IF Matthew is the Gospel for the Jews, Luke is the seeker’s Gospel. Written in stylish language, it is carefully researched and easy to read.
Luke, who was a doctor and a travelling companion of St Paul, has several special interests. He includes, not unnaturally, some helpful details about Jesus’ healings. He also shows how Jesus regarded women and the poor with special compassion at a time when they were usually seen as second-class citizens or outcasts.
At the other end of the scale, he has strong warnings for the rich. His chief concern, however, is to show that Jesus is the Saviour of the world, sent by God to rescue people from the kingdom of evil and darkness.
Luke alone tells the familiar parables of the Prodigal Son and the Good Samaritan: he alone records the joyful conversion of the corrupt tax inspector Zacchaeus. And only Luke gives us real insight into Jesus’ birth and records the encounter of two ordinary people with the risen Jesus on the Emmaus road. It all makes the book user-friendly and faith-inspiring.
A narrative – God’s magnificent manifesto
Luke 1:46-55, 67-79
MATTHEW’S Gospel launches Jesus’ ministry with the revolutionary teaching of the Sermon on the Mount. Luke launches Jesus’ life with an equally revolutionary sound of music.
The two poems found here (Mary’s is more of a song, Zechariah’s more of a prophecy) speak theological volumes. They lay down the themes to which Luke will return time and again.
In both cases the praise is directed to God, not simply for what he has done for Mary and Zechariah personally. That is the nature of true worship: lifting us from the immediate to the eternal, from the personal to the corporate.
Mary’s song called the Magnificat, in some ways resembles that of Hannah in 1 Samuel 2:1-10. Both their sons were to be special servants of God, but Hannah was married and unhappily childless.
Mary’s ‘humility’ was genuine in terms of her human poverty as well as her attitude of heart. She could offer only the poor person’s traditional sacrifice (2:24; Leviticus 12:8) and for some while she lived as a homeless refugee (2:7; Matthew 2:14).
But her God is not only holy, he is also merciful (v 50), an implicit acknowledgement that Mary considers herself tainted by original sin.
God’s holiness and righteousness are expressed by the way he turns the tables on the rich and powerful (vv 51-54), a constant Lucan theme. This is a prophetic declaration of righteousness which may have its spiritual dimension in terms of personal salvation, but which is far wider-reaching.
To that Zechariah also turns, in the prophecy known as the Benedictus. He sees his son’s birth as a stage in God’s purposes not just for himself and his wife, but for the nation. He focuses on forgiveness (v 77) but as a Jew this was never separated from God’s wider purposes (v 74).
Christians cannot separate the spiritual and personal message from the wider context of God’s plan for the world. John the Baptist called for a radical change in lifestyle, and neither he nor his cousin Jesus were afraid to confront the authorities with their unrighteousness. The Christian gospel is both personal and corporate.
THE Scottish village of Fintry had an unofficial slogan. “Out of the world and into Fintry.”
As beautiful as the village is, we can be sure the slogan was referring to the peace, beauty and scenery – the things of God’s world – that surrounded it. While the “world” was the industrial mess we made.
Instead of the occasional holiday in nature’s tranquillity, wouldn’t it be better if we brought more of God’s world into ours?
THE sloping stone steps led to the riverside. It had been raining for two days. Rivulets gathered from every direction and gutters overflowed. For that day, the steps became a waterfall.
“Wow!” one observer exclaimed, looking for the best angle to take a photo.
“Ridiculous,” another was heard to say. “The council ought to clear the drains. Those folk with clogged-up gutters ought to be fined!”
It was the same scene and two different responses. A dramatic, unexpected waterfall, or a chance to complain? We choose how we perceive the world. We might at least choose a way that makes us happy and content – even when it’s raining!
SAVAGE was late. Raybould sipped the last of his Black Russian. He would give the man five more minutes, then depart. He had better things to do than sit in the bar of Grant’s restaurant waiting for some young chancer who couldn’t read a watch.
Two more minutes passed, then the door from the street opened and a man with close-cropped, almost white hair and striking pale, blue eyes emerged into the foyer. He looked around, a faint smile playing over his lips. Raybould recognised Bryan Savage at once from the photo he had sent. He raised a hand to draw his attention.
“Mr Raybould?”
“Mr Savage. You know you are over an hour late?”
“I’m sorry.” The man had a surprisingly deep, mellifluous voice. “I was researching in the library and lost track of time.”
“I trust you have no objection to dining straight away?”
“Of course not.”
Raybould stood. He nodded to the waiter who had appeared discreetly at the door to the restaurant. “Evening, Andre.”
“Good evening, Monsieur Raybould. Your usual table is ready for you.”
TWO
GRANT’S restaurant was large and genuinely old, with low ceilings and thick oak beams. As well as the main dining area, which was about half-full, there were several smaller rooms leading off. Raybould’s table was in an alcove in one of these. Privacy was guaranteed by thick drapes on three sides, and a curtain that could be pulled on the fourth.
Andre handed them two leather-bound menus. “An aperitif, Monsieur Raybould?”
“Have you any more of that excellent sherry – the Amontillado?”
“Bien sȗr, monsieur. And for your guest?”
“Whatever,” Savage said airily. Raybould frowned. Clearly this young man had little appreciation of the finer things. Still, no doubt he had more pressing concerns. Well, no time like the present, he thought.
“So, Mr Savage, perhaps you’d like to explain your proposition, and how it may be worth five million pounds to me.”
“Certainly.” Savage looked relieved to be getting down to business. “Three years ago, I was on a trekking holiday in Peru. A friend had told me about the Inca Trail, and I decided I must see it for myself. The trail follows the ancient road that originally linked Cuzco and Machu Picchu, the mysterious ruined city of the Incas.”
