Jesus of Nazareth

by Gerhard Lohfink

  From there he set out and went away to the region of Tyre. He entered a house and did not want anyone to know he was there. Yet he could not escape notice, but a woman whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately heard about him, and she came and bowed down at his feet. Now the woman was a Gentile, of Syrophoenician origin. She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter. He said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” But she answered him, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” Then he said to her, “For saying that, you may go—the demon has [already] left your daughter.” So she went home, found the child lying on the bed, and the demon gone. (Mark 7:24-30)

  Jesus does not want to heal the daughter of the Gentile woman. When he at first refuses the woman it is not, of course, because he does not care about Gentiles. On the contrary: precisely because he cares for the Gentiles he must concentrate on Israel, for if God’s new world does not shine forth in Israel it will not be manifest to the world of the nations either. That is why Israel has the primacy. It is a primacy for the sake of the world.

  Certainly Jesus says all that in an image that comes close to being offensive: children sit at table, and one must not take the bread from them to feed the household dogs. But this woman is quick-witted. She counters Jesus with his own weapons: even the dogs get a share of the little crumbs that fall under the table when children are eating. In this the woman reveals her faith, and still more: she puts herself in Jesus’ frame of reference.

  That context must exist both for the wonder worker and for the recipient of the miracle. If it is present in both, will the miracle happen? No. Not always. It can happen, but it need not, for as with the gift of grace, so it is with every genuine miracle. Two freedoms encounter each other: human freedom and the freedom of God.

  Chapter 10

  Warning about Judgment

  To this point in the book we have spoken almost exclusively about the holiness of the reign of God that transforms the world. In the words of Jesus, in his parables, and above all in his deeds of power, this new and self-transforming world is presented again and again to our eyes. Those who speak of Jesus must talk first and last of this side of his appearing. But to leave it at that would yield an incomplete and somewhat unfocused image, for besides his preaching of salvation—or better, in the midst of it—Jesus also addressed the theme of judgment.

  Repressed and Downplayed

  Certainly a great many interpreters excise this theme. There are even books about Jesus in which it is simply not there. Catechesis and religious instruction avoid it, and it is almost never preached. The reason, repeated almost to the point of exhaustion, is “Jesus preached the good news, not the grim news.”

  Now, that is not altogether wrong. Jesus did not come to threaten. When he speaks of the reign of God he talks first of all about the treasure a day laborer stumbles upon, about the precious pearl a merchant finds, about the tiny mustard seed that grows into a mighty shrub, about the overabundant harvest produced by a field of wheat, about the days of the marriage feast during which no one can fast.

  Nevertheless, the formula “good news, not grim news” is a trivialization, because it muffles the theme of judgment by downplaying it as “grim news.” It fits wonderfully, of course, into the image of a Jesus scrubbed clean of every offensive feature and adored by the current spirit of the times, but it has little to do with the realism of his preaching.

  Another comforting saying is, “Jesus announced that God is our merciful Father who forgives everything. A preaching of judgment had no place at all in such proclamation.”1 But this reasoning is also hasty and trivial. It is unable to sustain tensions. It softens the evil in the world in the name of an oversweetened compassion. It does precisely what Franz Kafka ridicules in his story “Up in the Gallery”:

  If some frail, consumptive equestrienne on a reeling horse in the ring, in front of a tireless audience, were uninterruptedly driven around in a circle for months on end by a ruthless, whip-cracking ringmaster, whirring on the horse, blowing kisses, swaying at the waist, and if this performance under the incessant roar of the orchestra and the ventilators were to continue into the ever-widening dreary future, accompanied by applause that kept waning and swelling up again, from hands that are actually steam hammers—then perhaps a young gallery visitor might hurry down the long stairway through all the tiers, plunge into the ring, and shout “Halt!” over the fanfares of the ever-adjusting orchestra.

  But since it is not like that—since a beautiful lady, in white and red, comes soaring in through the curtains that the proud liveried footmen open before her; since the ringmaster, devotedly seeking her eyes, breathing toward her in an animal stance; since he lovingly hands her up on the dapple-gray horse as if she were his utterly beloved granddaughter taking off on a dangerous journey; since he cannot make up his mind to signal with the whip; but finally pulls himself together and cracks it smartly; runs alongside the horse, his mouth open; follows the rider’s leap with sharp eyes; scarcely believes her skill; tries to warn her by shouting in English; furiously admonishes the grooms, who clutch hoops, to be very attentive; since before the great breakneck leap he raises his hands, beseeching the orchestra to hush; since he finally lifts the girl down from the trembling horse, kisses her on both cheeks, and considers no tribute from the public satisfactory enough; while she herself, supported by him, high on the tips of her toes, in a whirl of dust, her arms outspread, her head thrown back, tries to share her bliss with the entire circus—since this is so, the gallery visitor puts his face on the railing and, sinking into the concluding march as into a heavy dream, he weeps without realizing it.

  2

  The first part of this text depicts the world as it is: its misery, its eternal circling, its brutality, its mercilessness. That is reality. But it does not appear that way and is not perceived that way: therefore the twofold “if” and the consistently maintained subjunctive mood. The second part of the text depicts exactly the same world but now staged as a no-longer-transparent world of appearances.

