Reliving The Passion #9

Mark 14:12–16

And on the first day of Unleavened Bread, when they sacrificed the Passover lamb, his disciples said to him, “Where will you have us go and prepare for you to eat the Passover?”

And he sent two of his disciples, and said to them, “Go into the city, and a man carrying a jar of water will meet you; follow him, and wherever he enters, say to the householder, ‘The Teacher says, Where is my guest room, where I am to eat the Passover with my disciples?’ And he will show you a large upper room furnished and ready; there prepare for us.”

And the disciples set out and went to the city, and found it as he had told them; and they prepared the Passover.

It’s Thursday, less than a day before the rulers succeed in killing Jesus. The machinery of murder is moving through Jerusalem. Common people, sniffing the winds of rumor with animal accuracy, cannot be ignorant of the hostilities roused by this Jesus of Nazareth. The man is a fugitive: to know him is risky; to be with him, dangerous; but actually to harbor him is deadly.

Yet he who has had nowhere to lay his head now needs a house in which to celebrate the Passover.

Who will give me room?

This is forever a measure of the love which Jesus inspires in human hearts: that there was a householder willing to endanger himself by saying, “I will. Come.” We know almost as little about this man—and as much—as we know of the woman who anointed Jesus. We know him by his action only; and his deed was love. It was a sacrificial love, which puts itself in harm’s way for the sake of the beloved.

“Listen,” this householder said in secret to Jesus alone, fully aware of the danger, “we need a signal. I will send a man through the city with a jar of water.” (Usually women carried jars, while men bore wineskins; it was a subtle distinction.) “When he sees men following him, he will lead them to my house. No words. No talk. Tell your disciples to identify themselves to me with the words, ‘The Teacher says, Where is my guest room?’ I’ll furnish the upper room with rugs and cushions and a table. Come.”

Not all houses had upper rooms; and the few that did had rooms large enough to accommodate a ritual meal for thirteen people. This whispering householder, the “goodman of the house,” the head of the family, was not poor. He had something to lose.

Nevertheless, he did not say, “Jesus, I love you with all my heart—but surely you don’t expect me to imperil the lives of my wife and my children, do you?”

He did not say, “I love you with all my soul—but let’s be practical. How can I love you if I die? And wouldn’t you yourself be less than loving to ask such a risk of me?”

He did not say, “I love you with all my mind—but I’m nobody special, no hero of faith. Now, Mother Teresa, maybe, or Martin Luther King might do it. Ask them.”

He said, “Come.”

Who will give me room? the Lord Jesus asks today.

If we’re experienced, we know the risk. The sophisticated world mocks a meek and sheepish Christian. The evil world hates those in whom Christ shines like a light upon its darksome deeds. Even the worldly church will persecute those who, for Jesus’ sake, accuse its compromises, oppose its cold self-righteousness, and so disclose its failure at humble service. It will kill that zeal which threatens its composure.

We know the danger of harboring Christ in a dark world and in a worldly church. They can freeze the one who burns with his bright spirit. They are shamed by a sincerely sacrificial love. They cool their shame by blaming the lover. They cut him from community. They cut him dead.

Yet, Where is my guest room? the Teacher asks. And loving him as he loved us, we answer, “Here, Lord. In my heart.”

Come, Lord Jesus, be my guest, and let this room for you be blest.

Amen.