LUKE’S CHRISTMAS STORY AS OVERTURE
Three important themes surface in Luke’s overture as microcosm to his gospel as macrocosm: his emphasis on women, the marginalized, and the Holy Spirit.
Emphasis on Women. Luke sometimes emphasizes women themselves and sometimes balances a reference to a man with one to a woman. In his overture, the major focus is on Mary—unlike in Matthew, where, as we saw in Chapter 1 and will see again in Chapter 5, it is very much on Joseph. Matthew accords righteousness only to Joseph (1:19), but in Luke John’s parents, Zechariah and Elizabeth, are both “righteous before God” (1:6). The angel Gabriel informs Mary not only of her own, but also of Elizabeth’s miraculous pregnancy (1:36). Mary visits Elizabeth and both speak prophetically (Elizabeth in 1:42–45, Mary in 1:46–55), just as Zechariah does (1:67–79). Elizabeth gives John his name, and Zechariah only confirms it (1:60–63). When Jesus is presented in the temple, he is greeted there by both a saintly man, the “righteous and devout” Simeon, and a saintly woman, the prophet Anna (2:25, 36). Finally, in the story about Jesus’s coming-of-age, it is both parents—and not just the father—who are mentioned throughout the narrative (2:41–52; see Appendix 3).
After that emphasis on women and balance of female and male, we expect and find that Luke’s gospel proper makes mention of women and balances female with male more than any of the other gospels. Here are some examples found only in Luke: the mother’s only son at Nain, who is raised from death (7:11–16); the woman whose sins were forgiven (7:36–50); Martha and Mary, who host Jesus (10:38–42); the woman who addresses Jesus from the crowd (11:27–28); the crippled woman in the synagogue (13:10–16); the man with the lost sheep and the woman with the lost coin (15:4–7, 8–10); and the insistent widow (18:1–8). Finally, only Luke has all these named women who accompany Jesus:
Soon afterward he went on through cities and villages, proclaiming and bringing the good news of the kingdom of God. The twelve were with him, as well as some women who had been cured of evil spirits and infirmities: Mary, called Magdalene, from whom seven demons had gone out, and Joanna, the wife of Herod’s steward Chuza, and Susanna, and many others, who provided for them out of their resources. (8:1–3)
Emphasis on the Marginalized. In Matthew, it is wise men from the East who come to Jesus, but in Luke the angelic announcement of his birth is made to “shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night” (2:8). As a class, shepherds are even lower in the social order than peasants and would qualify quite well as the “lowly” and the “hungry” of Mary’s hymn, the Magnificat (1:52–53).
This is another overture preparation for a theme very much emphasized in Luke’s gospel. He insists, again more than the other gospels, on the obligations of the rich to the poor, the outcasts, and the marginalized. Here are a few examples, again found only in Luke. John the Baptizer urges that “whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise” (3:11). Jesus says in Matthew, “Blessed are the poor in spirit” (5:3), but in Luke he says, “Blessed are you who are poor” and “Woe to you who are rich” (6:20, 24). Rich men are fools (12:16–21) or end up in Hades (16:19–26). At the home of a Pharisee, Jesus advises: “When you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind” (14:13). Finally, only Luke has the story about Zacchaeus, the repentant tax collector and model Lukan Christian, who announces: “Half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much” (19:8).
Emphasis on the Holy Spirit. This third emphasis may be the most important one from Luke’s overture into not only his gospel, but his Acts of the Apostles as well. Recall, of course, that, for Luke, those books represented the first and second volumes of what was once his single, unified gospel.
In both the Matthean and Lukan overtures, angelic messengers announce that the child is from the Holy Spirit (Matt. 1:18–20; Luke 1:35). But Luke alone mentions the Holy Spirit coming on several other individuals in his overture:
On John: “He must never drink wine or strong drink; even before his birth he will be filled with the Holy Spirit.” (1:15)
On Mary: “The angel said to her, ‘The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God.’” (1:35)
On Elizabeth: “When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit.” (1:41)
On Zechariah: “Then his father Zechariah was filled with the Holy Spirit.” (1:67)
On Simeon: “Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; this man was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple.” (2:25–27)
Notice, by the way, that triple and therefore climactic repetition of the “Holy Spirit” in the case of Simeon in Luke 2:25–27 above.