  In summary: the audience have the truth concealed from them. They are helplessly handed over to a manipulated reality. Therefore they can no longer rebel. They can no longer rush down the long stairway and shout “stop!” Only their unconscious continues to resist: the young visitor in the gallery weeps without knowing it.

  Jesus saw through the polished world of appearances that others raise up around us and the self-deceptions we constantly build up in ourselves. He did not let himself be euthanized. He sees injustice in its destructive power. He knows what manipulation, lies, and violence incessantly bring about in the world. Therefore he is in a position to cry “stop!” His words about the threatened judgment are a shout, a revolt against society’s self-deceptions and unreal pseudo-worlds. Had he spoken only of divine mercy he would have made himself complicit and helped to conceal the real situation in Israel.

  Judgment Preached from the Outset

  Judgment is a theme in every layer of gospel tradition. It appears in Mark, in the Sayings Source, in the special material of Matthew and Luke, and in the Johannine tradition. In his book on Jesus’ preaching of judgment Marius Reiser took the trouble to calculate the percentage of discourse material on the theme of “judgment” within the Synoptic Gospels.3 The result is astonishing: sayings and parables about judgment comprise seventy-six verses in the Sayings Source (= 35 percent of the discourse material), thirty-seven verses in Mark’s gospel (= 22 percent of the discourse material), sixty verses in Matthew’s special material (= 64 percent of the discourse material), and thirty-seven verses in Luke’s special material (= 28 percent of the discourse material).

  Of course, such statistics have ragged edges. It is not always possible to decide clearly what ought to be counted and what should be omitted. Nevertheless, a clear contour emerges: even the apparent truth that Matthew favored the theme of judgment does not change t
he fact that at least a quarter of the discourse material transmitted as having come from Jesus concerns itself with the theme of “judgment.” The unavoidable conclusion is that Jesus must have spoken about it often.

  Certainly the question remains: did he do that from the beginning, or did the theme appear in only a later phase of his preaching? We cannot overlook the fact that Jesus was not simply surrounded by sympathizers and disciples. He had increasing numbers of determined opponents, especially among the theologians. They deliberately sought to slander him. They called him a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of sinners, a eunuch and a demoniac, a possessed Samaritan, an apostate from the faith, an impostor, and a deceiver of the people.4 But Jesus did not encounter total acceptance among the ordinary people either. We can see that in the reaction of his hometown, Nazareth (Mark 6:1-6). Could it be that, after an initial period of success, a “Galilean spring,” Jesus encountered increasing opposition and that it was only from that point on that he began to speak of judgment as well?

  As attractive as that view is, it has its problems. Certainly we can expect that as Jesus encountered increasing opposition the theme of “judgment” came more to the fore. But it must have been there from the beginning, because it is an integral part of the theme of the reign of God. We see this clearly in the complex of tradition relating to the mission of the disciples. Within the second mission discourse in Luke, based on the Sayings Source, we read:

  Whenever you enter a town and its people welcome you, eat what is set before you; cure the sick who are there, and say to them, “The kingdom of God has come near to you.” But whenever you enter a town and they do not welcome you, go out into its streets and say, “Even the dust of your town that clings to our feet, we wipe off in protest against you. Yet know this: the kingdom of God has come near.” I tell you, on that day it will be more tolerable for Sodom than for that town. (Luke 10:8-12)

  This text makes it clear that salvation is being proclaimed, and not only proclaimed but becoming reality: the sick are healed, and in just that way the coming of the reign of God appears. But if Jesus’ messengers are not received, the salvation they wanted to bring is reversed into condemnation: the reign of God becomes judgment. It turns into a self-evoked distress. The prophetic sign-actions of Jesus’ messengers reveal the fact as they publicly shake the dust of the city from their feet. In doing so they mean to say, “We are breaking off all connection with you. We are even purifying ourselves of the dust of your town so that in the coming day of judgment it will not cling to us and incriminate us.” The sign-action presupposes that Jesus’ messengers will appear at the coming final judgment to witness against the city in question (cf. Mark 6:11).

  So the proclamation of the reign of God and the (possible) announcement of judgment are internally connected, and therefore they belong together from the beginning. The reason for this is that the reign of God that Jesus proclaims and has his disciples proclaim sets every hearer face-to-face with an ultimate decision: for or against God, for or against Jesus, in whom and through whom God himself is now definitively acting. This radical decision does not happen only at the end of Jesus’ public activity. It is happening from the beginning onward. And for that very reason the proclamation of the reign of God brings about a krisis from the outset, that is, division, separation, judgment. This appears in a Jesus saying that applies to his whole activity: “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword” (Matt 10:34).

