Today is ANZAC Day. It is an annual commemoration that has been held since 1916, which was the first anniversary of the landing of Australian and New Zealand troops on the Gallipoli Peninsula during the early stages of World War I. These troops were the first of approximately 70,000 Allied soldiers whose service included time at Gallipoli; more than 20,000 of these troops were Australian and New Zealand soldiers.
The website of the Australian War Memorial states: “The Australian and New Zealand forces landed on Gallipoli on 25 April, meeting fierce resistance from the Ottoman Turkish defenders. What had been planned as a bold stroke to knock Turkey out of the war quickly became a stalemate, and the campaign dragged on for eight months.
“At the end of 1915 the allied forces were evacuated from the peninsula, with both sides having suffered heavy casualties and endured great hardships. More than 8,000 Australian soldiers had died in the campaign. Gallipoli had a profound impact on Australians at home, and 25 April soon became the day on which Australians remembered the sacrifice of those who died in the war.” See
The first ANZAC Day was observed in 1916 in Australia, New Zealand and England and by troops in Egypt. That year, 25 April was officially named ‘Anzac Day’ by the Acting Australian Prime Minister, George Pearce. It has been held every year since then on the same date, 25 April. It has become, in Australia, a day that commemorates the roles played by Australian servicemen and servicewomen in many arenas of conflict beyond World War I.
So we rightly pause, today, to remember all that is involved warfare: the contributions of these service people, but also the many victims of war, those who lost their lives, those who lost their health and livelihood, those who lost their loved ones, those who lost all hope.
War has many consequences. It damages individuals, communities, societies, and nations. It has many more innocent victims than the casualty lists of enrolled personnel indicate. And there is abundant evidence that one war might resolve one issue, but often will cause other complications which will lead to another war. Look at the outcome of the Armistice at the end of World War One: we can trace a direct sequence of events that led from World War One to World War Two.
In recent years, in ANZAC Day ceremonies, there has at last been due recognition given to Indigenous men who enlisted in our armed services. The War Memorial has an educational programme on this topic for schoolchildren; see
For many years, the Australian War Memorial insisted that its concern is solely with “Australians serving overseas in peacekeeping operations or in war”. A decade ago, a previous Director, Dr Brendan Nelson, infamously asserted that “the Australian War Memorial is concerned with the story of Australians deployed in war overseas on behalf of Australia, not with a war within Australia between colonial militia, British forces, and Indigenous Australians.” See
This means that the War Memorial does not include any memory of the thousands of indigenous people who were killed on Australian soil over many decades, in The Frontier Wars (nor, indeed, those white colonials who also died in these encounters). You can read more about this at https://www.awm.gov.au/blog/2013/12/17/response-question-about-frontier-conflicts/
More recently, in 2023, the recently-appointed chair of the War Memorial, Kim Beazley, says he supports “proper recognition of the frontier conflict” as part of the institution’s $500m expansion, questioning how the institution can “have a history of Australian wars without that”. See https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/australian-war-memorial
Studies have indicated that, over those decades, more indigenous people died here, in Australia, at the hands of the colonisers, than the 60,000+ Australians who died in 1915—1919 on foreign soil, fighting a European war at the behest of our imperial overlords.
The Australian War Memorial blog cited above states, “The ‘Frontier Wars’ were a series of actions that were carried out by British colonial forces stationed in Australia, by the police, and by local settlers. It is important to note that the state police forces used Indigenous Australians to hunt down and kill other Indigenous Australians; but the Memorial has found no substantial evidence that home-grown military units, whether state colonial forces or post-Federation Australian military units, ever fought against the Indigenous population of this country.”
The myth that there was no official, state-sponsored military force which was charged with the task of dealing with “the troublesome natives” (or however else they were described in derogatory terms), is, however, punctured by this Wikipedia note: that on 3 October 1831, Governor Stirling appointed Edward Barrett Lennard as Commanding Officer of the Yeomanry of the Middle Swan, a citizens militia to pursue and capture Aboriginal offenders, with Henry Bull appointed as Commander of the Upper Swan.
The orders were that on being called out, the Yeomanry were “to cause the offending tribe to be instantly pursued, and if practicable captured and brought in at all hazard, and take such further decisive steps for bringing them to Punishment as the Circumstances of the Case may admit.” [Wikipedia here quotes from Michael J. Bourke (1987). On the Swan: a History of the Swan District of Western Australia. Nedlands, WA: University of Western Australia Press.]
The evidence is clear: Australian servicemen have been party to an officially-organised programme to attack First Nations people. And the evidence is also clear, that across the continent over many decades, thousands upon thousands of Indigenous people have been massacred by the invading British settlers and troopers. See the careful historical work of Prof. Lyndall Ryan and her team in the Centre for 21st Century Humanities in the Newcastle University, at
So today, as we remember those who served in war and the many victims of war, let us remember also the victims of The Frontier Wars, indigenous and white alike … especially the many thousands of First Nations people who died in these wars.
The Gospel passage that the lectionary designates for reading this coming Sunday opens with the statement by Jesus, “I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower” (15:1). In a later verse, the statement is reworked: “I am the vine, you are the branches” (15:5).
“I am the vine” is the last in a series of seven I AM statements found within the book of signs, the Gospel we attribute to John. “I am the bread of life” (6:48) is the first such instance in this series. The others are “the light of the world” (8:12), “the door of the sheep” (10:7, 9), “the good shepherd” (10:11, 14), “the resurrection and the life” (11:25), “the way, the truth, and the life” (14:6), and “the true vine” (16:1).
