John 2:13-25 Building a Temple in Three Days

In 70 CE, the Romans destroyed the Jewish temple in Jerusalem and scattered the Jews across the Roman Empire to disrupt their persistent pattern of insurrection. The gospel of John was written some time after this event, so when the authors relate a story about the Temple, they are looking back through the lens of history. The Temple has been destroyed and can no longer be a focus of worship for the Jewish people. Jews manage this reality by shifting toward local synagogues rather than a singular geographic focus. The Christian sect believes that it has a more meaningful response.

Thus, the story of Jesus at the Temple in John 2 has a couple of underlying messages about Judaism, at least as it was historically expressed. First, there is a clear message that the system was corrupt. People were profiting from the spiritual practices of others, and this compromised the integrity of Jewish spiritual identity. Second, the system focused on the wrong things. The temple building was not intended to be the most important feature of spiritual identity, but it had become so. The perspective of people -- particularly people in power -- was so skewed that they missed the very point of having a spiritual identity in the first place.

When Jesus raises a ruckus, then, the authors are commenting on how corrupt and misguided the Jewish system had become. They connect this to a resurrection legend and equate Jesus with the "real" temple where sacrificial offerings are made to a supernatural. We might interpret some different meanings from the story if we start out with a different set of assumptions, and we have been approaching the stories in John from the perspective that the Jesus character is in some way an exemplar.

What observations can we make about Jesus in this story? He clearly did not hold making money as the highest priority. He had an understanding of spiritual integrity that did not prioritize physical buildings. He acted publicly on his principles with impressive conviction. He knew himself well enough that he didn't seek approval from others -- he didn't need external validation.

Jesus' perspective isn't made explicit in this story, but he obviously disagrees with the perspective of the Jewish religious leaders. This seems to be a difference of how one ought to relate to the divine. The Jewish people had a system of well-defined sacrificial acts that they believed connected them to their supernatural -- where they believed divinity was situated. If we consider the possibility that what we call "divinity" is really a set of inward human qualities, then relationship with the divine is really about being connected with that deepest, most noble part of ourselves. Sacrifices don't make any sense in that context. Does what Jesus suggested make any sense from that perspective of inner divinity?

Well, he starts off suggesting that there is something wrong with making money off of the sacrificial system. This has to mean that there is something wrong with the system itself, because many people could not offer the appropriate sacrifice from their own possessions. That's why the livestock and money-changers were there in the first place. So, if there is something wrong with the sacrificial system, this means that there is something amiss about the prevailing view of relationship with the divine -- something off about the common understanding of spiritual identity.

When challenged, he states that if the Temple is destroyed, he will raise it up in three days, which the disciples in the story interpret as a reference to the resurrection. What if these words mean something else? What if the most important thing about spiritual identity is meaningful connection within ourselves, followed closely by meaningful connection with other people? Without the building to distract people, they might start to recognize their own deepest, most noble selves -- their own identities. And they might be able to connect in community with other people in a more sincere and meaningful way. Without the sacrificial system to distract them, people might begin to grasp the true heart of spiritual identity rather quickly. The groundwork for meaningful community had already been laid in the culture. Within three days, all of the necessary elements for spiritual identity could be brought together without the need of a physical structure or a complex system of sacrifices.

After all, what does it take for people to develop clarity about their spiritual identity? They would need to be confident in their ability to engage in that process, and -- because human beings are relational -- they would need a community within which to develop that personal clarity. Perhaps a spiritual leader or guide is also an important element in the mix. They don't need a building, to be sure. They don't need to follow a prescribed set of rituals, particularly when those rituals become rote practice instead of personally significant. They certainly don't need to pay people for the means to connect with divinity. Within a relatively short amount of time, all the essentials for meaningful spiritual community and meaningful personal development could be put in place. True understanding takes a lot longer, but it starts from having a useful foundation.

It bears repeating that we never need to pay for spiritual integrity. We may choose to pay for the services of a coach or guide. We may choose to contribute resources to a community in which we have found meaning. There is something off, however, if we are ever compelled to give money that we aren't giving out of our own desire. Our spiritual well-being does not have a price tag. Our spiritual well-being is our responsibility. No matter what promises are made about more money coming back to us if we give beyond our means or beyond our comfort, our financial well-being is our responsibility, too. When money is coerced from us, there is something wrong with the situation. When we offer money out of our own sense of abundance -- out of our own identity as generous people -- then we can most meaningfully connect that to spiritual integrity.

