem will be solved.
But it won’t be solved. Jesus knows that that approach to the question is meaningless; that true authority, the only real authority, is from God, and that authority is not bounded by human approximations (the idea is ludicrous.)
So Jesus tries to get them to see the truth, to see what’s really going on, by answering their question with a question: he says to them, I’ll answer your question if you’ll answer mine. This is not simply a rhetorical trick; he’s saying, let’s get real about the question of where authority comes from. And he asks them a question about the baptism of John (that is, the baptism that John performed on other people): was it from heaven, or was it of human origin? In other words, on whose authority did John baptize? What was real, Jesus asks them? What’s the truth?
But the chief priests and elders cannot face that question. They don’t really hear it. They don’t want to hear it. They insist on defining the situation in terms of human power. They will not let go of the illusion that they are in control. Finally, it’s because they do not trust God. They are living in fear. They might scoff at that notion, but that’s what it is. So they don’t answer Jesus’ question. They say, We don’t know. And everything stops dead. And the new life that wants to be born, that’s waiting to be born, is choked off.
True worship – standing in the presence of God - always has an element of risk. True prayer – prayer that is authentic – is an adventure: it moves us to a place we haven’t been before. God is always inviting us to the life that is always new, every day. We step away from the truth that we think we have established, and we try to see the real truth, God’s truth. This takes courage, and demands our best attention. And this is a matter of joy: because we can trust God, always, and forever. Thanks be to God.
.
In 1980, I was the male understudy in a play coming to Broadway. The two leads in the show were a big Broadway star, and a big TV and film star, and the director was one of the most famous, and best, in all of show business. The playwright had had several big hits on Broadway back in the sixties, and this play, in 1980, felt a bit old-fashioned; but in our two out-of-town engagements in Wilmington and Washington had been quite successful.
However, when we got to New York and started previews, which (for better or worse) has the most sophisticated theatregoers in the country, the first couple of audiences treated the play with derision, bordering on contempt: people reacted to the play as a cliché at best. During previews, prior to the formal opening, during the day, you’re still working on the production, getting notes from the director and rehearsing, refining it right up until opening night; and when we all met in the theatre the day after the third preview to get to work, the cast was deeply demoralized. The TV and film star, who had not previously done much theatre before, let alone act on Broadway, said, “I feel like they think the play’s stupid, and we’re stupid, and it’s all a waste of time, and I don’t want to go on tonight”; and she started to cry.
At that point the director – again, probably the best in the business – threw everybody but the actors out of the theatre. And he told the actors to go up on stage and lie on their backs on the floor of the set (which was a living room in an expensive house in the Hamptons.) Once they were lying down – and he left them lying there in silence for a minute – he said, Okay, we’re going to go through the play now. But don’t move: just as you’re lying there, do the play. Forget the fact that you’re in a Broadway theatre. Forget the fact that it’s a comedy and you know that people are supposed to laugh. Forget about the audience reaction you got used to in Wilmington and Washington. Forget the fact that you’re actors. Throw all that out. Just talk to each other.
And it did the trick. That exercise enabled them to get back in touch with the truth that was in the play, and in themselves; it showed up in the performance that same night, and subsequently; audiences responded, and the production went on to get decent reviews and have a respectable run.
Sometimes it’s necessary for us to step back from our lives, intentionally to abandon the patterns of behavior that we’ve become accustomed to, and take a fresh look at what we’re doing, and at who we are. This is because our lives get ahead of us: life is new every day, and for all of us there’s an element of risk in that. We want life to be comfortable, we want it to stay the same. So we lose touch with what’s real, with the truth. This happens regularly, in countless areas of life, as we all know: it happens in marriages, it happens between parents and children, it happens at work, it certainly happens in addictions, in all the shapes and sizes in which addictions occur. And it takes courage, and work – sometimes very hard work – to reestablish touch with what’s real. That’s a big part of what we do in church.
