Lots of times, when I’m reading the gospels, I imagine myself there, watching, listening, standing to the side, maybe in the shadows, but listening in, and often rooting for Jesus. And sometimes wincing. This is a wincing day.

Jesus returned to the temple. Of course, I went with him. The Temple was big and impressive, and spoke of the power of those inside. I was apprehensive because this was kind of like a meeting between two rival gangs; it was here that Jesus would square off with the temple authorities in a kind of religious rumble. And of course, he hasn’t been very diplomatic. I mean, the first thing he did when he got to town was to go to the temple and start kicking over tables and accusing everybody there of making it into a den of robbers.

So, when he went back, they were waiting for him. "Just who do you think you are?" they asked. "Who gives you the authority to do these things?"

So it started, this verbal fencing. I had seen him fence before, and when they lit into him, I just shook my head. They had no idea what they were getting into.

As usual, he didn’t answer the question (one of his tactics is never to let the other guy make the rules or set the agenda). Instead, he asked them about John the Baptist’s authority. That tied them up in knots because they had opposed John, but he was very popular, and they didn’t dare cross the crowd. So they, the leaders of Israel’s religious life, finally just said, "We don’t know."

I stood there, being careful not to grin. They had come at him with swords drawn, and one minute later, they were disarmed, and they felt something on their faces. When they touched them, they realized that he had deftly carved his initials on their cheeks, and there wasn’t a thing they could do about it. "Okay," I remember thinking, "you’ve won. Stop. Let’s get out of here. This is dangerous."

And then, he began to speak again. I winced. He told them the parable of the two sons, the first of whom says he won’t work but does, and the second of whom says he’ll work, but doesn’t. It’s pretty clear that he’s telling them that they talk a good game but they don’t play it. "Stop," I remember thinking. I looked at their faces. "Okay, they get it. Please stop."

And then I winced yet again when he told the religious leaders of the nation that the whores and tax collectors were going to heaven ahead of them.

And still he didn’t stop. He told them the story of a landowner who built a vineyard. (They all recognized the vineyard as a stock image for Israel.) You know the story: he leased it out, but the tenants refused to give him his share of the produce. So he sent two delegations of servants to collect the rent. The tenants attacked both groups, and killed some of them.

I knew what Jesus was up to. This was pretty clearly an allegory: the owner was God, and the servants were the prophets, like Amos and Jeremiah, whom Israel treated violently and shamefully for telling the truth about what was expected of God’s people. But the next part was pretty amazing. Because then he said that the owner sent his son. After two groups have been attacked, and some of them killed, the owner sends his son. Not the police with clubs raised; not an air raid, not a quite understandable retaliatory strike — his son.

What made this really eerie to watch was that I realized that the drama of this story was unfolding in real life as the story was being told. If Jesus hadn’t sealed his fate before, he sure had now. So when he said that the tenants killed the son, I winced again. They would kill him. This story and reality were creating each other. It was eerie, and it meant that he would surely die. I didn’t even bother to think, "Stop." It was too late.

Then he asked them, "When the owner comes, and finds his son dead, what will he do to those tenants." I could tell that, even though they were furious at him, they were grateful that he had at last asked them a question they could answer. This was an easy one: "The owner will kill them and give the vineyard to better tenants."

It was an easy question, and the answer (retribution, capital punishment, "these people need killing") seemed so obvious, so natural, that it was quite a while before I realized that their answer was wrong. Yes, the kingdom of God would go to those who produce fruit. But no, there would be no retribution, no killing. The God who loved these wicked tenants enough to even send his son will love them still, even after the son is rejected and killed. So Jesus switches images and quotes a psalm, "The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone; this was the Lord’s doing, and it is amazing in our eyes." The son they killed will become the cornerstone of a resurrection faith, not an execution faith, of a forgiveness faith, not a rejection faith, of a new life faith, not a deserved death faith.

But of course, they didn’t understand that day in the temple. I can’t blame them. I didn’t get it until after Easter, after he was killed and God didn’t respond with well-deserved retribution and death. Their answer was wrong. It would not be execution, rejection, death. It would be resurrection, forgiveness, new life. That would be the Lord’s doing, and, Lord, it would be amazing in our eyes.

You might wonder why I spend so much time reminiscing about that day in the temple. After all, Jesus wasn’t saying all this stuff to me; I’m a Christian. Jesus was saying all this to the religious leaders of Israel, and, of course, Israel rejected Jesus, so it’s pretty easy to just dismiss all this as Jesus railing against the Jews. I can just sit on the sidelines and say, "Yeah!"

Well, that works pretty well for me most of the time. Because most of the time I’m just going about the business of my life, and I’m not really very reflective, and I don’t take the time or have the courage to take a really searching and fearless inventory about how I interact with God.

But sometimes I do really reflect, and that presents a problem. You see, when I think about how I honor Jesus’ authority in my life, sometimes I feel something on my cheek, and when I touch it, I feel his initials deftly carved there. I wonder if I’m alone in that?

And when I think about how I actually live out what I believe, how I actually walk in Christ rather than just talk about it, I realize how often I’m the son who says, "I go sir," and then — I don’t go. I wonder if I’m alone in that?

And when Jesus is telling the temple priests that the kingdom will be taken away from them and given to tenants who produce fruit, and I think about how easy it is to triumphantly, perhaps smugly, perhaps gleefully, say, "Yeah!" like some kind of gloating cheerleader, I can’t help but asking, "Can it be fruit of the kingdom for me to feel superior, triumphant, with respect to the tenants for whom the Son of God was willing to die?" Shouldn’t I feel instead a great sense of loss and longing, as God no doubt feels?

And, once I’m off that high horse, I find myself thinking, "And just how much fruit do I produce? Given all of the opportunities in life, all of the brokenness in the world, all of the blessings and riches and talents God has bestowed on me, how much fruit do I produce for the kingdom of God? And then I can feel pretty humbled. I wonder if I am alone in that?

It’s worth reflecting on that day in the temple because we aren’t people who can smugly stand by and cheer, "Yeah!" We are, in fact, now the ones who, all too often, kill the son, reject the stone.

So rather than wanting to cheer about someone else’s mistakes, I’m more than content to be profoundly grateful that the stone they rejected, the stone I so often reject in so many ways, has become the cornerstone of a faith of resurrection, forgiveness, new life.

I believe that this was the Lord’s doing, and it is amazing in our eyes. And I know I am not alone in that.