Abstract
Among the rhetorical flourishes of the 2016 U.S. presidential campaign, perhaps most memorable was Donald Trump’s promise to “drain the swamp.” He was, of course, speaking of Washington’s political establishment, those who have been comfortably ensconced in positions of power. Not surprisingly, Trump did not coin the phrase. Upon becoming Speaker of the House in 2007, Nancy Pelosi promised to do the same. Both the Bush and Reagan administrations used that phrase to describe their intent to reform governmental institutions, which had—in their estimation—become self-serving bureaucracies. Etymologist Barry Popik has traced the phrase “drain the swamp” to the Socialist movement of the early twentieth century, which believed the core principles of democracy were being co-opted by the destructive powers of capitalism. 1 It is no stretch to suggest that Jesus’s cleansing of the temple was a first-century attempt to “drain the swamp.” By turning over the tables and disrupting commerce, Jesus was seeking to free temple practice from the corrupting power of economic gain and restore ancient spiritual practices to their original intent. To understand these actions as something more than prophetic grandstanding, however, some attention to detail is in order.
Matthew begins the story by describing Jesus’s actions: “Then Jesus entered the temple and drove out all who were selling and buying in the temple, and he overturned the tables of the money changers and the seats of those who sold doves” (21:12). Jesus had no recognized credentials to act in the temple. He was not a temple priest. He was not from the tribe of Judah. He was not a priest or Levite, and he offered no evidence of having first consulted with the high priest. In Matthew’s version of the story, Jesus’s credentials are drawn from his divinely ordained mission, known to the reader but not necessarily to the temple establishment. Beginning with the designation “God is with us” (1:23), the Gospel of Matthew further unfolds Jesus’s identity in 11:10, when Jesus quotes Mal 3:1 to implicitly identify himself as “the Lord whom you seek.” Finally, Jesus explicitly claims to be greater than the temple and “Lord of the Sabbath,” even going so far as to speak of the temple as “my house” (Matt 12:3–8; 21:13). In other words, Jesus’s divinely granted status allowed him to do as he pleased in the temple.
His entrance into Jerusalem clearly signaled his intent. At Passover, pilgrims remembered the beloved prophecy of Zechariah: “Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey” (Zech 9:9). It was a precious vision, a beautiful dream, when Israel’s Messiah and true king, humble in heart, noble in purpose, was coming to the city of David to claim his throne and begin his reign. The people responded ecstatically to Jesus’s entry, throwing garments in his path, singing, shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord” (Matt 21:9).
Many scholars suggest Jesus planned his entry into Jerusalem as a deliberately prophetic act, intentional and highly provocative. Roman occupation of Judea kept the peace and prevented local insurrection with collaboration from the local ruling elite. In exchange, the Romans allowed the Jewish religious establishment to function. Scribes, Pharisees, and chief priests all enjoyed relative autonomy. Therefore, religious leaders had a stake in keeping the peace instead of accommodating would-be messiahs and their rabble-rousing followers, because such uprisings inevitably brought Roman violence against the Jews and threatened the fragile status quo. So when Jesus turned over the tables of the moneychangers and drove out the merchants, it was a highly provocative act. It was only a matter of time before Jesus’s arrest and execution.
Jesus’s charge against those engaging in temple commerce is specific and damning: “My house shall be called a house of prayer; but you are making it a den of robbers” (v. 13). It comes from Jeremiah’s famous temple sermon in which he likens the people of Judah to robbers, due to their multiple offenses against God and neighbor (Jer 7:9–11). The problem is not so much that commerce occurs in the temple; it is the underlying assumption that temple geography and religious ritual insulated the participants from God’s judgment. Jesus’s echo of Jeremiah reminds them that mere presence in God’s temple did not provide them sanctuary from judgment and the need for God-designed living.
The scene culminates in a paradox of power. The chief priests and scribes are understandably angry with Jesus; interrupting the temple’s commerce is serious business. Nevertheless, the “amazing things he did” (Matt 21:15) were not nearly as problematic as the children proclaiming him Son of David (i.e., king). “Do you hear what [the children] are saying?” (v. 16), they yell at Jesus, curiously neglecting even to mention his impact on the commercial enterprises of the temple. Of course he does hear, but Jesus also understands the nature of God’s reign, God’s chosen way to engage the powers of the world, which has more to do with the innocent wisdom of children than the corrosive assumptions of worldly power.
This passage is fertile ground for today’s preacher. As worldly powers rise and clash, Christians benefit from reaffirming allegiance to another ruler, one who gains authority not by wars and rumors of war, but by divine appointment. As the need for sanctuary arises in today’s world, these verses also suggest that physical sanctuary is best grounded in spiritual integrity, lives intentionally ordered according to God’s design for the human journey. Finally, Jesus entered the city like a king who has come to claim his throne. And for a moment, with the people shouting and waving palm branches and little children singing and the forces of economic exploitation and political expediency retreating, for a wonderful moment it seemed like he might do it, might seize power, perhaps ascend the throne and reign over his kingdom. However, at the last moment he declines. Instead of claiming a throne, he chooses self-sacrifice on the cross.
It was certainly a risky strategy. Instead of privilege, he chose sacrifice. Instead of the accoutrements of worldly authority, he chose the authority of compassion. Instead of safety and security, he chose risk and vulnerability. It can be hard to know what to make of it. Father Robert Capon tried to give words to the struggle in his book Hunting the Divine Fox: The human race is, was, and probably always will be deeply unwilling to accept a human messiah. We don’t want to be saved in our humanity; we want to be fished out of it. We crucified Jesus, not because he was God, but because he blasphemed: he claimed to be God and then failed to come up to our standards for assessing the claim. It’s not that we weren’t looking for the Messiah; it’s just that he wasn’t what we were looking for. . . . He wouldn’t do a stupid thing like rising from the dead. He would do a smart thing like never dying.
2
This Gospel lesson celebrates a memorable event in our faith heritage, the triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem. It is not easy, and perhaps it is impossible, to understand such self-emptying love. But this defining narrative suggests that apart from such love, Christian faith is just another religion. The love of God in this man who faithfully, humbly fulfills God’s call, a person who deliberately declines to claim the kind of power so many of us desire—that person is the most complete human being who ever lived. When his disciples live like him, even occasionally, we approach something of the meaning and purpose for which we were created.