The vine, of course, was a standard image for Israel. The psalmist sings, “you brought a vine out of Egypt; you drove out the nations and planted it; you cleared the ground for it; it took deep root and filled the land; the mountains were covered with its shade, the mighty cedars with its branches; it sent out its branches to the sea, and its shoots to the River” (Ps 80:8–10). The prophet Hosea reflects a similar understanding, declaring, “Israel is a luxuriant vine that yields its fruit; the more his fruit increased, the more altars he built; as his country improved, he improved his pillars” (Hosea 10:1–2).
In the book of Judges, Jotham, the youngest son of Jerubbaal, tells a parable in which the trees seek a king, asking first the olive tree and the fig tree, before approaching to the vine, saying, “You come and reign over us”. However, the vine replied, “Shall I stop producing my wine
that cheers gods and mortals, and go to sway over the trees?”, before the bramble ultimately accepted the role (Judg 9:8–15).
Various prophets portray Israel as a vine. Isaiah sings God’s “love-song for my beloved … concerning his vineyard”, in which Israel is portrayed as the vineyard. He ends it by declaring that God “expected justice, but saw bloodshed; righteousness, but heard a cry!” (Isa 5:1–7).
In similar vein, Jeremiah laments the state of Israel, conveying God’s plea, “I planted you as a choice vine, from the purest stock. How then did you turn degenerate and become a wild vine?” (Jer 2:21). In a later oracle, the lament continues: “I wanted to gather them, says the Lord, there are no grapes on the vine, nor figs on the fig tree; even the leaves are withered, and what I gave them has passed away from them” (Jer 8:13).
Fellow prophet Ezekiel also utilises the imagery of the vine as a way to berate Israel for its sinful state. He reflects on the uselessness “the vine branch that is among the trees of the forest”—nothing useful is made from it, it simply provides wood for the fire (Ezek 15:1–8). The prophet draws the pointed comparison: “thus says the Lord God: like the wood of the vine among the trees of the forest, which I have given to the fire for fuel, so I will give up the inhabitants of Jerusalem; I will set my face against them” (Ezek 15:7–8).
Another parable told by Ezekiel involves a vine, planted and flourishing; it bore fruit and became a noble vine (Ezek 17:3–19). The parable ends with the rhetorical questions, “Will it prosper? Will he not pull up its roots, cause its fruit to rot and wither, its fresh sprouting leaves to fade? No strong arm or mighty army will be needed to pull it from its roots” (Ezek 17:9). Regarding the king who presides over this situation, God declares, “I will surely return upon his head my oath that he despised, and my covenant that he broke. I will spread my net over him, and he shall be caught in my snare; I will bring him to Babylon and enter into judgment with him there … all the pick of his troops shall fall by the sword, and the survivors shall be scattered to every wind” (Ezek 17:19–21).
A third use of the image begins positively, as Ezekiel speaks to the people, “Your mother was like a vine in a vineyard transplanted by the water, fruitful and full of branches from abundant water. Its strongest stem became a ruler’s sceptre; it towered aloft among the thick boughs; it stood out in its height with its mass of branches” (Ezek 18:10–11). But the sins of the people meant that God plucked out the vine and burnt it in fury, “so that there remains in it no strong stem, no sceptre for ruling” (Ezek 18:12–14).
In developing this parabolic image, Jesus applies it to his followers, both positively and negatively. The negative application comes directly from the way the prophets used this image in their parables and oracles; Jesus declares that “whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned” (John 15:6).
The more positive dimension of the imagery receives a more extended treatment by Jesus, both in this chapter and in other places in John’s Gospel. “Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing”, says Jesus (John 15:5b). “If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you”, he continues (15:7).
The close relationship of the vine and the branches thus provides significant statements about the mutual indwelling of the Son with the disciples, in these verses. This is a theme that runs throughout John’s Gospel. “Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me. I am the vine, you are the branches.” (15:4–5a).
The sense of “abiding in” is a mysterious inner connection that binds followers to their master; but because that master has likewise been bound with the Father, the intimacy of connection between Father, Son, and disciples is clear. In an earlier chapter, where the saying “I am the bread of life” is prominent, the Johannine Jesus had introduced this theme in relation to Eucharistic practice: “those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day … those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them” (6:54, 56).
Thus, in the extended explanation that Jesus had provided in response to the request of Philip, “Lord, show us the Father” (14:8), he affirms that “you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you” (14:20). Those who are linked inextricably with the Son, who abide in him, are linked through his intimate connection with the Father, as he abides in the Father. Father, Son, and Disciples: this is what I refer to as the Johannine version of the trinity; it comes to full fruition in the chapter that provides the Gospel,passage for the Sunday after this coming Sunday (John 17).
On the way that this three-part unity of Father, Son, and Disciples is developed in John’s Gospel, see more detail at
The passage from Acts that was proposed for last Sunday (Acts 17) and that proposed for this coming Sunday (Acts 18) come from the third main section of Acts, where the narrative tells of how Paul and various co-workers established messianic communities in towns throughout Asia Minor and around the Aegean Sea.
These communities contain many elements of the pattern of community life which has become evident in the earlier sections of Acts. In particular, this section consolidates the inclusive character of the community, for each newly-established assembly comprises Gentiles as well as Jews. In this way the section particularly builds on what has been established in the previous section.
