 Jesus “set his face to go to Jerusalem,” Saint Luke tells us. Luke says that “the days [were drawing] near for him to be received up,” that “lifting up” which seems almost euphemistic—it refers to the gore of his passion, his suffering, his death—; that is drawing near and thus Jesus set his face to go to Jerusalem, a determination to move toward the goal of his life, the denouement of its inner meaning.
But Luke locates this setting of Jesus’ face toward Jerusalem not at the climax of his gospel, but still securely within its first half. Today’s reading is the conclusion of what has come down to us as the 9th chapter, 9th out of 24. If we subtract the final chapter, which is of Jesus’ resurrection appearances, and also subtract the two chapters that tell of his passion itself, there still remain in front of us 12 full chapters, chapter 10 through chapter 21, or 50% of the entire gospel, which are characterized by Luke as Jesus determinedly, with set face, moving toward Jerusalem. Most of Jesus’ adult, public life is according to Luke one movement, a journey towards a destination, a pilgrimage with a purpose.
Consider the irony, if that’s what it is, of Luke introducing Jesus’ setting his face with the explanatory clause, “When the days drew near for him to be received up.” The days are not near, as we have established: most of Jesus’ public life is still in the future. A careful reader might linger over this. How is it that Jesus’ crucifixion (and his ascension, which is also his being “received up”), how is it that these final events of his life are already near? Christians might wonder about their own life. If our lives are to be in some sense modeled on Jesus’, does that mean our lives also are journey—or should be? that we should be set toward a destination, our lives a movement determined upon reaching our Jerusalem? I do believe there are good reasons to think of Christian life as a pilgrimage. But if we are to set on pilgrimage, is the end of it therefore near? However many chapters remain to be written, will a future biographer say of us that at this point, because the end drew near, he set his face on the ultimate end of his life?
So the story says Elisha son of Shaphat was plowing his field with 12 yoke of oxen. Elisha was behind the 12th ox. He’s doing his work, focusing on his job: it’s hard ground, these big animals are straining to turn the soil so that it will become fruitful. This is the job that falls to fallen Adam: the earth is not fruitful of itself, but only upon the application of human sweat and ingenuity does it yield fruit. Suddenly there falls upon Elisha a mantle, an overcoat, a cloak. From nowhere, a mantle lands on his shoulders.
Mantles from heaven? Who threw this at me? He looks, and going on down the road, without a word spoken, indeed without looking at him, just going on down the road, is Elijah. This must be Elijah’s mantle. Elijah has thrown his mantle on me. Everyone knows who Elijah is—the holy man who speaks with God, who has caused so much trouble and is very much out of pleasure at the court—
—He runs to him, leaving his oxen in the field, runs and reaches him but requests that he might first kiss his father and mother then follow him.
And Elijah says, Go back, for what have I done to you?
What have you done to me? Why, you’ve given me your mantle, you’ve thrown upon me the symbol of your power and your authority. In this very mantle, so they say, you wrapped yourself when God spoke to you. This magical, symbolical, powerful mantle you have given to me, and you ask what have you done to me?
And Elisha went back. But he did not kiss father and mother: he took his 12 oxen and slaughtered them and boiled their flesh—using for fuel the wood of the yokes that had been upon them. It was a great sacrifice, and a feast that benefitted all the people—for they were all invited to come and eat. Elisha slaughtered and chopped up and gave away the entire capital of his business. Now he cannot stay home, nor can he ever come back. He arises, takes the mantle, and follows Elijah.
One person saw him walking down the road with his disciples. This fellow, a romantic, saw in Jesus and his disciples a magnificent future: spacious skies, purple mountain majesties, crowds of thousands, acts of great power and glory. He wanted to be part of it. I’ll follow you wherever you go, he said. But Jesus said, You don’t understand. That kind of glory is not for me. Foxes have holes, birds of the air have nests, but the Son of man has nowhere to lay his head. And if you follow me, it’ll be the same for you.
. . . It’s hard to follow Jesus, hard to venture into such absolute insecurity. We want to follow you, Lord, don’t you know but . . . can’t we bury our parents first? Can’t we take time to put our affairs in order? Why do you want us to set our face now? Follow me, Jesus says; we will, we say, later.
He was 12 years old when he first heard God’s call. I want you, God said.
The voice came again when he was 16. “Sure, God,” he said, “but I’ve got my friends, you know. I’ll follow you, but first let me have some fun.”
Again when he was 22 the voice came. “I want to follow you, God, but I have this diploma and jobs are hard to find—that has to be my priority. Later when I get settled.”
And when he was 35: “You see, God, there’s my daughter—she’s only three now—I have to provide for her.”
And when he was 45: “I can’t stop now, I have to work hard to meet the college bills.”
And when he was 55: “My parents are old, God, and I have to take care of them. Maybe after they die.”
And when he was 65: “Don’t you see, the children have all grown and my parents are gone and finally the home is quiet—and isn’t it time for me to do something for myself? All those things I put off all those years, I deserve them.”
And when he was 75, the voice was so faint, and his hearing so far gone, that he could no longer hear it.
Why did he put it off? At any point in his life he could have set himself to follow Jesus, but at every point he chose to delay. But you say: that’s not fair, preacher; you don’t have to give up fun to follow Jesus; you don’t have to leave home; you can follow him precisely in taking care of your daughter and your parents and, even, yourself. And Elisha (or didn’t you notice, preacher?), Elisha didn’t follow Elijah right away; he went back home first.
But the preacher says: why did he go back home? To offer sacrifice to God, and then he straightway went off and followed Elijah. So he made the decision; and once those oxen were killed, there was no turning back.
The Bible is full of stories of people who put it off too long. A rich man whose wealth was in his crops was prospering. He made plans to build bigger and bigger barns, to execute grand prospects. . . . That night he had a heart attack.
The end is always near. And because it is near Jesus has set his face toward Jerusalem. He wants to know about you and me: Are we fellow-pilgrims? Are we with him? Where is our face set?
A Sermon preached by
The Reverend Victor Lee Austin
Theologian-in-residence
of Saint Thomas Church Fifth Avenue
in the City of New York
on The Fifth Sunday after Pentecost
July 1, 2007
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