Tag: Bible

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Bread of Life

It’s really an astounding thing to say. “I am the bread of life” is the first of seven pivotal “I am” statements in the gospel of John, all of which identify the Son of Man with God himself. By this point in John’s gospel (chapter 6) the Jewish leaders clearly understand what Jesus is saying (John 5:18)—and of course, if any other man were saying it, he would be subject to execution under Jewish law.

“I am the bread of life” goes one step further: it disturbs not only Jesus’ enemies but also his friends.

The immediate context is feeding 5000 in the wilderness, an echo of what his Father did for the children of Israel during their 40 years of wandering. John’s gospel, incidentally, is the only account that includes that Sunday-school staple, the little boy with his little lunch of 5 loaves and 2 fish. (He must have had a most conscientious mother.)

Wouldn’t it be great if Jesus could establish Israel as the bread capital of the world?

After this amazing event, the great crowds who have taken to following Jesus intend to follow him right to the throne of a restored kingdom—they’ll even force him onto that throne, if necessary. He escapes into the hills, walks on water to the other side of the sea of Galilee, and meets some of his most persistent followers at Capernaum. They’re frustrated; can’t he see that they have big plans for him? “You are seeking me because I gave you what you wanted”—i.e, a big meal. No doubt they believe he can duplicate that sign at any time. Wouldn’t it be great if he could establish Israel as the bread capital of the world, and make the Imperial powers come crawling to them for favors?

He has another plan:

I am the living bread that comes down from heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever. And the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.

Got that? Unlike manna coming down from heaven to sustain mortal life, he himself is the living bread that will sustain eternal life. And it gets weirder:

. . . unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day. For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink.

“This is a hard saying; who can listen to it?” That’s how many of his disciples respond, not his enemies. They find the teaching so hard they can’t stick around for more. The radical content might have driven us away, too—it’s lost the original shock for those of us who are accustomed to nibbling matzo crackers and sipping grape juice during communion services.

In the pagan culture that surrounded Israel, the gods were not accustomed to being devoured—it was usually the other way around. Literally, in earlier times, when petitioners fed their children to Moloch and Baal. In the more sophisticated Greek and Roman culture child sacrifice didn’t happen, unless it was on the outskirts of the empire. But gods demanded and devoured lesser offerings.

Israel’s God demanded offerings not to consume, but to propitiate: “Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins.” It’s such a dramatic contrast even some of the Jews missed it and imagined that Yahweh was somehow satisfied with the meat. Even though he laughed away the thought: “If I were hungry, I would not tell you, for the world and everything in it is mine. Do I eat the flesh of bulls, or drink the blood of goats?” (Psalm 50:12-13)

Rather than devour us with his demands, he gives himself for us to devour

Being satisfied in himself, he is never hungry. But since his people, and all people everywhere, are born hungry, he’s a giver. Summer and winter, springtime and harvest, he gives and gives.

And once on earth, he continues to give, multiplying loaves and fishes, reversing maladies, eventually offering up his own body and blood. Rather than devour us with his demands, he gives himself for us to devour: true food, and true drink.

True, because there is no other source. “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of everlasting life.” And not just the words, but the very body.

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Fear vs. Fear

Fear is a verb and a noun, and in both forms it’s usually negative. Fear can be useful when it prevents us from stupid actions, but even then it doesn’t feel good, or build character, or add value. It just keeps us alive to fear another day.

Fear (the noun) is the default response to trying something new (They’re gonna laugh at me), or standing up against injustice (They’re gonna turn on me) or just crossing the yard to meet the neighbors (They’re not gonna like me). In more extreme cases,  it can prod us into battle or cliff diving if we fear the scorn of our buddies even more than the risk to our persons.

Fear guards our fragile self-image like a sentry marching back and forth with a shouldered rifle, starting at every sound. The treasure it’s protecting is Me—precious little Me, with the persona I’ve pieced together over the years that can be so casually ripped open by one mean word.

That kind of fear I can do without.

This kind of fear draws us toward, not away.

There’s another kind of fear. It guards nothing. It’s deliberate and cultivated. It breaks down gates and strides through the world arm-in-arm with a self-image no longer fragile, because it fears (verb) the one thing worth fearing.

The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom (Pr. 1:7), deliverance (Ps. 34:4), blessing (Ps. 115:19), fulfillment (Ps. 145:19), honor (Pro. 22:4), provision (Ps. 111:5) goodness (Ps. 31:19)—and much, much more. We have the Lord’s own word on that. Then why is it so hard to fear the Lord?