That emphasis on the Holy Spirit in Luke’s overture prepares us for the repeated emphasis on the Holy Spirit at the start of Jesus’s public life in his gospel. That begins with the baptism of Jesus at the Jordan. In telling that story, Luke makes a double mention of the Holy Spirit—first in promise and then in advent—which is then picked up several times in the immediately following context:
The promise of the Holy Spirit: “John answered all of them by saying, ‘I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.’” (3:16)
The advent of the Holy Spirit: “The Holy Spirit descended upon him [Jesus] in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’” (3:22)
Jesus in the wilderness: “Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness.” (4:1)
The beginning of Jesus’s ministry in Galilee: “Jesus, filled with the power of the Spirit, returned to Galilee.” (4:14)
Jesus’s first address: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free.” (4:18)
After that initial emphasis to indicate that Jesus’s life is directed by the Holy Spirit, Luke does not pound on that point, but he ends the earthly life of Jesus with these words in 23:46: “Then Jesus, crying with a loud voice, said, ‘Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.’ Having said this, he breathed his last.”
Furthermore, that emphasis on the guiding presence of the Holy Spirit is continued and even intensified in Luke’s Acts of the Apostles. Watch, for example, how this second volume begins, like his first one, with the promise and advent of the Holy Spirit. In the gospel it was for the baptism of Jesus, but in Acts it is for the baptism of the church (our Feast of Pentecost):
Promise of the Holy Spirit: “John baptized with water, but you [the Twelve] will be baptized with the Holy Spirit not many days from now…. You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth…. And I [Peter] remembered the word of the Lord, how he had said, ‘John baptized with water, but you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit.’”(1:5, 8; 11:16)
Advent of the Holy Spirit: “When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.” (2:1–4)
And after that
advent, the Holy Spirit is mentioned again and again as the guiding spirit of the early church. Watch, for ex ample, how it guides Paul on his first (13:2–4), second (16:6–7), and final mission (19:21; 20:22–23).
THE POWER OF PARABOLIC OVERTURE
We began this section on the Christmas stories as overtures by giving one example of a literary overture, in that case a historical overture to a historical study. But one could also say that Barbara Tuchman’s chapter entitled “A Funeral” is a parabolic overture to her entire book. The crowned heads of Europe gathered together around a casket was both a historical event and a parabolic prophecy. Here, to conclude this chapter, is another example—also in a historical study but also raising a historical event to prophetic overture.
In 1996 Stephen Ambrose published Undaunted Courage: Meriwether Lewis, Thomas Jefferson, and the Opening of the American West. Here is its opening paragraph:
From the west-facing window of the room in which Meriwether was born on August 18, 1774, one could look out at Rockfish Gap, in the Blue Ridge Mountains, an opening to the West that invited exploration.3
We presume that statement to be historically correct and, maybe, that was the only window in the room that was available for mention. But a prophetic promise is surely intended by that first sentence. The words “opening” and “West” reverberate from the book’s subtitle about the adult Lewis to that first perspective of the infant Lewis.
We propose that the Christmas stories, like those two usages, are primarily also parabolic overtures, but based on biblical tradition rather than on historical fact. Each is its gospel in miniature. When, therefore, Matthew 1–2 and Luke 1–2 are combined into a single Christmas story—for instance, in standard Christian imagination or the traditional Christian crèche—that story is the entire Christian gospel in miniature. Get it, and you get everything; miss it, and you miss all.
CHAPTER THREE
THE CONTEXT OF THE CHRISTMAS STORIES
What would you think of a book that started with the opener, “I am going to discuss Mahatma Gandhi as a Hindu saint, but I’ll skip all that distracting stuff about British imperial India”? Or another with, “I am going to describe Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. as a Christian saint, but I’ll get right to his biography and skip all that stuff about racism in America as background baggage”? You would know immediately that something is seriously wrong with those authors’ presentations. In order, therefore, to emphasize situations where background is absolutely vital for understanding an individual’s life, we distinguish between background and context.
THE CHALLENGE OF CONTEXT
You go to have a portrait taken. At the photographer’s office, she shows you a rear-projection screen and a computerized projector with a hundred possible scenes. “What background,” she asks, “do you want for your photograph? You can have a beach, a forest, a mountain, a glacier; you can have the White House, the Eiffel Tower, the Pyramids, or the Taj Mahal.” Those scenes are mere background, which means that they will in no way interact with you. You will not be warm in front of a sunny beach as background, but you could get third-degree burns from one as context. You will not be cold in front of an icy glacier, but you could die of hypothermia from one as context. In other words, context interacts with you and so changes you even as you change it. That is why it cannot be omitted—because it is part of your present even as you are part of its future.
In this book we never speak of background and foreground, but of context and text. It is clear, however, that you cannot have context without text, but it is not so immediately clear that you cannot have text without context. Often, therefore, we speak of matrix to designate the mutual creativity of text and context within a single interactive process. The term matrix indicates, for us, the necessary mutuality and reciprocity of text and context. Based on that principle, here is our question for this chapter. What is the contextual matrix that you must know to understand those Christmas stories as products of their first-century location?
