Tag: Janie B. Cheaney

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Bible Challenge Week 20: The Nation – Saul

Be careful what you wish for!  That saying wasn’t current in 1050 B.C., but it’s the theme of the prophet Samuel’s speech to the people in I Sam. 8:10-18.  You want a king?  Here’s what kings do.

They still want a king, so God gives them one.

And it doesn’t seem like such a bad deal.  The first king of Israel has some kingly qualities, both on the outside and on the inside.  He has no palace or royal guard or many of the fancy trappings that come with a long-standing monarchy.  Still, once the crown is on his head it goes to his head, as power usually does.  We’ll begin to see that process this week.  And we’ll encounter another problem that has puzzled Bible readers ever since.

For the printable download, with scripture references, discussion questions, and activities, click here:

Bible Reading Challenge Week 20: The Nation – Saul

(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.)

Previous: Week 19: The Nation – Samuel

Next: Week 21: The Nation – Failure!

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Nine Reasons to Read the Bible (even if you don’t believe it)

  1. It’s unique. The Bible Creation story is not like any other creation story. TheBible Reading Bible God is not like any other God.  He’s the only ancient deity to link worship (temples, sacrifices, etc.) to a moral code.  He is absolutely central; a person beyond personality, not a representative of window or fire, not an idea, not a philosophy.  He escapes easy generalities, and so does his book.
  2. It’s eerily familiar. We’re always hearing echoes of it, not only in everyday conversation (broken heart, labor of love, thorn in the flesh, eye for an eye), but in values we take for granted. Whatever our political persuasion, we agree that the hungry should be fed, the injured cared for, the helpless attended to.  None of these principles were widely accepted in the ancient world.  We believe—or at least we say—that love is the greatest power in the world.  Rameses, Nebuchadnezzar, and Julius Caesar would have laughed at that.  We like Jesus, even if we don’t understand him.  All these things originate in the Bible’s thousand-odd pages.
  3. It’s historically relevant. Even if you’re skeptical about archaeology finds that support what it says about ancient times, the Bible’s influence on history is well documented. Those who are certain it inspired oppression, crusades, and pogroms should turn over a few more rocks.  Though it has been misused as a weapon, the Bible is also (and much more logically) the inspiration for revivals, reforms, and rethinking. It directly inspired the greatest surge in literacy, enterprise, and empowerment the world has ever seen (i.e. the Protestant Reformation).  The Enlightenment usually takes credit for those achievements, but without the Reformation there would be no Enlightenment (and after the Enlightenment gleefully kicked away the Scriptural platform it was built on, it collapsed in something called the Reign of Terror).
  4. It’s a treasury of ancient literary forms. Poetry, Historical Narrative, Allegory, Practical Instruction, Romance, Apocalyptic Imagery—every style and genre known to the ancient world is easily accessible between these covers, and in a multitude of translations, too.
  5. It explains the origins of two of the most consequential people groups in the history of the world: Jews and Christians. You may not like them. Often enough, they haven’t liked each other. One was a relatively small group bound by blood and tradition, which had a wildly outsized influence on world history and a proportionate amount of suffering (the honor of being a chosen people cuts both ways).  The second group is, by design, much more numerous and diverse, bound by faith and a conviction that God loves the world enough to die for it.
  6. It tells one Story. A rambling tale, to be sure. But any tale would ramble if it takes about 1500 years and at least 39 authors to tell it.  But the general outline of the story is the model for all stories in all cultures.  There’s a setting, a protagonist, an antagonist, a problem, a development of the problem, a climax, and a resolution.  Why do we tell stories this way?  Whether or not the Bible is the origin for the model, it’s a classic example of the model.  And the type of story it tells, of desolation and redemption, still haunts us.
  7. It provides the only objective reason for treating human beings as anything other than random accidents, disposable trash, or interchangeable parts to be manipulated. The reason is this: the Bible is very clear that human beings are shaped by God to bear his image.  For that very reason, they are not to be willfully murdered (Genesis 9:6) or even carelessly insulted (James 3:9-10).  If the value of humans is set by other humans it can shift at any time.  If that value is set by God, no one can change it.
  8. It’s the most banned book in history. It’s too reactionary, too subversive, too authoritarian, too libertarian.  Tyrants fear its revelation of a rival power; anarchists, modernists, post-modernists, communists, utopians, and well-intentioned progressives hate it for the same reason. The book is a scandal and a trouble—aren’t you curious as to why?
  9. It’s still around. And still a best-seller. What explains its remarkable staying power? Unless you are willing to at least become familiar with it, you’ll never know.
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My Visit to The Shack

The Shack is again a topic of conversation with the opening of the movie version last weekend (as well as new publications like The Shack Revisited and The Shack Reflections).  I won’t see the movie, but I did read the book.  This review is adapted from my original thoughts:

“What’s up with this book?” asked the cashier at the local Borders where I bought my copy.  “Everybody’s asking for it.”  The Shack was a phenomenon in 2007; a self-published novel marketed by word of mouth with roughly a million copies in print.  How did it happen?