It might have been easier for earlier generations raised on hellfire sermons, but even that was often the wrong kind of fear (if it didn’t progress to the right kind): trembling, shame-filled, run-and-hide fear like Adam who called out form the bush: “We heard you coming, and we were afraid.” The paired image of God used to run to him. Now they run away, as humans have done ever since.

Godly fear causes us to run toward him once again. It’s an emotion literally out of this world, though C. S. Lewis found something like it in a scene from Wind and the Willows, where Mole and Rat encounter the demigod Pan. [Mole]  found breath to whisper, shaking, ‘Are you afraid?’  ‘Afraid?’ murmured the Rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love.  ‘Afraid? Of Him? O, never, never.  And yet – and yet – O Mole, I am afraid.’”

“Unutterable love,” of something wholly outside ourselves yet wholly intimate, is fear like nothing else. It—that is, He—could kill us with a glance—but he won’t. He could unmake us with a word, but his desire is to remake us. Everything that ever made a human heart sing, be it a literal song or a magnificent landscape or the road-hugging sweep of a perfectly-tuned racecar, leads back to him who made the human heart. Whatever pulls us out of ourselves, even for a moment, is meant to find fulfillment in him.  

If you fear God rightly, the saying goes, you need fear nothing else. “Fear not,” or the equivalent, is said to occur in the Bible 365 times—one for every day of the year. If I’ve lost myself in him, I don’t need a sentry. Little Me has found perfect protection.

But if I don’t fear him rightly, or at all, well: It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God (Heb. 10:31). In the end it comes down to two choices: Shelter in his love, or face his wrath.

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Naaman the Syrian

This is such a well-worn Sunday-school staple we easily overlook its relevance for grownups. And that may be the point: a little girl suggests a solution, a great man’s diseased skin becomes as clear as a child’s. Unless we become as little children we can’t be cleaned. We can’t come into the kingdom whose gates the Syrian captain almost passed by.

To begin with, it’s a little gem of storytelling: like Ruth, an almost ahistorical tale set between historical records of faithless kings and ruthless usurpers. It has the outlines of a folk tale: neither of the kings of Israel or Syria are named, and Naaman is not mentioned elsewhere in the Old Testament. Gehazi, a nobody, emerges as a kind of trickster character who gets his comeuppance. None of this means that the story is untrue, but that (again, like Ruth) it has redemptive echoes fulfilled in the New Testament.

The setup is the “mighty man of valor,” a successful and respected commander who is nevertheless brought low by a shameful disease. A humble servant girl, captured in a raid against Israel, suggests Elisha the prophet, well known for his miraculous powers. It’s worth a try, and Naaman’s king, who values him greatly, loads him up with gifts for the prophet and the prophet’s sovereign. In their world, you pay for what you get: the greater the goods, the greater the recompense.

A bit of comic relief when the king of Israel, Naaman’s first stop, misunderstands the request. “Am I God? I can’t cure this man—it’s a trap!” Elisha, hearing of this melodramatic display, probably rolls his eyes before setting the King straight.

So Naaman, with all his pomp and pathetic skin, stands outside the prophet’s house expecting . . . what? A personal audience at least, given his station. And probably an elaborate healing ritual with chants and offerings and ceremonial smoke and mirrors, all of which might even work. Instead, he gets a curt message by Elisha’s servant Gehazi.

The medium and the message seem not only demeaning but carless, as if the prophet had just tossed out his first though. No wonder Naaman is insulted and upset. His fuming seems perfectly natural: I came all this way with all this gold, and this is my answer? I should have just stayed home and taken a bath.

His servants intervene. We might infer here that Naaman was a just man as well as a great commander, as his servants seem genuinely concerned for him. “My father” might have been a common form of address from servant to master, but it implies a warmth that “Sir” or “My Lord” do not. Anyway, they make an interesting argument.

Most translations put it this way: “If the prophet had told you to do something great, would you not have done it?” That is, “You were prepared for a grand task; would it hurt to perform a simple one?”

The ESV, alone of the major translations, reads like this: “It is a great word that the prophet has spoken to you; will you not do it? Has he actually said to you, ‘Wash and be clean’?”