There is little else to this scene apart from pointing out that the current system was flawed. It will take some time for the overall story to reveal a better way. From this little bit, though, we might take away that we need to clarify for ourselves what is most important, and we need to be clear that it isn't money. We might recognize that our personal development and our sense of community are not about the physical trappings of architecture or prescribed ritual. We might commit ourselves to allowing our guiding principles to source our public actions, and we might begin to build our conviction in that area. Most importantly perhaps, we might begin to develop a sense of self that isn't based on external validation from other people. We can learn from other people's perspectives, even their perspectives about who we are or who we should be, but we don't need to base our decisions on what would make other people happy. There is a more authentic way of being that we can embrace.

Little Experiments: What can you do in three days? If you want to build up your spiritual identity a bit more, there are some meaningful actions you can take that do not require a lot of time. These are steps in a journey, not the destination, but they can still be incredibly meaningful and important.

In the next three days, you could:
Start in on that personal development book you've been meaning to read.
Connect with someone with whom you haven't spoken in a while.
Commit to a practice of meditation.
Decide to give out of your abundance to a cause that you care about.
Seek out a community of like-minded people who are challenging and supporting one another.

If you wanted to, within the next three days, you could plan a simple dinner and invite people who have helped you clarify your own identity, people you have inspired and empowered, or others with whom you would like a deeper connection. That could even be the start of a meaningful community of individuals who are willing to be intentional about their own identities and their relationships with one another. Everything has to start somewhere. You could start something in the next three days.

John 2:1-12 How Do You Change Water into Wine?

Debates about a historical Jesus or the veracity of the Bible (or even what "veracity" might mean in this context) are far from over, and ultimately not very helpful in terms of applying the more spiritual truths of the text in our lives. There is one school of thought that holds that the gospel stories are about the uniqueness of Jesus and why he is so very different from ordinary human beings. We are ordinary human beings, though. So, it makes the most sense to read the stories from a perspective that will give us the greatest resources that we can use in our lives.

Take, for example, the first miracle story in the gospel of John, in which the character Jesus changes water into wine. He changes it into very impressive wine, at that (as if the transmogrification was not impressive in and of itself). We don't gain much from trying to dissect how this miracle happened or even trying to determine if this miracle happened. We get a lot more from taking the story as a story and digging into what it might say about us as human beings.

Jesus and his disciples are guests at a wedding -- they are known by the family of the bride or groom well enough to have been invited. Jesus' mother is also a guest, and in a moment of pushy parenting, she presses upon her son to take care of a problem that really isn't his responsibility. In a certain sense, she asks Jesus to "over-function." Jesus sets a boundary with her, but she persists. Ultimately, for whatever reason, Jesus acquiesces and resolves the issue with extraordinary competence. This bolstered the confidence that other people had in Jesus.

Before we look at what Jesus' actions might say to us, we might first look to Jesus' mother (who is never named anywhere in the gospel of John). There are times in which we press upon others to resolve problems that are not their responsibility. Maybe we know their capability, and we want them to have a chance to shine. Maybe we want people to be impressed with us because of our association with impressive people. Maybe we have a genuine concern that the problem gets resolved, but we doubt our own capacity to address it in any meaningful way. Whatever the case, sometimes we over-function by demanding that other people over-function. Our anxiety provokes us to want the situation resolved, and we put expectations on others to resolve it so that our anxiety will go away.

Needless to say, this reactive tendency to place demands and expectations on others often doesn't stem from our deep values -- it's not a prompting of our deepest, most noble selves. We just want not to feel anxious. When we find ourselves tempted to volunteer others to resolve issues that make us anxious, we can make a few small adjustments to how we handle that anxiety. First, we can calm down. Whatever helps us to start thinking clearly in moments of anxiety needs to be our first step. That may look like taking a few deep breaths, or stepping away from the situation for a moment, or even thinking through our guiding principles. If we've taken the time to get some clarity about those principles or values, and we can frame them in short, memorable phrases, they can guide us out of anxiety.