In Corinth this week, as in Thessalonica last week, the tensions that exist between Jews and Gentiles in this community are evident. Paul had been travelling with Timothy and Silas, as we saw last week in Thessalonica; they had left him in Beroea (Acts 17:14) while he went on to Athens (17:16–34) and then to Corinth (18:1). Corinth was just 60km from Athens; it was a strategic trading city because of its two ports, one on each side of the isthmus. The old city had been sacked by the Romans in 146 BCE; they rebuilt it and declared it a colony in 44 BCE.
Whilst in Corinth, Paul meets with a new set of co-workers, Aquila and Priscilla (18:2). This married couple is well-known from Paul’s letters, where the mention of the female, in the shortened form, Prisca, in first place ahead of Aquila, is noteworthy (Rom 16:3; 2 Tim 4:19; see also 1 Cor 16:19). Luke notes that they are Jews who had recently moved from Italy to Corinth, as a result of the expulsion of Jews from Rome under Claudius (18:2); this probably took place in 49 CE (Suetonius, Claudius 25.4).
They work as tentmakers (18:3), an occupation often considered to indicate significant means (however, an alternative reading, that tentmakers were craftspeople of lower social status, is offered by some interpreters). This shared trade means that they can provide both hospitality and a place for Paul to carry out his trade whilst he is in Corinth. When Paul travels on, they accompany him to Syria (18:18) and Ephesus (18:19), where they remain while Paul continues on further; in Ephesus they instruct Apollos (18:26).
Paul’s familiar pattern (18:1–6) is evident as he argues in the synagogue on the sabbath, in an attempt to persuade his audience (18:4). As Paul here bears witness (18:5), a typical activity of his (20:21), he fulfils the promise made by Jesus (1:8), as also did Peter (2:32; 5:32). Paul’s message is the familiar refrain: “the Messiah, he is Jesus” (18:5; see 9:22; 17:3). Just as this claim provided the foundations for the community in Jerusalem (2:36), so in Corinth the declaration that Jesus is Messiah will form the basis for the Corinthian assembly.
Paul collaborated in the writing of many of his letters—of the seven agreed authentic letters, only two are written by Paul alone. The others are written in association with Timothy (2 Cor, Phil, 1 Thess and Phlm), Silvanus (1 Thess), and Sosthenes (1 Cor). It is an excerpt from this latter letter that the creators of the lectionary, in their wisdom, have offered us for this coming Sunday (1 Cor 1:10–18), alongside the short report (Acts 18:1–4) of Paul’s visit to Corinth.
Sosthenes and Paul tell the Corinthians that they write to “give thanks” (1 Thess 1:4) and also to “appeal to you” (1:10); and later, to “admonish you as my beloved children” (4:14). The constructive approach that they bring is made clear in the opening prayer of thanksgiving (1:4–9).
In the passage we hear this Sunday (1 Cor 1:10–18), there is an unequivocal statement about what undergirds the constructive intention that Sosthenes and Paul bring as they write. It is “the cross of Christ” (1:18) that shapes the discussion and directions that Paul will present to the believers in Corinth in the ensuing 16 chapters. (This letter is longer than all other Pauline letters, except for Romans—also 16 chapters in length.)
Acts reports that Paul left Corinth in company with Priscilla and Aquila (Acts 18:18), moving to Ephesus, in which city the letter to Corinth was written (1 Cor 16:8). There is no further mention of Sosthenes, although the co-authorship of 1 Corinthians might suggest that Sosthenes also left his home town of Corinth—at least for a time, to escape the persecution he had experienced there.
Sosthenes, like Crispus, would have been high-status in the Jewish community in Corinth. Sosthenes and Paul indicate that they have received other high-status visitors from Corinth, travelling to Ephesus: Stephanas, Fortunatus, and Achaicus (16:17), as well as “the people from Chloe” (1:11)—were they, perhaps, slaves from the household in which Chloe was patron? Female patrons, of course, were known at the time—witness Phoebe (Rom 16:1–2), and see the excellent overview of Marg Mowczko at https://margmowczko.com/new-testament-women-church-leaders/
So Paul and Sosthenes were well-informed as they write this letter to the Corinthians. There are problems aplenty in Corinth. In the few verses set for this coming Sunday, they write about division and the quarrels that have resulted. They plead for agreement and unity. They remind the Corinthians about baptism.
In subsequent chapters, they will range over a long list of matters, often introducing them with the formulaic “now concerning …” (7:1, 25; 8:1; 12:1; 16:1, 12). That formula may suggest they are responding to specific information brought by their visitors. It certainly points to vigorous discussions about a number of matters where there were divergent opinions amongst the Corinthians.
So, in verse 18, the last verse of the selection offered for this Sunday, Sosthenes and Paul sound out the key theme of this letter, which is about the cross of Christ: “foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God” (1 Cor 1:18). The verses immediately following develop this motif of the paradox inherent in the cross with rhetorical finesse.
