“An Encounter at the Temple”
Psalm 69:9-13 John 2:13-22
Allen Huff
Jonesborough Presbyterian Church
3/17/24
9It is zeal for your house that has consumed me;
the insults of those who insult you have fallen on me.
10When I humbled my soul with fasting,[a]
they insulted me for doing so.
11When I made sackcloth my clothing,
I became a byword to them.
12I am the subject of gossip for those who sit in the gate,
and the drunkards make songs about me.
13But as for me, my prayer is to you, O Lord.
At an acceptable time, O God,
in the abundance of your steadfast love, answer
me. (NRSV)
13The Passover of the Jews was near, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. 14In the temple he found people selling cattle, sheep, and doves and the money changers seated at their tables. 15Making a whip of cords, he drove all of them out of the temple, with the sheep and the cattle. He also poured out the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables. 16He told those who were selling the doves, “Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!”
17His disciples remembered that it was written, “Zeal for your house will consume me.”
18The Jews then said to him, “What sign can you show us for doing this?”
19Jesus answered them, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.”
20The Jews then said, “This temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and will you raise it up in three days?”
21But he was speaking of the temple of his body. 22After he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this, and they believed the scripture and the word that Jesus had spoken. (NRSV)
My father and I approached Jerusalem late in the afternoon four days before Passover. Because I had just turned thirteen, it was the first time my father had taken me to the temple for the great feast, and I was terribly excited. We were about to enter Jerusalem—the City of David. For generations, psalmists had sung of her. Prophets had visited her and spoken to her.
Before we made the descent into the Hinnom Valley and climbed the steep embankment to the gate nearest Herod’s palace, we stopped for a while on the crest of the hill, and just looked at Jerusalem.
From our vantage point, the light of the setting sun, made the dusty haze hovering over the city glisten like gold—like a halo, or a crown. As the haze began to settle, it reminded me of a veil covering the face of a bride. The veils I had seen never covered a girl’s eyes. So, they concealed neither excitement nor fear. But what could Jerusalem have to fear? Even if the Romans were in control, hadn’t God promised a deliverer? Hadn’t God assured David that, even if his descendants suffered, a redeemer would arise to free Jerusalem and Israel once and for all?
Occasionally, I asked when this Messiah would come, and my father’s answer was always the same: “In God’s time.”
“Yeah,” I wondered. “But when?”
From our hilltop perch, we also heard the ceaseless drone of evening activity rising over the walls. With ten times more people in that one place than I had seen altogether in thirteen years, Jerusalem seemed bigger than life, and I wanted to get there quickly and stay forever.
My father seemed to sense my eagerness, and while I think it made him proud, he also seemed wary of my naïveté.
“Gypsies,” he said in a low voice, and pointed down toward the valley.
I looked and saw no less than twenty groups of people camped out by the stream. Itinerant merchants, the gypsies were surrounded by skinny cattle, spotted sheep, and hundreds of crates of doves and pigeons.
“They come every year to sell their pitiful animals for sacrifice,” my father said. “Don’t be distracted by them. We’ll buy ours at the temple. They’ll cost more, but they’ll please God more than anything we could buy down there.”
I nodded in what I hoped would be seen as troubled understanding.
Having traveled for almost three full days from our home in Hebron, we were tired. So, my father began to lead us the final steps into Jerusalem where we would stay with an old family friend.
Along the road from Hebron, we had met many other pilgrims coming from other towns and villages south of Jerusalem. The closer our expanding traveling party got to the city, the closer we all became. I began to understand that the journey itself was holy. It was a time of joyous remembering, anticipation, and community. For many, the journey was almost as important as Passover itself. In fact, my father refused even to live near Jerusalem because of the importance of the pilgrimage itself.
In Jerusalem, my father’s friend welcomed us warmly. The next day we did nothing but rest and visit. Then, early the second morning, my father woke me and said that we had to go the temple to buy our animals for the sacrifice. We also had to exchange our Roman denarii into Tyrian drachmas in order to pay the temple tax because the authorities did not accept currency engraved with Caesar’s image.
As we walked the dusty, canyon-like streets of Jerusalem, a sense of belonging washed over me. I thought of my many ancestors who had lived and worshiped in, or just passed through this place. I remembered stories of faithfulness and treachery, of joys and hardships. I felt that at any moment I might and catch a glimpse of Moses finally resting here, or Jeremiah speaking some painful truth to a lost and disoriented people. Or maybe even of Adonai, disappearing around a corner somewhere. Only the presence of so many Roman soldiers kept my imagination in check.