THREE
ANDRE arrived with the sherries. Savage remained silent till he had left, then he pulled the curtain shut. He took a large swig of sherry, then continued: “I followed the trail from Huayllabamba to the Pass, and onward into the jungle. And it was there, near an Inca ruin called Sayacmarca, that I was taken captive.” Savage paused dramatically, but the effect was marred by a cough from outside the alcove. Raybould pulled back the curtain.
“You are ready to order, Monsieur Raybould?”
“I am. Mr Savage?”
Savage stood up suddenly. “I must make a call,” he said. “Would you order for me?”
Raybould watched quizzically as Savage strode back to the foyer. He turned to Andre. “Young people today – always in such a rush. I’ll have your excellent brazil and cashew nut roast with chestnut stuffing and red wine sauce, accompanied by potato galette with baby vegetables.”
“Oui, monsieur. And for your guest?”
Raybould shrugged. “The same. And a bottle of your best Montrachet, please.”
Andre nodded and departed. Raybould smiled to himself. He hoped Savage enjoyed vegetarian food. Though on the evidence so far, Raybould wondered if he would even notice.
FOUR
SOME ten minutes passed before Savage returned. Seated again, he resumed his story. “I was alone in the ruins as night fell. Suddenly I was surrounded by six native tribesmen, naked apart from daubings on the face and body. Their leader indicated that I should go with them, and I wasn’t going to argue; they carried stone knives and axes which looked as though they could cause serious damage.
“We walked by moonlight for what seemed like hours. I was pretty shaken, of course, but I kept a mental note of our route. Though I say it myself, I have a good sense of direction. We eventually arrived at their village, deep in the heart of the jungle.”
Just then Andre arrived with the food. The aroma was delectable, and Raybould paused to savour it. Savage, however, simply piled in, filling his fork, and shovelling the fine ingredients down. If he noticed the absence of meat, he made no mention.
“Anyway,” he said, through a mouthful of potato, “I found out the tribe was called the Araka. They had no contact with civilisation, and their elders had made the decision to capture one of these strangers who passed through their territory. Supposedly to find out what made us tick. They kept me prisoner in a hut which was always guarded.”
Savage paused to cram more food into his mouth, then continued: “I was fed on a diet of nuts and berries. I must have lost about forty pounds in weight. But I survived, and after a while I began to take an interest in their customs and, in particular, their religion. Opposite my hut, you see, was a much grander one which I realised was their temple. Whatever was inside, the tribesmen treated it with the deepest respect.
“I found out the Araka worshipped a god called Manco Capac. Now, I’d done a bit of reading, and I knew that Manco Capac was the son of Inti, the Inca Sun God. The ancient records mentioned a fabulous golden statue of Manco Capac, but it was believed to be lost forever. Now, just possibly, I realised I might have stumbled upon it.”
Again, Savage paused, this time to attack the nut loaf. Still chewing, he raised his glass and downed most of the Montrachet in one. “After a few months,” he continued, “I’d learned some of their language, and I knew the next day was the festival of Manco Capac. I’d managed to bore a small hole in the wall of my hut, and through it I could see the temple door. I had to find out what was in there, to see if my suspicions were correct.
FIVE
“At sunrise I was woken by low chanting. I peered through the hole and saw the temple door open. Then, with great ceremony, a shimmering, life-sized gold statue was brought out on a golden carriage. It could only be the lost statue of Manco Capac. I reckoned it must be worth a million pounds, and since then I’ve discovered it’s at least ten times that. But, of course, it was no good to me unless I could escape.
“By now, though, I had a plan. Over the next few weeks, I saved some berries and crushed them in a pot to which I added water. As I hoped, the mixture started to ferment. It tasted revolting, but it sure had a kick to it. So, one night I invited the guard into my hut, to have a drink. Of course, to allay his suspicions I had to pretend to drink as well, but he had most of it. Finally, he finished the booze, belched loudly, and sank to the ground. Within a few minutes he was snoring loudly.
“That was my chance. I climbed over his sleeping body and out of the hut. There was no one around, so I headed into the jungle. I’d have taken the statue with me, but speed was essential. Nearly a year after I was captured, I found my way back to the main trail. There I joined up with a party of Germans who were walking back to Cuzco.”
Savage paused to clear his plate. “So that’s my story, Mr Raybould. The lost statue of Manco Capac is out there, but only I know where. It’s worth at least ten million, and I’ll split that with you fifty-fifty. All I need is a hundred thousand to assemble a small expedition. Write me a cheque, and I’ll start tomorrow.”
Raybould sipped his wine thoughtfully. Savage seemed genuine, and his story appeared plausible. Of course, the thought of stealing the statue from the natives was unpalatable: but did they really have any more right to it than he did? His mind made up, Raybould reached for the jacket pocket.
Savage suddenly started to cough. He put a hand to his throat. His eyes bulged. As Raybould watched, the young man’s face began to swell.
SIX
“ANDRE!” Raybould shouted. “Ambulance, quick!”
The ambulance arrived within five minutes. The paramedic administered adrenalin, and the swelling immediately started to subside. Savage was rushed to hospital, and it appeared he would survive.
Afterwards, Raybould shook his head. To think he had been about to write the man a cheque there and then. Well, he knew now that Bryan Savage was a liar and a con man. He wrote a cheque to the restaurant, including a good tip, and headed for the door.
– Raybould decided not to fund the project, having found out in the nick of time that the supposed adventurer was a con man – but how did he know?
. Appendage
– Panoramic view of Huayllabamba and surrounding area. It was here that Bryan Savage followed the trail to the jungle
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