Once we are calm, we might talk through things with the people around us -- particularly the people we are tempted to conscript into service. Something like, "This is the issue as I see it, and this situation is not what I would prefer. I think of you as a competent individual. Is there something that you would be willing to do in the current situation to help make it better?" And then, most importantly, we accept the response whatever it is. If the person says, "No, I'd prefer not to get involved," we accept it. Maybe we say, "Thanks for considering it." If the person says, "Yes, I'd like to help if I can," then we let that be a free decision rather than an obligation or compulsion. If we learn to calm down and invite people into action, with no demands or expectations, we are likely to live out our guiding principles more often.

When we look at Jesus' response to his mother, however, we see the other side of this equation. We don't know what's going on inside Jesus' head, but we may be able to relate to the situation. When we are pressed to respond to a situation that's making someone else anxious, we have at least a few possible choices.

(1) We can say no, set a boundary, and stick to it. We can choose to maintain the boundary calmly and without hostility, or we can become belligerent in how we defend that boundary. The more emotionally mature response, of course, is to calmly set our boundary and let other people be responsible for their own anxiety. It's tough to be emotionally mature when someone is persistent in making demands, though. That takes a bit of practice.

(2) We can give into someone's pressure, essentially giving up what we want in order to meet someone else's demands on us. When we do this, we give other people inappropriate power over our behavior, and we take on responsibility for someone else's anxiety. This is not an uncommon reaction, but it also isn't a very intentional or principled response. When we are intentional about living in alignment with our principles, we take responsibility for our actions and our anxiety, and we don't assume responsibility for other people's actions or anxiety.

(3) We can also choose to accommodate someone's request, even if they are being pushy, out of a sense of love or compassion rather than out of a sense of obligation. Even when someone is being forceful, we can choose to do something based on our principles. We don't have to resist something we actually want to do just because we don't like how we're being asked to do it. When we are thoughtful, we can sometimes see compelling reasons to take action based on our own deep guiding principles -- our own deepest, most noble self.

In the narrative, Jesus sets a boundary, his mother persists, and then -- we don't know why -- Jesus takes action. That, in and of itself, does not give us anything to emulate. Maybe he gave in and resented his mother's pressure. We may be tempted to draw a different conclusion based on a preconceived notion about Jesus, but the story doesn't tell us what's going on in Jesus' head. From the perspective of the author, though, we can assume a high opinion of Jesus. So, perhaps it is implied that he thought about the situation and decided from a clear and principled perspective that he wanted to help out. He could have done the same thing out of a position of obligation and giving in to his mother's demands, or out of a sincere expression of his values. From the outside, those two positions might not look any different. The difference is with regard to his integrity -- whether his actions are sourced by his authentic identity.

In our own lives, we have our own ways of turning water into wine. Our abilities and areas of competence might look extraordinary to people who don't share our training or experience. When I tell people that I am a pianist or a composer, they are often amazed at that ability, because it isn't a skill they possess. From their perspective, they are as likely to turn water into wine as they are to learn how to create music. From my perspective, I worked for many years to become adept in these musical abilities. There is nothing miraculous or mysterious about it. We all have some abilities or skills that are like that. They seem very ordinary and comfortable to us, but to someone who doesn't share that skill, it borders on miraculous.

The people who know us well -- who understand our abilities and are a bit impressed by us -- might try to convince us to act when we don't really feel like it. They might even pressure us to deal with a situation that really isn't our responsibility. When this happens, we have choices. Our typical automatic reaction to being pressured by someone is probably not our best option. When we can get back to our guiding principles, we have a better chance of responding thoughtfully and authentically to any situation.

So, when we are asked to act or intervene in our particularly skillful way, we can thoughtfully choose to say yes or no. We can consider the situation -- and our ability and willingness to engage it -- without it needing to mean something about the person doing the pressuring. If we say No to our mothers, it doesn't mean we don't love our mothers. It might just mean that they are asking us to do something that is not authentic for us. Learning to say No or Yes because of who we are rather than because we feel pressured is a huge step in developing emotional maturity and living into our authentic selves.

A Little Experiment: How do you turn water into wine? What are the areas of expertise or ability that other people find impressive? If you know what those things are, you might better understand how you can make a meaningful contribution to any situation. You can also predict the sorts of things other people might pressure you to do, and you can rehearse setting boundaries or responding thoughtfully and authentically. Practicing ahead of time might help us stay calm and less reactive in moments of pressure.

Another Little Experiment: Say no and mean no. Set a boundary with someone without getting defensive, and without being compelled to be inauthentic. Let it be about something simple, like, "No, I'd rather not eat at that restaurant today." Being willing to set simple boundaries about less important things will help us set more challenging boundaries about really important things.