The sequence of this chapter is this. First, we establish the clash between the kingdom of Rome and the kingdom of God as the context or matrix for our Christmas stories. Next, we look at the kingdom of Rome in all its overwhelming military, economic, political, and ideological power in the first century ce. Then, we look at the kingdom of God to see precisely how it differed from the kingdom of Rome. That difference needs to be carefully diagnosed, since the first-century emperor Caesar Augustus was entitled Lord, Son of God, Bringer of Peace, and Savior of the World. Yet those are the very titles that angelic messengers give to Jesus in the Christmas story of Luke: “Son of the Most High” and “Son of God” at Nazareth (1:32, 35); “Savior” and “Lord” as well as Bringer of “Peace” at Bethlehem (2:11, 14). Finally, lest all of this become too abstract, we look at the terrible brutality with which the kingdom of Rome struck Jesus’s Galilean heartland around the very time of his birth.
The context or matrix of the Christmas stories has developed at least three layers—with each successive one always including its predecessor—across the two millennia of Christian interpretation. First of all, those Christmas stories were understood only within Christianity, within the New Testament as well as Christian legend and tradition, art and liturgy.
Next, and especially after World War II forced not just ecumenical respect but historical accuracy between contemporary Christianity and Judaism, that contextual matrix was expanded to interpret the Christmas stories within Christianity within Judaism, especially for that traumatic first century ce. Finally, and especially at the end of the twentieth and start of the twenty-first century, the full context for those Christmas stories is to see them within Christianity within Judaism within the Roman Empire. You will notice in that development, by the way, that our present is always and necessarily in creative interaction with their past.
We move now to consider the Christmas stories of Matthew 1–2 and Luke 1–2 in that last-mentioned context, that is, within Judaism as it strove with all its ancient and venerable traditions not just within, but also against, Roman imperial power. We begin with a metaphor taken from geology and applied to history.
We know that there are giant tectonic plates grinding ceaselessly against one another beneath the seemingly placid surface of our earth. Even when all is quiet along the surface of the San Andreas Fault, we know that in the depths beneath it the Pacific plate and the North American plate move slowly but relentlessly against one another. Think now of two huge tectonic plates grinding against one another in the depths below Mediterranean history in the first century ce. Their clash is the context for our Christmas stories in Matthew and Luke.
The grinding tectonics of the imperialism plate against the Judaism plate were as ancient as Pharaoh’s millennium-old decree of genocide against the Israelites in Exodus 1–2 from the Old Testament. But that clash became much more obvious around the middle of the second century BCE, when the plate tectonics of imperialism versus Judaism became more precisely specified as the kingdom of Rome against the kingdom of God. That term “kingdom,” by the way, emphasizes not so much territorial space, regional place, or ethnic identity as a mode of economic distribution, a type of human organization, and a style of world order, social justice, and global peace. That tectonic clash of kingdoms is the context of our Christmas texts.
What is fascinating is that the kingdom of Rome and the kingdom of God were each announced as the fifth and climactic kingdom of earth around the middle of that second century BCE. What is even more fascinating is the radically different content of each kingdom within that claim of an encompassing fifth and final age’s program for the world.
That tectonic clash of the kingdom of Rome versus the kingdom of God—with each kingdom claiming to be the earth’s fifth and final one—is the context for those Christmas stories in Matthew and Luke. They move, of course, within the kingdom of God over against the kingdom of Rome.
THE IMPERIAL KINGDOM OF ROME
Rome inherited from Greece
the idea that world history would involve five great ages or kingdoms. The fifth kingdom would be, in other words, the last climactic kingdom of the whole world.
Soon after 30 CE, Caius Velleius Paterculus, legionary general and imperial administrator, wrote a two-volume Compendium of Roman History starting with the fall of Troy and ending around the year 29 CE. As he begins his account of how the gods “exalted this great empire of Rome to the highest point yet reached on earth” to become “the empire of the world” (2.131), he gives us this quotation:
Aemilius Sura says in his book on the chronology of Rome: “The Assyrians were the first of all races to hold world power, then the Medes, and after them the Persians, and then the Macedonians. Then through the defeat of Kings Philip and Antiochus, of Macedonian origin, followed closely upon the overthrow of Carthage, the world power passed to the Roman people.” (1.6)
Aemilius Sura, otherwise unknown, penned that serene assertion of Rome’s global imperialism sometime after 146 BCE. The first four kingdoms of world history had already come and gone, and now Rome was the fifth, final, and climactic kingdom of earth. There was, in other words, a certain inevitability, a certain manifest destiny in all of this.
As we read those writers today, mockery comes all too easily. On the one hand, the smashed statues, broken walls, and shattered ruins of the Roman Empire litter the Mediterranean world, and storks build their nests on columns that once supported temple roofs. On the other, when Aemilius Sura wrote that triumphant declaration, the Roman Empire had a half millennium of destiny in the West yet remaining and, even after its collapse there, a full millennium in the East.
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