This all has to do with what’s at issue in the gospel story we heard today. It’s easy to miss the core of this story, for one thing because of the tension in the situation: this is during the very last days of Jesus’ life. He has made the triumphal entry into Jerusalem, which we commemorate on Palm Sunday, about to enter into what he knows will be the final conflict with his enemies: the scribes, the Pharisees, the chief priests, and the elders. These groups that we hear about in the gospels were all different components of the religious power structure in Palestine, which in that society was also the social and political power structure as well. So we’re talking about the powers of this world with which Jesus is coming into direct conflict at this point in the story; the stakes are at their highest.
And Jesus does not flinch from this challenge: it is his misison. The first thing he does on arrival in Jerusalem is to commit what today we would call an act of civil disobedience (to put it mildly): he goes to the Temple and drives out the buyers and sellers, and overturns the tables of the money changers. Because of the nature of the animal sacrifice that went on daily in the Temple rituals, and because Jews from all over the Mediterranean world made pilgrimages to Jerusalem for the great festivals all through the year to make those sacrifices, the Temple had become a place of commerce; the economy of Jerusalem largely depended on it; and that activity had smothered its existence as a sacred space, a house of worship. It had become a factory. Jesus feels so revulsed by this that it drives him to an act of violence, the only one in the gospels.
What Jesus sees in the Temple is a perfect example of what I’m talking about: the people of the Temple had lost touch with the reality of God’s presence in their lives, the reality which had created the Temple in the first place. It had become something completely different. And people were comfortable with that. So it was going to take a wrenching experience for them to see it.
Our gospel story takes place the next day. Jesus is teaching in the temple, and the chief priests and elders confront him with two questions. The first is, By what authority are you doing these things? The very question acknowledges that “these things” Jesus is doing have real substance, with which they must contend. They don’t treat him like a crazy man, or a common outlaw. It is plain to everyone that “these things” Jesus is doing have real meaning, which is why the people in power are so threatened by them.
The second question they ask is, And who gave you this authority? They make authority the basis on which they challenge Jesus: By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority? And it’s a challenge he picks up in a particular way; because Jesus never misses a teaching moment: even when he’s angry, as he is here. He accepts this challenge because he knows his opponents have a different understanding of authority than he does; in fact, they have a complete misunderstanding of authority; and that’s exactly what’s wrong. This is the kernel of the story that’s easy to miss. They challenge Jesus on his credentials: that is, the human source of his authority. They want to see his hall pass, which they know he doesn’t have, so they know they’ll win, on that basis, and the problem will be solved.
But it won’t be solved. Jesus knows that that approach to the question is meaningless; that true authority, the only real authority, is from God, and that authority is not bounded by human approximations (the idea is ludicrous.)
So Jesus tries to get them to see the truth, to see what’s really going on, by answering their question with a question: he says to them, I’ll answer your question if you’ll answer mine. This is not simply a rhetorical trick; he’s saying, let’s get real about the question of where authority comes from. And he asks them a question about the baptism of John (that is, the baptism that John performed on other people): was it from heaven, or was it of human origin? In other words, on whose authority did John baptize? What was real, Jesus asks them? What’s the truth?
But the chief priests and elders cannot face that question. They don’t really hear it. They don’t want to hear it. They insist on defining the situation in terms of human power. They will not let go of the illusion that they are in control. Finally, it’s because they do not trust God. They are living in fear. They might scoff at that notion, but that’s what it is. So they don’t answer Jesus’ question. They say, We don’t know. And everything stops dead. And the new life that wants to be born, that’s waiting to be born, is choked off.
True worship – standing in the presence of God - always has an element of risk. True prayer – prayer that is authentic – is an adventure: it moves us to a place we haven’t been before. God is always inviting us to the life that is always new, every day. We step away from the truth that we think we have established, and we try to see the real truth, God’s truth. This takes courage, and demands our best attention. And this is a matter of joy: because we can trust God, always, and forever. Thanks be to God.
.