Given the reference to an earlier letter to the Corinthians (1 Cor 5:9), there may already have been discussion of the cross of Christ—either in that letter, or in a presumed response from the Corinthians, or in personal discussions and sermons during the period that Paul and others were in Corinth. Acts 18 indicates that Paul was there for 18 months, along with Aquila and Priscilla, Silas and Timothy, as well Titus Justus, a godfearer and Crispus, the leader of the synagogue (archisynagogos), and also Sosthenes, also identified as a leader of the synagogue (archisynagogos) who was seized and beaten in the presence of Gallio, the proconsul (Acts 18:17). Was the cross the focus of any of his preaching during this 18 months? It seems quite a plausible speculation.
“The cross” is certainly a theme that was sounded by Paul in his preaching and his writing. He had written to the Galatians, “may I never boast of anything except the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world” (Gal 6:14).
He had written to the Philippians, urging them to “have the same mind” as Christ Jesus, who “humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross” (Phil 2:8), and warning them that those who opposed Paul’s preaching were “enemies of the cross” (Phil 3:18).
He would later inform the Corinthians that he models his own ministry on that of Christ; “he was crucified in weakness, but lives by the power of God; for we are weak in him, but in dealing with you we will live with him by the power of God” (2 Cor 13:4)—just as he had told the Galatians that “I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me” (Gal 2:19–20).
He would also later exhort the believers in Rome to see their baptism as the means by which they were linked with Jesus in his death and resurrection, instructing them that “our old self was crucified with him so that the body of sin might be destroyed, and we might no longer be enslaved to sin” (Rom 6:3–6). In the central theological argumentation of this important letter, Paul places the cross as the means by which the good news is known: “God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us” (Rom 5:8).
He would remind them that “Christ died and lived again, so that he might be Lord of both the dead and the living” (Rom 14:9), and he deals with the conflict in Rome between weak and strong by proposing that the quarrelling parties follow the pattern established by Christ, who “did not please himself; but, as it is written, ‘The insults of those who insult you have fallen on me’” (Rom 15:3). The cross informed his instructions to the Romans for their daily living.
The same process is employed in the earlier letter to the Corinthians. The cross is the benchmark for understanding how believers are to behave, how they are to relate to one another, and how the community that they form is to be described. All of this is worked out in the first two chapters of the letter (1 Cor 1:18–31; 2:1–12).
There, Paul will remind the Corinthians that “we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles” (1:23), that “I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified” (2:2), and that the paradoxical wisdom that is at the heart of the story of Jesus, “none of the rulers of this age understood this; for if they had, they would not have crucified the Lord of glory” (2:8).
For this passage, however, the message is focussed on the centrality of the cross, as the way that God (in Paul’s mind) has chosen to communicate with the people of his time.
Each year, on the fourth Sunday of the season of Easter, the Revised Common Lectionary provides a section of John 10 as the Gospel reading for the Sunday. That chapter is where Jesus teaches about his role as “the good shepherd” who lays down his life for the sheep. The chapter is divided over the three years: 10:1–10 in Year A, then 10:11–18 in Year B, and 10:22–30 in Year C. For this reason, this particular Sunday is sometimes called the Good Shepherd Sunday.
The section offered in Year A concludes with the classic claim of Jesus, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly” (10:10). The passage set for Year B, this year, begins with the famous affirmation, “I am the good shepherd; the good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep” (10:14-15).
Both passages develop the image of Jesus as the shepherd of the sheep, in intimate relationship with the sheep; the shepherd knows his own (10:15), calls them by name (10:3), shows them the way of salvation (10:9), and lays down his life for the sheep (10:11, 15, 17–18).
These two sections of this chapter (10:1–10, 11–18) follow on from the story of the man born blind (9:1–41), which itself has emerged out of the conflicts between Jesus and Jewish authorities (7:10—8:59), reported as taking place in Jerusalem during the Festival of Booths (7:2). That sequence of conflicts had culminated with the Jewish authorities picking up stones to throw at Jesus (8:59).
The story told in chapter 9, like the whole Gospel, reflects the situation of a group of followers of Jesus towards the end of the first century CE, inheriting the richness of the Jewish faith, convinced that they have found The Teacher of the way that God requires, in Jesus of Nazareth. As a result, they have encountered opposition, argumentation, and expulsion from their familiar faith community, and through this they have engaged in verbal warfare with those who have pushed them out.
Retelling the story of the man born blind, who encounters Jesus and claims faith in him, validates their perspective on life and faith. The story reveals what God intends and desires, through the way that an unknown member of their community has constructed this narrative. The story reinforces the views that have been developed by members of the community, as they hope that others might “come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing [they] may have life in his name” (20:31).
John’s Gospel is known for its series of I AM statements. In the first offering from John 10 (verses 1–10), Jesus has said, “I am the gate” (v.9)—the avenue for entry into the sheepfold, which was a place of care and protection for the sheep.
But “I am the gate” makes sense only because of what goes before it; the gatekeeper, who opens the gate for the sheep (v.3). This image then morphs into the more familiar image of the shepherd of the sheep (vv.11, 14)—the one who knows the sheep, calls them by name, and guides them in the paths that they should follow.
In fact, Jesus refers to his followers as “sheep” 13 times throughout the chapter. This draws on the common description of the people of Israel as sheep, found in a number of psalms. The exodus from Egypt is described as the time when “he led out his people like sheep, and guided them in the wilderness like a flock; he led them in safety, so that they were not afraid” (Ps 78:52–53).
The psalmist encourages the people to sing with joy, for “he is our God, and we are the people of his pasture, and the sheep of his hand” (Ps 95:7). The people rejoice that it is this God who “made us, and we are his; we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture” (Ps 100:3; see also Ps 44:11, 22; 74:1).