I can’t say which translation is more correct, but I like the ESV’s because the focus is not on the procedure, but the reward. Not on what Naaman does, but what God will do. “Master Naaman, didn’t you hear what he promised you? ‘Wash and be clean’? That’s a great thing—just do it, already!”

So he does. He “goes down,” or humbles himself to wade into the dirty water, dips himself to the number of completeness, and comes out as a little child—clean.

Now his gold is a gift of gratitude, not payment, but Elisha (meeting him face to face this time) won’t take it. Cleansing is free. Redemption is literally priceless. Gehazi doesn’t see that—all he sees is carnal opportunity. What he does seems harmless, and even clever; he’s just taking the opportunity to skim a little off the top. But his crime is similar to that of Simon Magus in Acts 8:29: seeking to turn God’s grace to his own advantage.

Elisha rebukes him: “Did not my heart go when the man turned from his chariot to meet you? Was it a time to accept money and garments?” There may be a time for remuneration, when a worker is worthy of his hire, but this isn’t it. Grace can’t be hired, because no one has the means to pay for it.

Except Jesus. He mentioned Naaman the Syrian (Luke 4:27) as an example of his Father’s sovereign grace: lavish, unexpected, and absolutely free. It’s a gift only he could purchase, only he could give. And it’s a great thing. Will you not unfold your stubborn arms, uncurl your clenched fist, and receive it?

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Mighty Doorkeepers

The opening chapters of I Chronicles are not the most engaging text. Chronicles includes more genealogy than the famously tongue-stumbling chapters of Genesis 5 and 10. A lot more. Nine chapters’ worth. That doesn’t mean that the genealogies fall outside the “useful for teaching, correcting, and training in righteousness” purpose of the Scriptures, only that sometimes you have to look harder for the usefulness.

In my latest reading, here’s what I found. Speaking of the Levites, divided by their houses and clans, the Chronicler writes, “. . . besides their kinsmen, heads of their fathers’ houses, 1,760, mighty men for the work of the service of the house of God” (I Chron. 9:13).

Elsewhere in the historical records of Israel, “Mighty men” refers exclusively to warriors. This one killed 300 men, that one led a squad through the water tunnels to take Jerusalem, the other one killed a Cushite giant 12 feet tall. And here’s a great trivia question: “Who was the brother of Lahmi, whom Elhanan the Son of Jair struck down in the Philistine Wars of King David?” Answer: Goliath. (I Chron. 20:5. I won a Bible trivia game—against a very competitive pastor—with that one.)

But the mighty men of the tribe of Levi had one purpose, and that was to serve first the tabernacle, later the temple. What do almost 2000 men do every day to maintain the place, and hence the worship, of the Lord? Some guarded the gates on rotation. Some had charge of the utensils used for (we have to guess) butchering, carving, and sacrificing. Though the text doesn’t mention it, there must have been a lot of blood to clean up, and offal and waste to cart away, and bones to burn outside the camp. This could have been one of Mike Rowe’s dirtiest jobs in history. The thing about dirty jobs is, they are necessary. Someone has to do them, even in the holiest places.

As Chapter 9 ends, there’s this: “Others, of the sons of the priests, prepared the mixing of the spices, and Mattithiah, one of the Levites, the firstborn of Shallum the Korahite, was entrusted with making the flat cakes” (9:30-31). Every day, a new batch of bread to place before the Lord on the Table of Presence.

Who doesn’t want to be “mighty”? Whatever we’re good at, whatever our rank or position, we want to stand out. Here is an example of men who didn’t stand out, except in a little-read portion of scripture where the writer bothered to name them. They were gate-keepers, floor-scrubbers, tile-sweepers, brass-polishers, bread-bakers, trash-haulers. What distinguished them was where they did it: in the house of God.

And where is the house of God today? In us, and among us, and with us. Dirt-diggers, diaper-changers, floor-sweepers, meal-planners, wage-earners. We’re told that work matters, and it should matter especially to a Christian. We’re told to work heartily as unto the Lord, and whatever our hands find to do, do it with all our might. But we’re not often told that our names are being recorded in the ranks of the mighty.

It must be true, though; in the service of the Lord, every act is mighty.

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And It Was . . . Done

According to all that the Lord had commanded Moses, so the people of Israel had done all the work. And Moses saw all the work, and behold, they had done it; as the Lord commanded, so they had done it. Ex. 39:42-43

Reading those words, do you hear an echo?

And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good . . .