  I will address this saying at length later on (see chap. 19). At this point let me say only that the “sword” here has nothing at all to do with a call for violence. It is a sign of the division Jesus brings to the world. Those who hear his words and see his mighty deeds are brought, willy-nilly, into a situation in which they have to decide. Their decision will become for them either salvation or judgment; it leads to the reign of God or to a state of opposition to God that is pure destruction. As John the Baptizer had said before, so Jesus says now: Israel is in a final crisis, and therefore the whole nation and every individual within it is like someone being led before a judge:

  Come to terms quickly with your accuser while you are on the way to court with him, or your accuser may hand you over to the judge, and the judge to the guard, and you will be thrown into prison. Truly I tell you, you will never get out until you have paid the last penny [

  quadrans:

  the smallest copper coin]. (Matt 5:25-26)

  The metaphor presumes the institution of imprisonment for debt: someone who owes money will be held in prison (sometimes with his or her whole family) until the whole debt is paid. There is thus a distant similarity to today’s practice of imprisoning people to obtain their cooperation. We know from ancient sources that, once someone fell into the machinery of this system of justice, the procedure was rigorously carried out. The metaphoric saying advises that one should avoid getting involved in it, but instead come to an agreement with the opponent beforehand, if necessary at the last minute, on the way to the judge.

  Matthew interpreted the metaphor in terms of reconciliation with the brother or sister in faith, which is a possible and meaningful actualization. But Jesus himself intended something far more fundamental. He wanted to say that now every individual in Israel is like someone on the way to appear before a judge. Each is in a situation that will decide his or her whole life. Therefore, it is important to act decisively and wisely in this eschatological hour—and to do so immediately. Once one stands before the judge, it is too late.

  Marius Reiser considers it possible that in this image Jesus—indirectly and ironically—saw himself as the accuser.5 That would certainly fit with his skillful use of images and parables and with the concealed presence he repeatedly adopts in his parables. He would have taken up the Old Testament motif of the legal case God has against his people, and he himself would then be standing in the place of God—in a legal case against Israel. There is still time to accept his words and turn around, but the time is short. Soon it will be too late.

  God’s Banquet

  So from the beginning there is a close connection in Jesus’ proclamation between the reign of God and judgment. But there must have been a time when the theme of judgment emerged more sharply and urgently for him. This was the period when resistance formed against him and it became evident that even his mighty deeds effected very little repentance among the people. The invitation to Israel had long since been issued—would it in the end be refused? Jesus interprets this situation in a parable that still leaves everything open but expresses an emphatic warning and is formulated as pointedly as possible:

  Someone gave a great dinner and invited many. At the time for the dinner he sent his slave to say to those who had been invited, “Come; for everything is ready now.” But they all alike began to make excuses. The first said to him, “I have bought a piece of land, and I must go out and see it; please accept my regrets.” Another said, “I have bought five yoke of oxen, and I am going to try them out; please accept my regrets.” Another said, “I have just been married, and therefore I cannot come.” So the slave returned and reported this to his master. Then the owner of the house became angry and said to his slave, “Go out at once into the streets and lanes of the town and bring in the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame.” And the slave said, “Sir, what you ordered has been done, and there is still room.” Then the master said to the slave, “Go out into the roads and lanes, and compel people to come in, so that my house may be filled. For I tell you, none of those who were invited will taste my dinner.” (Luke 14:16-24)

  The parable relates a crazy, scarcely imaginable tale: all those invited to a banquet send regrets, all of them without exception. That is grotesque, even eerie. But the host knows what to do: he brings in other guests. As off-putting as is the refusal of all those invited, the gathering of the substitute guests is just as bizarre: they are hauled in from every corner and cranny. Indeed, they have to be begged to come in, because ob
viously they are embarrassed at being totally unprepared.

  Most interpreters of the parable consider the double gathering of substitute guests to be secondary. Here Luke is said to have been thinking of various phases of the later mission.6 The latter may well be true of Luke, but Jesus could have intended the doubling to emphasize the unusual character of the situation. The hall must really be full. If those invited do not want to come, then God invites others, and he brings them together from every direction.

  For Jesus’ audience it was clear that he was speaking of God’s eschatological banquet. That is the indispensable presupposition behind the parable. It was also clear to them that this eternal banquet was laid for Israel. The parable presumes all that and it is from these presuppositions that it derives its shocking force: those invited and chosen by God will not come. Their places remain empty. But God can invite others. The banquet will take place in any event. But it becomes a judgment on Israel: none of those originally invited will taste of the meal.7

  No one should ever have doubted that Jesus already (and not the evangelists later) had the Gentiles in view in this parable. Those first invited are not a particular group in Israel, but the whole people of God. That in the first place only the leaders of Israel or the righteous or wealthy within the people should be invited to the meal in the reign of God, and only after their refusal the poor and sinners, would contradict Jesus’ message and practice in every way. Therefore, those first invited can only be all Israel. But in that case those invited later are the Gentiles. That this is the case is evident from Jesus’ saying in Matthew 8:11-12 // Luke 13:28-29, which we have already discussed (chap. 4). It can be reconstructed as follows from the Sayings Source: “Many will come from the rising and the setting and recline at table in the reign of God—together with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. But you will be cast out into the outermost darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” Those who come from East and West, that is, from a great distance, can only be Gentiles. But those first invited, who are meant to recline at table with the ancestors of Israel, are cast out. Here the language is much more direct than in the parable. Therefore the provocation is likewise much greater. But the goal is the same: this is about the repentance, the turning back, of Israel.