In Luke 20:42–44, Jesus poses a question that quietly destabilizes purely earthly categories of thought:
“Now David himself said in the Book of Psalms: ‘The Lord said to my Lord, “Sit at My right hand,
Till I make Your enemies Your footstool.”’ Therefore David calls Him ‘Lord’; how is He then his Son?”
At first glance, the question appears academic—an exercise in scriptural interpretation. Yet Jesus is not testing the crowd’s literacy in Psalms; He is exposing a theological assumption so deeply embedded that it has gone unquestioned. By quoting Psalm 110, Jesus reveals that the Messiah cannot be understood merely as David’s descendant, bound by lineage, history, and temporal categories. David, Israel’s greatest king, calls the Messiah “Lord.” The Messiah stands within David’s line, yet above David’s authority. This paradox forces an unsettling conclusion: the Messiah transcends the very structures meant to define Him.
What follows is not curiosity, dialogue, or debate. No one asks a follow-up question. The silence itself underscores the moment’s weight. Jesus has uncovered a dimension of the Kingdom—and of the Messiah—that the teachers of Scripture were unprepared to confront.
This transcendence is not a new characteristic suddenly unveiled in Luke 20. It has been present from the earliest moments of Jesus’ ministry, long before miracles or public acclaim. Luke 4 provides a critical parallel. In the wilderness, Jesus is tempted in ways that appeal directly to the priorities of this age: physical need, political authority, and public validation.
Each temptation invites Jesus to collapse the eternal into the immediate.
First, hunger. After forty days without food, Jesus is tempted to satisfy a legitimate physical need through His power. His refusal does not deny the body’s needs; it reorders them. “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word of God.” Life, in its truest sense, is not sustained by what is consumable and temporary, but by what proceeds from God.
Second, authority. Jesus is offered dominion over the kingdoms of the world without the suffering of obedience. It is a shortcut—power without submission, influence without the cross. Jesus rejects it outright. Worship belongs to God alone. His allegiance is not shaped by efficiency or outcome, but by faithfulness to the Father’s Kingdom.
Finally, spectacle. A dramatic display would have satisfied popular expectations of the Messiah. No compromise of worship is required—only a performance. Again, Jesus refuses. He will not define His mission by human expectation or manipulate divine power for earthly approval.
In each response, Jesus demonstrates that transcendence is not first displayed through supernatural acts, but through a mind governed by the priorities of the age to come. His words reveal a way of thinking that resists the gravitational pull of this world’s values.
When Jesus returns to Psalm 110 in Luke 20, He is drawing these threads together. The Messiah David calls “Lord” cannot be confined to lineage, politics, or immediate outcomes. He is rooted in history but not limited by it. He participates in this age, yet He is oriented toward another.
If the Messiah Himself is defined by transcendence—by an orientation toward the age to come—then those who belong to Him cannot approach stewardship and legacy within purely temporal categories.
Legacy stewardship, when viewed through this theological lens, is not about preserving influence, extending control, or securing remembrance within this age. Instead, it is shaped by submission to the Father’s will, confidence in the Kingdom beyond sight, and faithfulness without guarantee of visible reward.
Legacy, in that light, is not about securing a future we can see—but about faithfully serving a Kingdom we trust is real.
By Christopher L. Walker at myfathersestate.com