One More Little Experiment: Say yes and mean yes. In alignment with your deep values -- your guiding principles -- agree to do something for someone else, without resentment or a sense that they owe you one. Go to a movie or a restaurant you don't really want to go to because you value spending time with someone. Run an errand for someone else just because you care about that person, without framing it as an inconvenience or holding it over someone's head.

When we can say Yes and No authentically, our relationships are transformed. It can even seem miraculous, like changing water (or vinegar) into wine.

Mark 11: Cleansing our temples

After another healing story, in which a man's faith is reported to be what cures his blindness, the gospel of Mark moves into the story of Jesus' entry into Jerusalem, often called the "triumphal entry." The other gospels echo and elaborate on the entry into Jerusalem as depicted in Mark, and this scene leads into the passion narrative, which culminates in the crucifixion scene (or the resurrection scene). While some have elevated the passion story above other teachings of Jesus as conveyed in the canonical gospels, these pseudo-historical events do not actually instruct anyone as to how people should live. They are largely constructed after the fact (at least 35 years after the fact) with the agenda of imposing Hebrew prophecies about a messiah (some of which weren't originally intended as prophecies about a messiah) onto the Jesus figure, in order to "prove" him as the Messiah. As such, the passion narratives serve primarily to bolster the faith of people who already believe in the divinity of Jesus and to portray what we already know about the power of fear.

The author of Mark has Jesus do a bit of teaching amidst the scenes of the passion narrative, however, and these teachings are of more potential use to those among us who are willing to recognize "divinity" as a human characteristic and those among us who see human beings as having inherent worth and dignity rather than seeing people as broken and in need of saving. Indeed, if Jesus' actions as stated in the passion stories really took care of "sin" once and for all, then there is nothing more for people to worry about on that front. We can all focus on the important work of building better relationships with one another, rather than judging ourselves and everyone around us and trying to determine eternal matters that no one can prove or know anything about anyway.

In Mark 11, Jesus does three things when he first enters the city of Jerusalem. First, he curses a fig tree for not having any figs, even though it isn't the season for figs. Petty, perhaps, but there it is. Next, he causes a scene at the temple by disrupting trade. This is worth a closer look. Then, he refuses to establish any outside authorization for his actions or teachings. This, as it turns out, is related to the incident with the fig tree. For now, we'll keep ourselves to the "cleansing" of the temple, a rare story in that all four gospels have a version of it. The version of this scene in the gospel of Luke is almost identical to the version in Mark. The gospel of Matthew expands it to indicate that people who had been prevented from access to the temple (people who were blind or lame) were able to approach Jesus there for healing. Placing this scene much earlier in the narrative, removed from the passion story, the gospel of John includes a prediction about Jesus' resurrection in the temple cleansing.

One must assume from the accusation against the people driven out of the temple that they were making a profit off of people coming to offer the sacrifices required of their faith. In changing coins from Roman currency (which depicted the emperor) to currency that had no hint of idolatry, it must be assumed that the moneychangers were charging a fee of some kind. In selling the sacrificial animals for people to offer in the required Jewish rites, merchants were essentially taking advantage of people's faith, making money because of the devout practices of others. The original idea behind the Jewish sacrificial system was that people would offer the best of what they had to Yahweh, but it was not intended to keep anyone from accessing Yahweh's grace and mercy. Jerusalem's temple had been turned into something even worse than a profit-making enterprise. People who were indigent or infirm were essentially unable to participate in Jewish ceremonies to the same extent as everyone else. Worship had become something for those who could afford it; God had become a commodity.

There are many who will proclaim how much good religion has done in the world, but one thing that religion seems to do very well is delineate who is in and who is out -- who belongs and who doesn't. It usually has nothing to do with any sort of god; it's more about who we're comfortable with and who makes us uncomfortable. At the temple in Jerusalem, the Jewish authorities had developed a system that helped to invite acceptable people into God's presence while keeping the unacceptable people on the fringes. The author of Mark, and perhaps a historical Jesus, had a serious problem with that system. Everybody in Jewish society was meant to have equal access to God. In fact, one of the main culminating points of the passion narrative is that the old priesthood is obsolete -- the old way of managing human access to God was eradicated. Which is a fine message, except that the church continued to find new ways to regulate access to God for centuries. In many ways, it still does.

