My work as a biblical theologian started early. At sixteen, I volunteered to teach the Confirmation class to public school students. As I was starting the lesson, a grandmother walked into the room with her shy granddaughter. Blue eyes blazing behind rimless glasses, staring, the grandmother asked, “Are you going to teach about the Beast with ten eyes and seven horns?” I said, “This is a Confirmation class. I’ll be teaching about the Sacrament, the gifts of the Holy Spirit and the fruits of the Holy Spirit.” This was apparently not the sort of religion she was seeking for the child.
The readings today appeal to two kinds of religious impulses. One wants confirmation of faith by proof that it’s irrefutable, with good defeating evil. The visions of Daniel are mesmerizing, colorful, awe-inspiring, and terrifying—a kaleidoscope of beasts, with horns popping out. Amid the chaos, a majestic Ancient One takes his throne. A Son of Man arrives to receive dominion, glory, and kingship. The power of the beasts falls away. The cosmos becomes stable and ordered.
The opposite impulse is featured in Luke. What gets you going is not a psychedelic “trip” in the night. Instead, your “wake up call” is to stand in your orchard in the morning. You’ve noticed a fruit tree’s branches in winter and spring, the day-by-day ordinariness of a fig tree growing. Your mindfulness meditation focuses on the fruit-bearing cycle of this tree. Your faith rests in the quiet assurance that God’s work is unfolding daily, assuredly, predictably. The wisdom of your garden is that summer will come.