Alongside this, in Hebrew Scripture, God is explicitly identified as a shepherd; the psalmist declares that God is the “Shepherd of Israel, who lead[s] Joseph like a flock” (Ps 80:1). Elsewhere, the opening line of perhaps the best-known psalm is simply, “the Lord is my shepherd” (Ps 23:1).
But many other passages contain mentions of shepherds. As he was dying, with his sons gathered around him, Jacob spoke to his son Joseph, praying, “the God before whom my ancestors Abraham and Isaac walked, the God who has been my shepherd all my life to this day … bless the boys [Ephraim and Manasseh]” (Gen 48:15–16).
Later, Jacob indicated that Joseph’s strength came “by the hands of the Mighty One of Jacob, by the name of the Shepherd, the Rock of Israel, by the God of your father, who will help you, by the Almighty who will bless you” (Gen 49:24–25). Then, when David was anointed as king, Samuel said to him “it is you who shall be shepherd of my people Israel, you who shall be ruler over Israel” (2 Sam 5:2; 1 Chron 11:2).
Subsequent rulers in Israel were accorded this title; yet key prophets during the exile lamented that there had been “stupid shepherds” with “no understanding” (Jer 10:21; Isa 56:11) and had done evil (Jer 12:10–13; 23:1–2; 50:6–7; Ezek 34:1–10). Some prophets in the Exile then looked beyond this to a better kind of shepherd-leader.
The anonymous exilic figure we know as Second Isaiah declared that the Lord God “will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep” (Isa 40:11). Later, he declares that Cyrus, king of Persia, would be anointed as Messiah, to carry out God’s purpose (Isa 44:28–45:1). He is the one of whom the Lord says, “he is my shepherd and he shall carry out all my purpose” (Isa 45:28). That is a striking extension of the strong scriptural imagery of the shepherd, normally applied to the God of Israel or rulers within Israel, which is now placed onto a foreign ruler.
Also during the exile, the prophet Jeremiah looked to the time when God would restore “shepherds after my own heart” in their midst (Jer 3:15) and Ezekiel prophesied God’s intentions: “I myself will search for my sheep, and will seek them out. As shepherds seek out their flocks when they are among their scattered sheep, so I will seek out my sheep. I will rescue them from all the places to which they have been scattered on a day of clouds and thick darkness.” (Ezek 34:12). Ezekiel then extends this role to the king when he reports God’s words: “my servant David shall be king over them; and they shall all have one shepherd” (Ezek 37:24).
This is the scriptural heritage that Jesus draws on in his famous statement, “I am the good shepherd” (John 10:11, 14). Jesus refers to his followers as “sheep” 13 times throughout the chapter, drawing on the equally common description of the people of Israel as sheep, found in a number of psalms (Ps 44:11, 22; 74:1; 78:52; 95:7; 100:3).
Jews would have recognised immediately the claim that he was making for himself—and the way that he has intensified it by noting that “the good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep” (John 10:11; see also v.15). The passage thus looks forward to the death he will suffer on the cross—the example supreme of “the good shepherd”.
The readings from Acts that are proposed for this Sunday (Acts 17) and the following Sunday (Acts 18) come from the third main section of Acts, where the narrative tells of how Paul and various co-workers established messianic communities in towns throughout Asia Minor and around the Aegean Sea.
These communities contain many elements of the pattern of community life which has become evident in the earlier sections of Acts, in Jerusalem (1:12—6:7) and in the household of Cornelius (10:1—11:18). In particular, this section consolidates the inclusive character of the community, for each newly-established assembly comprises Gentiles as well as Jews. In this way the section particularly builds on what has been established in the previous section.
Thessalonica, the capital of the Roman province of Macedonia, was a port city strategically situated on the Egnatian Way, the main transport link between Rome and the eastern part of the empire. It was an important trading post in Greece, second only to Corinth.
Evidence of its cosmopolitan nature includes an Egyptian settlement, a strong Jewish presence, and a Samaritan community in the city. Religion was a part of everyday life, and so worship of all manner of gods and goddesses thrived. There were also schools to learn philosophy, travelling preachers, and synagogues for worshipping Yahweh.
Paul, Silas and Timothy arrived in Thessalonica in the year 50 CE. The account in Acts 17 indicates that they went to the synagogue, as was Paul’s custom (17:1–2) where Paul declared that the Jewish scriptures pointed to Jesus as Messiah (Acts 17:2–3). In Thessalonica, the tensions that exist between Jews and Gentiles in this community are evident. Arguing with the synagogue attenders (17:2) was a practice in evidence in Paul’s subsequent synagogue visits (17:17; 18:4,19; 19:8) as well as in the assembly in Troas (20:7,9) and when he is before Felix (24:25).
Paul bases his argument in the Hebrew scriptures (17:2), as was done earlier by Philip (8:35), Peter (2:25–31) and Paul himself (13:33–37). Paul’s message contains elements which are familiar, not only from his own speeches, but also from those of Peter and Jesus. First of all, he states that “the Messiah must suffer” (17:3; see 3:18) “and be raised from the dead” (17:3; see 5:30, 10:40). Then, Paul defines the Messiah as “Jesus whom I proclaim to you” (17:3; see 2:36). The author of Acts thus shapes Paul’s message so that it stands in clear continuity with the message that has been proclaimed from Pentecost onwards, reported in the preceding chapters of Acts.