And Moses saw . . .

From the beginning of Genesis to the end of Exodus encloses a lot of history—much more than any other Bible time-period. From prehistory all the way up to the birth of a nation, the LORD is building a grand plot. From the promised seed, through the flood, Father Abraham, the 12 patriarchs who grew into a multitude now gathered on a desert plain, the question is, Will they take Yahweh to be their lawfully wedded husband?

He covenants with them, he feeds and shepherds them, he instructs and promises to live with them. And then they fall into a terrible act of apostasy that should have ended it all. The people go back on their word just days after swearing to it. Even while Moses is on the mountain receiving instruction on how to consecrate Aaron as chief priest, Aaron is down on the plain hammering out a golden calf.

Doesn’t God know what’s going on, even while giving detailed instructions about how to build his dwelling place? Of course he does. But he waits, allowing the measure of sin to fill up on. And then he storms upon the scene, threatening to destroy his people. Moses intervenes for him, using every persuasive argument that comes to mind, until the Lord “changes his mind.” I won’t go with you/ I will go with you/ I will destroy them/ I won’t destroy them.

(This back-and-forth echoes a long-ago conversation with Abraham, who bargains with the Lord until he gets the acceptable number of righteous men needed to preserve Sodom down to ten. It’s not enough, of course; not even ten righteous men can be found in Sodom, and nephew Lot’s righteousness-status is rather iffy. But that doesn’t mean God is merely humoring Abraham in this conversation. He’s God; he knows the outcome. But he is also an active participant in the story, along with Abraham. The play is written, but that makes it no less compelling or real. God “changes his mind” according to what he’s already determined.)

Anyway. After this great trauma, with a people properly repentant and eager to make amends, the tabernacle work goes forward. Sixteen times in chapters 39 and 40 comes the phrase, “as the Lord commanded Moses.” As though there is to be no doubt that they’ve learned a lesson—for now—and “All that the Lord commands, we will do.” At the end, they’ve constructed a dwelling place that follows the blueprint to the letter.

But is it “good”? At the end of Creation, God saw all that he had made and pronounced it good. At the conclusion of tabernacle construction, Moses surveys the work and declares it “done.”

Is it good? No, but it’s done, according to God’s command. One more step toward redemption is accomplished. After the golden calf disaster and the recriminations and accusations and consequences dealt, God will still dwell with his people. Because he’s committed. What could have been the finale instead becomes a major plot point in the continuing drama.

But do you hear another echo?

It is finished.

It was good at the beginning. It was done as a temporary expedient, and kept on being “done” through a first temple, a second temple, and a third temple; through major dissolutions and reformations, countless animal sacrifices and rivers of blood.

Now it’s finished: the plot wraps up.

But it also continues, in present tense. We live in the dénouement, or “falling action,” of the great story that came to a climax when the main character walked out the grave . He had solved the unresolved tension between man and God—that is finished. The uneasy debt is paid.  But each generation experiences that “finishing” for itself as the drama plays out again over millions of individual lives. And he’s just as involved and active as he ever was, only through his Holy Spirit at work in every reborn soul.

For there’s no more back-and-forth, no more bargaining. For each one of us, it is finished: in present tense, until we reach the final page.

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Leaving God Out of Account

What business have you reciting my statutes,

Standing there mouthing my covenants,

Since you detest my disciplines

and thrust my words behind you? . . .

You are leaving God out of account; take care!  Psalm 50:16-17; 22

This reminds me of my dialogue with a liberal friend from college, even though “mouthing” and “reciting” are not fair descriptions of her heartfelt love of the covenants.  The question is, whose covenant?  God’s extension of grace and mercy through Jesus Christ is built on a foundation stretching back through millennia.  The beloved covenants of today are (apparently) brand-new, sweeping away the old because it’s no longer needed.  Or because we’ve evolved into a more caring and accepting society.  Some of God’s words she treasures; others she thrusts behind her.  Or rather, rationalizes or explains away.

She’s not the only one of course; it’s the spirit of the age.  Even those who talk about God every day can “leave him out of account.”  He’s the Facebook meme of a silhouetted figure on a ridge with hands raised in triumph, or sunbeams raying out from clouds.  He’s the beauty, the wind, the sunrise, and every good feeling.  He is not the muscle, the hot iron, the oil-slicked, invisible gears that make the earth move and history pop.