I believe that the cleansing of the temple suggests that all people matter -- that just because someone is poor or sick or inconvenient or unsightly or annoying or somehow not like me, it doesn't mean that they are worth any less than I am. Without any belief in an actual god, I assert that all people have inherent worth and dignity, and I am challenged by that when I encounter people who are in circumstances I wouldn't want to be in. We set up barriers within ourselves, protections that we thought necessary during times of vulnerability, and those protective barriers sometimes prevent us from recognizing the deep truth, beauty, and creativity within us. When we have trouble connecting with our authentic selves, we have trouble connecting meaningfully with other people. The temple cleansing may represent the kind of housecleaning we all need to do within ourselves to dismantle the barriers we've created around our deepest, most noble selves in some misguided attempt to protect ourselves.

I also believe that people will always be drawn to help those who are less fortunate because human beings are compassionate. I don't suggest that everyone is equally willing to respond to the compassion they feel, but I do believe that there is some part of every person that cares about people who are sick, injured, poor, malnourished, abused, or oppressed. Sometimes our fears get the best of us and override that compassion, but that doesn't mean that our feelings of compassion aren't there. I believe that we, as a species, are inherently compassionate toward those who have their homes destroyed in natural disasters or who lose loved ones to violence. We don't necessarily like feeling that tug of compassion, because there isn't always something obvious that we can do. We don't like feeling helpless.

Like the temple in Jerusalem, we might decide that some people are in the circumstances they're in because of some divine proclamation. "God is in control, so whatever happened to those people is his will." We are absolved from feeling inconvenient or uncomfortable compassion when we concoct a scenario by which things are the way they're "supposed" to be. Like the temple in Jerusalem, we might also develop systems by which we can outsource our compassion, which means that -- to a certain extent -- we can more or less ignore our feelings of both compassion and helplessness and move on. Whether we are religious or not, we have a tendency to invent systems to welcome desirable people into our lives and keep undesirable people at bay.

Sometimes, though, religion helps us outsource our compassion. We can pray for people without ever having to come into uncomfortable contact with them. We can write a check or hand over some cash to a non-profit organization, and while this actually sources a lot of good for people, our monetary contributions don't necessarily address our unwillingness to be with people we see as poor, sick, hungry, abused, oppressed, or inconvenient -- to look those people in the eye and say, "You matter." Religion sometimes serves as a buffer for us, but it doesn't have to. It's possible to contribute some money to a worthwhile organization, offer some prayers, and look people in the eye and say, "You are a human being, like me."

Even better, I think, would be to scrap the whole idea that a supernatural has any control over what people experience in life. Human beings created the problems that we experience in the world, and human beings can create solutions to those problems. If we abdicate responsibility by assuming that some higher power is in control, though, we won't necessarily feel any sense of personal attachment to the kind of world that we create. Compassion is a feature of being human. It isn't something to try to dismiss or protect ourselves from. Compassion isn't weakness. We feel helpless sometimes because the real work that needs to be done is on the level of systems and structures that go way beyond what any individual can control. 

Our sense of helplessness can feed into old lies we hold about ourselves and other people, vows that we have made about what we must be or do, and fears about being taken advantage of or being worthless -- our feelings of helplessness bump up against whatever barriers keep us from being the people we most want to be in the world. Like Jesus taking radical action in turning over tables, letting loose caged animals, and whipping the perpetrators of injustice, we sometimes have to take radical action within ourselves. We have to be more conscious of what keeps us from being honest about who we are. We have to be more conscious of what we do that keeps other people at arm's length. We have to be more conscious of how we respond to feelings of compassion. We have the capability to do something different, if we choose to. 

When we recognize the importance of living by the principle that every human being matters, we can start creating something better. When we refuse to outsource our compassion, even as we continue to fund organizations that are doing meaningful work in the world, that emotional fuel can ignite our creativity. When we accept that we need one another in order to build a better world, we can forge stronger relationships and find ways to confront the issues that keep people poor, sick, hungry, abused, and oppressed. Tough circumstances can prevent people from recognizing their own inherent worth and dignity. At the very least, we have the opportunity to help people see that circumstances do not define a person's value. If we commit to the work of breaking through some barricades within ourselves, we influence more lives than just our own. As we continually dismantle whatever fears make our compassion seem uncomfortable, people may stop seeming inconvenient, and might just start seeming like people. Like us.