This message brings success amongst the devout Greeks and leading women, who believe (17:4). Success amongst godfearers has already occurred in Antioch (13:43,50) and Philippi (16:14), and will occur in Athens (17:17) and Corinth (18:7). Women of high social status become believers in Antioch (13:50), Philippi (the description of Lydia’s trade in 16:14 infers such high status) and Beroea (17:12). Again, the author of Acts shapes the narrative to reflect consistency of method and result.
However, a pattern of divided response (see 13:4–12) continues, for opposition is stirred up by Jews who exhibit jealousy (17:5), like those who were similarly antagonistic in Jerusalem (5:17) and Antioch (13:45), and like Paul himself when he was a persecutor (22:3–4). Paul and Silas are brought before the politarchs (17:6); Luke accurately employs an uncommon term which inscriptional evidence suggests was reserved for city authorities in Macedonia only.
A long list of such historical accuracies in Acts 13—28 can be cited (the most comprehensive list is provided in Colin Hemer’s 1989 work, The Book of Acts in the Setting of Hellenistic History). This does not, however, remove concerns about Luke’s inaccuracies at times (see 5:36–37 for a most obvious anachronistic reference), nor does it negate the claim that Luke’s own interests shape the way that he presents and interprets events in his narrative. Thus, the accusations levelled against Paul and Silas reflect Lukan motifs.
In particular, “turning the world upside down” (17:6) has been a common theme in Luke’s story of Jesus (Luke 1:46–55; 6:20–26; 9:23–24;13:30; 14:7–11; 16:19–31; 18:9–14; 22:25–26). Acting contrary to Roman practice (17:7) was a charge levelled against Paul and Silas in Philippi (16:20–21); Paul later defends himself against this charge in Caesarea (25:8).
Paul’s own description of his time in Thessalonica refers to the “distress and persecution” which he experienced (1 Thess 3:7); this appears to concur with Luke’s account of opposition there. By contrast, Paul comments that the Thessalonian converts “turned to God from idols” (1 Thess 1:9) and uncharacteristically fails to quote from Hebrew Scripture in his letter to them, suggesting that they were a wholly gentile community of believers. This differs from Luke’s account of the community’s origins from the synagogue.
In the opening thanksgiving of this letter (1:1–8), Paul characterizes the Thessalonians as undertaking a “work of faith and labour of love and steadfastness of hope in our Lord Jesus Christ” (1:8). These terms summarise the key issues to be addressed later in that letter; all three return at 1 Thess 5:8, where Paul exhorts the Thessalonians to “be sober, and put on the breastplate of faith and love, and for a helmet the hope of salvation”.
Paul writes more about the faith of the Thessalonians at 3:1–10; he commends them for their love at 3:6 and 4:9–10, and prays for it to increase at 3:12. He strengthens them in their hope at 2:19 and 4:13–18. Also in the thanksgiving, he affirmed them for being “imitators of us and of the Lord” (1:6)—a central motif in Paul’s theology (see 1 Cor 4:16; 11:1; Gal 4:12; Phil 1:7; 3:13–15; 2 Thess 3:7; 2 Tim 1:13).
The language which Paul uses in this letter (and especially in chapter 2) is reminiscent of discussions of rhetoricians and philosophers of the time, a number of whom were accused of having base motives, an interest in self-promotion and a desire for immediate financial rewards!
In particular, Paul’s itinerant way of life could easily leave him open to such a criticism. How he defends himself is similar to the way that the better class of philosophers and rhetoricians of the day tried to defend themselves. My own doktorvater, Prof. Abraham Malherbe, demonstrated how there are many resonances, for instance, with Oration 32 by the second century writer, Dio of Prusa (nicknamed Chrysostom, “golden mouthed”, for his own skill in oratory).
This Sunday, the lectionary proposes a selection of verses from Acts 3, containing most (but not all) of a speech by Peter (Acts 3:12–19). That speech (3:12–26) follows an account of how Peter heals a lame man (3:1–11); a miracle that provides a specific instance of the “many wonders and signs” which the apostles performed (2:43). In this blog, I will range beyond these explore the speech in its context.
As this particular healing takes place in the grounds of the temple (3:2), the heart of the Jewish capital, Jerusalem. Peter and John come to the temple to pray (3:1), in keeping with both the community practice of prayer (2:42) and of regularly attending the temple (2:46). The temple remained a focal point for prayer until its destruction in 70 CE.
The juxtaposition of the lame man and the temple setting is striking. Lame animals were decreed to be unsuitable as offerings to God (Deut 15:21; Mal 1:8,13) and lame people were amongst those forbidden from drawing near to offer sacrifice in the temple (Lev 21:18; 2 Sam 5:8). Yet amongst the prophets, the lame are included among the outcasts gathered by God as the faithful remnant (Jer 31:8; Mic 4:6-7; Zeph 3:19), and the vision of the return of the redeemed to Zion (Isa 35:1–10) includes the assertion that “the lame shall leap like a deer” (Isa 35:6).
Jesus has followed in this prophetic tradition by healing the various categories of outcast; by his activity, “the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have good news preached to them” (Luke 7:22, par Matt 11:5; see also Luke 4:18; Matt 15:30–31; 21:14).