As we approached the temple, my steps slowed and shortened involuntarily. I had imagined this moment for the last couple of years, but as I stood there, next to the temple, gazing up and down its long, high walls, I struggled to breathe. God lived here. From deep inside, in the Holy of Holies, God spoke to the priests. Awe-struck as I was, I still wondered—to myself—if even such a magnificent building as this could really hold the One who had created the heavens and the earth.
Just outside the temple gate, a large crowd of people had gathered. Drawn by their animated conversations, we walked toward them. At the center of the crowd stood a man who appeared to be a little younger than my father. We couldn’t hear him well, but he was clearly upset. The crowd was agitated, as well. Some were angry, some perplexed. I craned my neck trying to get a better look over the hedge of men surrounding the man. His hair was short and wiry, his beard thick and stringy. And between the two, his eyes flashed with astonishing intensity, a passion like I’d never seen. As if he knew I were looking at him, he glanced my way, and, for a moment, his eyes caught mine. I seized in my tracks, as if immersed in a cold river. It scared me, but when that man’s eyes met mine, I felt very much as I had felt just a few minutes before when I approached the temple for the first time.
We asked someone what was going on. He said that he wasn’t sure, but an odd rumor had been circulating about the man. The story was that he and his friends had just been to a wedding up in Cana. The host had run out of wine in the middle of the celebration. He was about to suffer serious embarrassment when this man bailed him out. At his word, six jugs of water had become wine.
My father’s eyes turned dark and lifeless, and he gave a snort of both disgust and laughter.
We learned that the man at the center of attention was a Galilean rabbi named Jesus. No one told quite the same story, but there was talk of people calling him things like “Son of Man,” and “Lamb of God.” The only thing we heard for sure was someone saying to Jesus, “Please. Just don’t cause a scene.”
After a while of standing there with all the other spectators, my father turned us back toward the temple. Passover was coming, and we had a lot to do.
We entered through the main gate, and inside the walls, the temple felt like another world. People milled about in a single mass like a flock inside a holding pen. Jewish leaders wearing splendid robes sat beneath colorful awnings. Other men who looked more like my father and me shopped for sacrificial animals, bargaining for fair prices.
Inside the temple, I began to feel more harried and anxious than excited because I saw more in the way of commerce than holiness. It helped to see that my father had been right about one thing. The animals on sale in the temple were beautiful. Surely, they were more worthy sacrifices than anything the gypsies had to sell. We bought a pair of solid white doves in a small crate, then walked across the courtyard to exchange our currency.
At one of the money changers’ tables, my father counted out his drachma carefully to be sure that the bankers didn’t cheat him. They had tried once before. And right then, as my father was counting his money, that’s when it happened.
A sandaled foot flashed in between my father and the tables. As one table slammed into another, both of them fell, and a shrill chorus rang out when hundreds of coins bounced and rolled across the stone floor and through the legs of dumbfounded onlookers and oblivious beasts. Completely surprised, the money changers stared in disbelief at the one who had interrupted their business with such sudden fury.
It was Jesus.
With those same piercing eyes and that same extravagant passion, Jesus stared at the money changers. And while his gaze did seem to paralyze them for a moment, he didn’t threaten anyone. So, I couldn’t tell whether his was a passion of anger, or love, or both. He was certainly not caught up in some indifferent middle ground. So, I couldn’t tell whether it was his composure or his heart that was breaking.
This was not how I imagined my first Passover experience would go. Then Jesus turned and looked at me again, and while I wanted to run, I froze, again. When Jesus looked at the crate of doves in my hands, I felt my grip loosen and the box begin to slip.
In his right hand, Jesus gripped five or six leather cords, tied together at one end into a kind of flaccid whip. He raised his arm high into the air and hit the stone floor with the leather cords, but it was his words that cracked like a whip. It was his passion that demanded attention.
“Take this stuff away!” he shouted. “And stop making my father’s house a flea market!” And with that, he began to herd the cattle and sheep out of the temple.
A group of temple authorities stood their ground and challenged Jesus saying, “What gives you the right to do this?”
Dragging the leather cords behind him, Jesus walked up to them, looked them, one by one, in the eye, and said, “Tear this place down, and in three days I’ll have it standing again.” After being momentarily stunned, the men then began to look at one another and to laugh nervously.
“This temple has been under construction for forty-six years,” one of them said. “Longer than you’ve been alive! And you’re going to build it from scratch in three days?”
A snicker began to make its way through the crowd, but Jesus didn’t so much as blink.
Everything having been thrown into question and chaos, my father grabbed the doves from my hands and hurried us out of the temple.
It would be a long time before I would begin making sense of what I’d seen and heard; but even that day, I knew that Jesus’ heart was breaking. And when it was finally and fully broken, something would happen.
Something extraordinary.
Something that would take a lifetime to believe. And even longer to understand.
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