In 2005, a manufacturer’s rep named William P. Young (Paul to his friends) began writing a series of “Conversations with God” to share with his six children.  In the process he decided to frame the dialogues as a story that reflected something of his experience: a man scarred by tragedy and failure confronting the Almighty.

Before toting the manuscript to Kinko’s to be spiral-bound, Young showed it to Wayne Jacobson, a former pastor with a small publishing business in California.  Smitten with the story, Jacobson and his partner Brad Cummings set aside $300 to market the book.  Attempts to interest traditional publishers failed; it was “too Jesus-y” for secular outlets and too raw for Christian.  But over the next three years, the Evangelical grapevine out-performed most professional marketing campaigns, as The Shack climbed into USA Today’s best-seller list and the top 100 at Amazon.com.

By now everybody knows the story: MacKenzie Phillips (Mack to his friends) was living the good life in Oregon with his wife and five children when tragedy body-slammed him.  During a family camping trip, his youngest daughter was abducted, and though her body was never recovered it’s clear she was murdered.  After four years of dwelling in “The Great Sadness,” Mack receives a note in the mail: It’s been a while.  I’ve missed you.  I’ll be at the shack next weekend if you want to get together.  The note is signed “Papa” (his wife’s favorite designation for God) and the meeting place is the desolate cabin in the Cascades where his daughter was most likely murdered.

Mack keeps the appointment and meets none other than the Holy Trinity: “Papa” in the form of a rotund black woman who cooks up a storm (and whose speech disconcertingly wobbles between Scarlett’s Mammy and something like Paul Tillich), Jesus as a Jewish carpenter, and the Holy Spirit as an airy Asian female known as Sarayu.  During their supernatural weekend retreat, Mack’s soul is healed and he emerges a changed man.

The combination of fiction and theology often produces the worst of both.  The Shack is no exception to this rule.

The combination of fiction and theology often produces the worst of both.

As fiction, there’s not much in the way of plot or narrative, and so little character development that during the long conversations it’s easy to lose sight of who’s speaking (unless Papa chimes in with a “Sho’ nuff, honey”).  Mack often seems less a character than a counterpoint.  His chief function is to raise objections and ask questions.  The writing style is often redundant (“The nearby creek seemed to be humming some sort of musical tune”), puzzling (“He grabbed a bite of nominally tasting food”), or awkward (“[She was] waiting for him to speak as if he were about to say something, which he was not at all”).

Well, I haven’t written any million-copy best-seller, so maybe my literary criticism is just sour grapes.  As theology, though, the problems are a lot more serious.  Young has been accused of undermining orthodoxy, and while it may not be deliberate, he is clearly challenging orthodox views of the Trinity, the Bible, the church, sin, guilt, and atonement.  His focus is so broad it’s hardly a focus–one reading can’t grasp all the theological issues and one review can’t cover them all.  Tim Challies has made several stabs at it, starting here.  That’s part of the problem, but it may be part of the appeal, too: there’s something for everybody, both to love and to look askance at.

Some of Young’s assertions are scriptural and well-expressed: he is clear and poignant on the absolute goodness of God in the face of human tragedy, and on the helplessness of man to earn salvation.  But while messing with Mack’s head, his three mentors express notions that are either outside scripture or flatly contradict it.  In fact, scripture itself fades into a montage of other truth-sources such as art and experience, with no special authority of its own.  In fact, the very idea of authority is a power play designed to induce guilt.  In fact, guilt has been misconstrued to create a terror of judgment.  And the idea of judgment is due for an overhaul, too . . .

Man’s chief transgression, according to Young’s trinity, is that he’s chosen autonomy over relationship.  Every tragedy, every sorrow, every misconception is due to our lust for “independence.”  This is true as far as it goes, but Young is a bit too free with the application.  His approach to Law, for example, is that it’s only a mirror to show our unrighteousness, not a rule for living: “Trying to keep the law is actually a declaration of independence, a way of keeping control” (p. 203).  Wait . . . what?

Other problems are hard to pin down, because expressing his ideas in a novel allows Mr. Young to be rather vague about their real implications.  Some have accused him of universalism, a charge he denies.  But what to make of “Jesus’s” assurance that he has no desire to make anyone Christian?  “Does that mean that all roads will lead to you?” queries Mack.

“‘Not at all,’ smiled Jesus . . . ‘Most roads don’t lead anywhere.  What it does mean is that I will travel any road to find you.'”