In parables told only by the Lukan Jesus, the lame are included in the outcasts invited to the banquets (Luke 14:13,21). This compares with the account of how Mephibosheth, the lame grandson of Saul, son of Jonathan, ate regularly at the table of King David (2 Sam 4:4; 9:1–13).
Although no account of a specific healing of a lame person is found in Luke’s Gospel (cf. John 5:1–9), the healing of this lame man (the first specific healing incident in Acts) places the apostles in continuity with Jesus who heals the lame (Luke 7:22). A similar healing is later performed by Paul (14:8–10), whilst Philip is described as healing “many others who were paralysed or lame” (8:7).
The lame man’s expectation that he would receive alms (3:2–3) is reasonable. Caring for the needy was integral to Jewish piety (Deut 15:7–11). By the hellenistic period, almsgiving had become highly valued as a religious duty (Sir 3:30; 7:10; 29:9–12; 40:24; Tob 4:7–11,16; 12:8–10; 14:8–11; cf. Matt 6:2–4). The Lukan Jesus commended almsgiving (Luke 11:41; 12:33) and subsequent characters in Acts practice almsgiving—notably, Cornelius (Acts 10:2,4,31) and Paul (24:17).
However, as Peter and John “look intensely” at the man (3:4; on such intense scrutiny, see 14:9), they sidestep this responsibility, for the focus in this account is to be on their exercise of divine power. Peter commands the man to stand, revealing that his power comes from “the name of the Messiah, Jesus of Nazareth” (3:6).
This name has already been declared as the source of salvation (2:21) and forgiveness (2:38); “the name” remains a constant emphasis in the ensuing scenes (3:16; 4:7,10,12,17–18,30; 5:40-41) and appears subsequently in connection with proclamation (8:12; 9:15–16,27–28; 10:43; 15:14,17; 21:13), baptism (8:16; 10:48; 19:5; 22:16) and exorcism (16:18; 19:13,17).
As Peter raises up the lame man (3:7), he is healed and strengthened, and enters the temple (3:8). The healed man immediately recognises the source of this miracle, for he is portrayed as “praising God” (3:8,9). The man joins himself with the community members whose regular life is typified by an attitude of praise towards God (2:47). Seeing this healing, the people show “wonder” (3:10), a questioning attitude also displayed towards Jesus (Luke 4:36; 5:9), and “amazement” (3:10), a more insightful appreciation of the incident, as also displayed towards Jesus (Luke 5:26).
Having reported the healing, Luke shifts his focus to Peter, who addresses the people, providing an interpretation of what has taken place, just as he did on the day of Pentecost. Peter’s third speech (3:12–26) begins by accusing the people of thinking “as if by our own power or piety we have made him walk” (3:12). Peter asserts that it is God—“the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, the God of our ancestors” (3:13)—who has enabled the miracle.
The speech echoes key elements of Peter’s Pentecost speech. The healing took place in the name of “the Messiah, Jesus of Nazareth” (3:6; see 2:36). Jesus is the one whom God glorified (3:13) and God raised (3:15; see 2:24); he is the one of whom the apostles are witnesses (3:15; see 2:32) for of him they “see and know” (3:16).
Peter also says that Jesus is the suffering Messiah, in fulfilment of “what God announced beforehand through the mouth of all the prophets” (3:18). This extends the fulfilment of prophecy from Jesus’ resurrection (2:25–31) and exaltation (2:34–35) to his crucifixion. Paul makes the same affirmation, that the suffering of the Messiah fulfils scripture, at 26:23. So the speech both reprises and develops the explicit things said about Jesus in 2:22–36, as well as the prophetic and apostolic witness which characterises the apostolic proclamation.
Luke has Peter call for a response of repentance (3:19), as he did at 2:37–39. Repentance is an integral element in the eschatological scenario. The eschatological hope for the coming times had often been proclaimed by Jesus (Luke 4:43; 9:26-27; 10:1–16; 12:49–56; 13:22–30; 17:20–37; 19:11–27; 21:5–36). This continues as an essential element in the apostolic proclamation.
Luke reports Peter as describing this future time in some detail (3:19–21). God is in control of this process: God will wipe out sins (3:19b) because people will have already repented and turned to God (3:19a); “times of refreshing” will come “from the presence of the Lord” (3:20a); and God will then send the appointed Messiah (3:20b).
After this, during an interim period, the ascended Jesus remains in heaven (cf. 1:11; 2:33), awaiting “the time of universal restoration” which will implement what God has long ago promised (3:21). The delay occasioned by this waiting does not mean that God has lost control of events, however. Jesus remains in heaven by divine decree; the word “must”, 3:21, indicates this.
The “times of refreshing” may refer to Jesus’ teaching that “the Lord will cut short the end” (Mark 13:20, but omitted in Luke 21); the sense of “refreshing” is of a breathing space before the next event in sequence takes place (see Exod 8:15). The “time of universal restoration” transcends the earlier question of the disciples concerning the restoration of the kingdom to Israel (1:6); here, restoration has a universal scope. This is the broadest expression of eschatological hope in all of Acts.
This time of restoration may thus correlate with the eschatological events which Peter has already reported at 2:17-21 (citing Joel 2:28-32; see also Mal 4:5-6); and which is later mention in Peter’s Caesarea speech (10:42) and in Paul’s Areopagus speech (17:31). On these occasions, however, the description of that time is limited to noting the role that Jesus will perform, as the one “ordained” (10:42) or “appointed” (17:31; cf. 3:20) to carry out God’s judgement. This speech thus provides the most detailed look into the promised future time of judgement and redemption.