He’s the mountaintop we climb for inspiration, not the valley where we live our lives and make our daily decisions based on everything but what he actually says.  This can be outright rebellion (I know what he says and I reject it).  But more often it’s sheer frivolousness: I’m okay, God’s okay; he’s fine with me as I am with him.  Even with God brooding directly over them and history dogging their every step, Israel failed to take him into account.

But he took them into account—and you and me, too.  That can be good news, or very, very bad.

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Who Invented Writing? And Why Does the Bible Not Care?

From this . . .

The answer to the first question is, nobody knows.  It’s apparently a Sumerian invention, adapted by the Akkadians and picked up by all Middle Eastern cultures.  The Phoenicians get credit for developing the first alphabet (22 letters), but it was really a mashup of Egyptian and Sumerian.  The Hebrews weren’t far behind, and the Greeks invented vowels.  Most of these cultures had some kind of origin story: writing as the gift of a god or demi-god.  In the “Phaedrus” dialogue, Socrates tells of the god Theuth, who talked up his invention to the Pharaoh as an aid to wisdom and memory.  The King was not impressed; he perceived the written word not as an aid but as a crutch:

By telling them many things without teaching them you will make them seem to know much, while for the most part they know nothing, and as men filled, not with wisdom but with the conceit of wisdom, they will be a burden to their fellows.

That’s a good description of pretentious windbaggery, and may be one reason why the Bible makes no mention of how writing was invented.  Nobody writes anything in Genesis.  In Exodus, there it is: Ten Commandments written by God himself and a Torah written by Moses (who was, after all, schooled in all the arts of a sophisticated culture).  Written words are a medium for the Word, but not, strictly speaking, the Word Himself.  (Remember, Jesus never wrote anything—recorded for us, that is—except some mysterious words in the sand.)

. . . to this . . .

While the slow and tortuous development of writing went on, God spoke—to Noah, Abraham, Jacob, finally Moses.  With the alphabet in place, he instructed prophets to set things down, not for their own erudition and proof-texting, but to let his people know what he was like.  Like all technologies, writing is a double-edged sword, though more subtle than most: by it we pass down vital knowledge, and by it we’re burdened with conceited pedagogues.

Writing is a tool, not a talisman.

Of course God knows that.  Knowledge is a means, not an end.  Writing is a tool, not a talisman.  It sets us free from immediate practical application and the limits of an individual mind, creates a place for the expression of ideas in a world of “things.”  It also makes us think we know more than we actually do, when what it’s actually doing is setting the table for genuine knowledge.  God doesn’t need it; his words endure even when no on

. . . to this?

e listens to them.  But our words are airy and fleeting.  Like rain, they fall and evaporate on the heads of our hearers.  Good words can bless, and evil words can hurt, but that depends on who hears them and what frame of mind they’re in.

Writing is our one shot at making our words endure past the hearing.  But the Pharaoh’s words to Theuth—actually Socrates’ words—hold just as true today: reading and understanding the content represented by a pattern of words on a page makes us think we know the content.  We don’t really know anything unless we live it out.  That’s why the Bible puts such importance on doing: “Be doers of the word, and not hearers [or readers] only.”  “He who hears my words and does them is like a man who built his house on a rock.”

Writing is a tremendous gift, no question.  I make my living by it.  Like all gifts, though, it’s not to be worshiped or exalted for its own sake, only for how it brings us closer to God.

 

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Bible Challenge Week 7: The Promise – Jacob

Babylon has Gilgamesh, Athens has Theseus, Rome has Aeneas–but what nation or city ever had a founder like Jacob, the “supplanter”?  Even his name change is provocative: Israel, or “he wrestles with God.”

In spite of his checkered character, he is the last of the three great patriarchs whose name will echo throughout generations of Bible history.  His other name remains a rock of offense today: Israel, a stubborn, tiny nation that continues to exercise an influence far beyond its size.  There’s got to be a reason for that, and we get a hint of it in this week’s Bible challenge, where personality wrestles with destiny.

Click here for the pdf download:

Bible Challenge Week 7: The Promise – Jacob

(This is a continuation of a series of posts about the “whole story” of the Bible.  I plan to run one every week, on Tuesdays, with a printable PDF.  The printable includes a brief 2-3 paragraph introduction, Bible passages to read, a key verse, 5-7 thought/discussion questions, and 2-3 activities for the kids.  Here’s the Overview of the entire Bible series.)

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