Such a statement is wide open for interpretation–does it mean that Buddhists and Muslims will be saved, or that Jesus will make sure they find him?  Don’t expect a definite answer, because Papa has set us free from “religion” with its doctrines (i.e., clarity) and rules.  Just be open to grace and fellowship and don’t worry about particulars.  In this we have Sarayu’s support and blessing: “I have a great fondness for uncertainty,” she says in another context (page 203).

That’s convenient for the author, who comes across as a likeable, sincere believer with some interesting ideas.  Fiction is an effective way to explore ideas, because a story is, by its nature, better at illuminating questions than stating answers.  Every aspiring writer learns that fiction is supposed to show, not tell.  But Young attempts to have it both ways, showing and telling.  By framing most of the book as dialogue, he can make his characters say exactly what he’s thinking.  But if challenged he can say, “Hey, it’s just a story.”

Another problem is that by assigning form to God, he skirts close to violating the second commandment.  The prohibition against making images of God must extend to literary images as well, for they have the same power to affect our thinking as an idol has on a pagan.  How many Shack enthusiasts, when they pray, imagine curling up to Papa’s broad bosom that smells of warm scones and strawberry jam?  In the early pages of the book, Mack admits, “I’ve always sort of pictured [God] as a really big grandpa with a long white flowing beard, sort of like Gandalf in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings.”  “Papa” smashes that stereotype, but only by replacing it with another stereotype.

Our freedom in Christ does not extend to contradicting what He Himself said.

Even worse is putting questionable statements in the mouths of the Holy Trinity.  When “Papa” himself (or herself) says, “I am truly human, in Jesus,” the author is making a claim that is contrary to biblical revelation.  God is Spirit (John 4:24); Jesus became incarnate, not His Father.  Our freedom in Christ does not extend to contradicting what He Himself has said.

While touted as counter-cultural, The Shack feeds our culture’s mistrust of organized religion and craving for therapy.  What seeker won’t be comforted by “Papa’s” reassurance that “I don’t do humiliation or guilt or condemnation” (p. 223)?  What critic won’t nod emphatically at “Jesus’s” description of religion, politics and economics as a “man-made trinity of terrors that ravages the earth and deceives those I care about” (p. 179)?  How nice to know that God’s chief goal is not to be glorified, but to cozy up to his creatures.  The Shack invites readers to lay down their crosses, kick off their shoes, cozy up in return, and not grapple with the harder sayings of Scripture.  Our healing is all that matters.

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Setting the Table

Then came the day of Unleavened Bread, on which the Passover lamb had to be sacrificed.  So Jesus sent Peter and John, saying, “Go and prepare the Passover for us, that we may eat it.”  Luke 22:7-8      

The next day was Passover and no plans have been made.  Or so it seems.  While they are still on the mountain, yawning and stretching, the Master sends Peter and John into the city with instructions to follow a man carrying a jar of water on his head, who would lead them to a house with a room to spare.

Of course, it all falls out as he said.  While following the man with the jar, Peter and John glance at each other and smile; such predictions no longer surprise them.  They secure the room, a furnished upstairs chamber big enough for all thirteen of them, and spend the rest of the morning at the market.  They take particular care with choosing the lamb, as all good Jewish men do, feeling all over for lumps and scars.  Finally Peter says, “He’ll do,” and hands over the purchase price.  The lamb is led away to slaughter.

The time is drawing near.  They can feel it.

The whole city feels it, perhaps—or at any rate, there seems to be more than a Passover hush slowly stealing over it as sunset approaches.  A band of turquoise light shimmers on the western hills.  Families gather, pilgrims find their furnished rooms, lighted windows blink on in the darkening streets.  Familiar scriptures and responses ride the soft wind:

Why is this night unlike other nights?

Youngest sons ask their fathers and fathers give the prescribed answers: hopefully, longingly, routinely, tiredly, as each is inclined.  But in some of those houses, at least, there’s a heightened anticipation in the familiar words: the Kingdom is coming.  Messiah is here!

In the upstairs room, every required detail of the feast is followed to the letter as the Master takes over the function of family head.  Does the youngest disciple ask the questions?  Probably, though later they won’t remember the details, even though this meal is the last of the old order.  What they will remember is his declaration:

“I’ve longed to eat this meal with you before I suffer.  I will not eat it again until it’s fulfilled in the Kingdom.”

They hear “Kingdom” loud and clear.  “Fulfilled in the Kingdom” at last!  The other part—“before I suffer”—goes over their heads.  As usual.

But then he says something truly surprising.  Picking up the unleavened bread, made ceremoniously in a kitchen purged of yeast, he says, “This is my body, given for you.  Do this in remembrance of me.”

