Imagine, if you
will, a suburban neighborhood. In the center, a park, surrounded by a
hundred or more nearly identical clay and mud houses. The sun beats
down, burning the grass that struggles to hold onto its last threads
of green. The dry warm wind blows through the streets freely,
unencumbered, as if this were a ghost town. In a far reach of the
community, one house stands in slightly odd contrast with the rest.
Appearing larger, and perhaps better cared for, it sits comfortably
on a lot larger than those around.
Inside, I work
laboriously at a sturdy old desk while sipping at my favorite
drink.
It is a dark drink, made from the finest grapes in the region. Many
of the room’s furnishings are much like the wine; made from the
finest materials available. Over the years I have grown accustomed to
having some of the finest offerings the city has to offer.
I notice that all
is quiet. My first reaction is one of gratitude for the quiet. If
nobody is around, maybe I can finally get caught up on some of my
work. Powered by this new reality, I push my head back into my
ledgers.
A
minute passes, and I realize that not only is it quiet, but there is
no one around, even in my own household. As a self-proclaimed man of
the people and public servant, I interrogate my memory, trying to
recall any local happenings that would draw everyone away from their
homes on such an intense day under the sun.
Curious
to see if my ears deceive me, I step outside. There are no children
outside playing, no women hanging clothing out to dry, no men
attending to their yards. However, faintly I can hear the occasional
clapping of a crowd, coming from the direction of the park a couple
blocks over.
As
a lifelong resident of this community, thinking of that park brings
back lots of fond childhood memories. Wrestling in the grass and
learning sports from my late father. My friends and I would build
makeshift barricades with tree branches, and play war with our “rival
factions,” turning large bushes into fortresses. When it wasn’t
burnt, even the grass itself played its part in our make-believe. We
would squeeze it tightly between our thumbs, and then blow through
them. The squawking it made was our bird call as we hunted imaginary
game.
Armed
with sweet memories of the park, and my curiosity perked at the
sounds emitting from it, I lose my resolve to play catch-up on my
work. Slipping my sandals on my feet, I head for the park. A quick
paced walk gets me there in just a couple minutes. As I get closer, I
hear the clapping getting louder and louder.
As
I round the last corner, and gain view of the park, I see the crowd.
Many of them are on their feet, listening and clapping as if to
congratulate some great musician, except that I hear no music. As I
get closer, I start to hear the voice of a man between the clapping.
It is muffled by the bodies standing in front of me. I stand on
tip-toe trying to extend my ear over the crowd.
Still
unable to hear, I entertain pushing my way through the crowd. As a
well-known public servant working for an unpopular government, I
decide not push through. I am perceived as pushy when it comes to
collections, and physically pushing through a crowd may not be the
best option.
Looking
around, I see an old familiar landmark in the park--a large tree. I
have imagined this tree as a lookout tower a thousand times as a
child. I have spent many hours embraced by its large branches while
keeping a watchful eye for would-be evil-doers trying to overthrow my
childhood kingdom.
I
walk briskly to the tree. While en-route, it strikes me that my stale
muscles may not have the energy to grab the lowest branch to pull
myself up. It also strikes me that I am acting out of character. It’s
been quite some time since I’ve put this much energy into something
that wasn’t guaranteed to make me richer.
Grabbing
the tawny bark, I make an attempt at pulling myself upwards. To my
surprise, my arms react quickly and without pain to the task at hand.
I swing my legs into the tree, realizing that maybe adrenaline is
overriding any pain associated with climbing this tree.
Just
as I mount the tree, and turn myself around to face the crowd,
someone yells out, “Jesus!”
Is
that what this is all about? I think to myself. I’ve heard of
this Jesus character. Everyone has. Rumor is that he may be the next
king of Israel. To do that would mean leading our people out from
under the supposed tyranny. As an employee of the current
“tyrannical” government, I have accrued a considerable wealth.
Having a new ruler may jeopardize all that I’ve worked to gain. I
don’t need a King. I also don’t need the notoriety
competition. People in these parts know who I am. People pay me
respect, and I, in turn, keep the government off their backs. What
does Jesus have to offer these people anyways? Moral guidance? Don’t
we have the Pharisees for that?
The
Pharisees. Another powerful group of people that I don’t see
eye-to-eye with. From what I hear, they also don’t care for this
Jesus much. He claims to be God. Don’t they have some kind of law
against that kind of claim?
His
gaze pierces my body, entering through my eyes, and penetrating into
the darkest, coldest, hardest parts of my heart, as if my chest
weren’t even there.