(This is a radical departure from the ritual; what next?)

Picking up his cup, he said, “This is the new covenant, sealed by my blood . . .”

(Blood?)

cup

“. . . and I see the hand of my betrayer on the table.  Woe to the man who brings about my predetermined death.”

Judas snatches his hand off the table, his face blazing.  How does Jesus know?  But of course he would; how had Judas ever imagined otherwise?  He casts out demons by the prince of demons, correct?  And by the prince of demons he divines the future.  Every other hand remains on the table; as the followers stare stupidly at each other.  One of them snaps, “Don’t look at me—I wouldn’t do such a thing!”  One by one they begin to argue over supposed accusations.

The room is entirely in shadow but for splashes of lamplight.  Judas glances toward the head of the table.  The Master’s face is turned away.  Maybe he doesn’t know who, only what.  Anyway, this is as good a time as any, now that the meal is almost done.  He made a deal; now it’s time to deliver.  In the dark, he slips away.

Meanwhile the argument among the disciples has shifted, as it often does, to determining which of them will be most prominent in the coming kingdom.  Matthew touts his administrative skills, Peter sets himself forth as a natural leader, Simon the Zealot cites his experience as a point man, James and John (who have already done some not-so-subtle politicking for places of honor*), quietly lean in on the left and the right,.  All, it seem, have an opinion of what will be needed and his unique ability to supply.

“Enough!”  The Master slams his cup on the table, cutting off the debate.  “You talk like Romans, with all their elaborate authority structures.  All of you wish to be masters and lords.  Gentiles do that—they lord it over the underlings while pretending to be their benefactors.  Listen to me: you shall not be like them.”

The followers maintain a sulky silence as the women come in to clear the table.  Swift and silent as shadows, these women have become so familiar as to be almost invisible.  They have followed all the way from Galilee, providing food, washing clothes, risking their reputations for the privilege of serving the Master.  Mary, and Salome, Joanna—always near, listening, absorbing, anticipating needs before they are spoken.  His eyes follow them out of the room.

“So who is the greatest?” he asks: “the one who sits at the head of the table, or the one who serves?  Surely, you would say, the one at the head of the table!  And yet, my mission is to serve.  Don’t worry—you’ve not come all this way with me for nothing.  You will receive your kingdom after I receive mine.  As we sit around this table now, so I will one day welcome you to a royal throne.  In fact—can you see yourselves on twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel?”

At this, each man perks up and adjusts his tunic, entertaining the same picture of a great hall—perhaps in Herod’s own palace!–dressed in understated finery while the nation comes before them (including every Pharisee who once looked down his haughty nose and every tax collector who stuffed his purse at their expense).

“But watch out–” the Master says.

Turning his head toward Peter, he speaks in a peculiar tone that doesn’t quite sound like him, “Simon!  Simon, you should know that Satan has asked to sift you all like wheat.”

What now?  His words have been tugging them like a shifting wind, first one direction and then another.  Again they look at each other, each assessing the weaknesses everywhere except in himself, as the Master goes on:

“But I have prayed especially for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail.  And when you have recovered, encourage your brothers.”

Ah.  Peter figures it out.  The Master is in one of his cryptic moods, where he likes to throw things a little off balance to see if they’re paying attention.  This is some kind of test, but the response almost makes itself:  “Lord, I am ready to follow you anywhere, whether it be to prison—or even to death.”

“Really? The truth is somewhat otherwise: before the rooster crows tonight you will deny, three times, that you even know me.”

Peter’s openmouthed protest doesn’t make it past his lips.  Unlike some of his master’s prophesies, This one is uncomfortably specific.  Turning to the other disciples, Jesus is now saying, “Remember when I sent you out among the towns last year, and told you to take no provisions?  Did you lack anything?”

They shake their heads, recalling the generosity of those households where they brought the god news: “Not a thing.”  “They treated us like royalty!” “We received the best every household had to offer.”

”That won’t always be the case from now on,” he replies.  “A time is coming when you won’t always be received as heroes.  You would do well to provide for yourselves wherever you go—even, if need be, sell your extra cloak to buy a sword.”

Simon the Zealot glances at Thomas.  Their eyes light up—finally, the moment has arrived!  At a slight nod from his partner, Simon springs to his feet and runs to a corner of the room where their supplies are piled up.  Rummaging among his equipment he pulls out something with a metallic clang.  “Look, Lord! Two swords, at your service!”

In the darkness it’s hard to judge the Master’s expression, but his voice is full: sadness, hesitation, irony, perhaps even a touch of laughter.  “That’s more than sufficient,” he says.  “And now it’s time to go.

“It’s time . . .”

_______________________________________

For the original post in this series, go here.

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