The time of universal restoration which Peter declares is that which “God spoke through the mouth of his holy prophets” (3:21; cf. Luke 1:70). The way that Peter here expresses the future role of Jesus evokes the prophetic words of Mary (Luke 1:54–55) and Zechariah (Luke 1:68–75). Justice and salvation will come about at this time.
It is this still-awaited future act of God which provides the springboard for Peter’s demand for repentance (3:19). Peter concludes his speech by urging the people to “turn, each one, from your sins because God raised up his son and sent him as a blessing to you” (3:26, as a fulfilment of the promise to Abraham cited in 3:25).
Conflict erupts, however, when the authorities object that Peter is teaching the people, primarily (in their eyes) about the resurrection of the dead (4:2). Luke has already documented the opposition of the Sadducees to this idea (Luke 20:27-40). Here, they join with the priests and the temple police, the same group which Luke noted as having plotted against Jesus (Luke 22:4) and arrested him (Luke 22:52).
Together, they initiate the arrest of Peter and John (4:1-3). This is the first of many scenes of judicial conflict in Acts; the pattern has already been established in the story of Jesus (Luke 22:47-23:25). A very brief second summary description of the community (4:4) follows, picking up from 2:41 the motif of increasing numbers within the messianic community.
The story of the empty tomb, early in the morning of Easter Sunday, is well known. The story of the appearance of Jesus as a stranger, walking alongside the couple who were heading out of Jerusalem towards the village of Emmaus, is also very well known.
What happened after that? Did the disciples huddle in fear in their house in Jerusalem (as John reports, John 20:19–31)? Did they head north to Galilee, as the young man in the empty tomb had instructed the women to do (Mark 16:7)? Was it in Galilee, on a mountain, that Jesus delivered his “Great Commission” to the eleven (Matt 28:16–20)? Or beside the Sea of Galilee, where some of the disciples had returned, disheartened and focussed on getting back to life as they once knew it, fishing for a living once again, when Jesus surprised them by the fire (John 21:1–14)?
The author of Luke’s Gospel offers us the first two stories in his Gospel: the empty tomb (Luke 24:1–12) and the road to Emmaus (24:13–35). But he does not report any of the subsequent stories we have in these other Gospels. In his narrative, the disciples remain in Jerusalem, forming a community of believers who had gathered in the room where the travellers to Emmaus had returned and were sharing “what had happened on the road” (24:35).
It is noteworthy that in the Lukan narrative, there is no change of scene, no change of characters, no breathing space at all between the return of the Emmaus travellers and the appearance of the risen Jesus. Luke’s narrative simply pushes on immediately to report that “while they were talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them” (v.36).
It is what ensues in this scene that forms the passage proposed by the lectionary for this coming Sunday, the Third Sunday of Easter (Luke 24:36–48). This scene is notable for a series of words which Jesus speaks to the group of those who were gathered together at that time—not just “the eleven and their companions” (v.33), but also the travellers returning from Emmaus (v.35).
In this post I will highlight seven words of Jesus that the author of this narrative reports in this final scene of his Gospel. In these seven words, the author of this Gospel both draws together threads from the preceding narrative, bringing this work to a climax, and brings us to the point of anticipating what will follow in the second volume that he writes.
“Peace be with you” (v.36). Peace (Hebrew shalom) was the standard Jewish greeting, as seen in the words of the old Ephraimite man (Judg 19:20), Eli’s word to Hannah (1 Sam1:17), Jonathan’s word to David (1 Sam 20:42), David’s instruction to his messengers to Nabal (1 Sam 25:5–6), and the song of Amasai (1 Chron 12:18).
The blessing of peace is encouraged by the psalmists (Ps 122:8;128:6) and the prophets (Isa 52:7; Nah 1:15), although Jeremiah warns of its abuse by false prophets in his day (Jer 6:14; 8:11–15; 14:13). Paul, of course, incorporates this traditional Hebraic greeting into the start of each of his letters, in the formulaic “grace to you and peace” (Rom 1:7; 1 Cor 1:3; 2 Cor 1:2; Gal1:3; Phil 1:2; 1Thess 1:1; Phlm 3).
Given this widespread usage, it would seem therefore the natural thing for Jesus to say to his friends when he came to them in that room: “peace be with you”.
More than that, Jesus speaking a greeting of peace in the Lukan narrative evokes the double offering of peace in John’s narrative of what may well be seen as the same scene (John 20:19–21). The second word, “Touch me and see” (v.39a), also evokes the scene in John 20, where Jesus showed the ten disciples his hands and his side (John 20:20) and then, a week later, said to Thomas “put your finger here and see my hands; reach out your hand and put it in my side” (John 20:27).
Both Luke and John provide an apologetic demonstration that the resurrection of Jesus involves his earthly body, with Luke providing the clarity of the claim, “a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have” (Luke 24:39b). This line of argument differs from that found in Paul’s extended discussion of the resurrection, where he notes that whilst a person is “sown a physical body, it is raised a spiritual body” (1 Cor 15:44) and then claims that “flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable” (1 Cor 15:50).
The implication of Paul’s line of argument is that the resurrection body of Jesus, whilst it bears the marks of the cross, will nevertheless be in a transformed state—and so will the bodies of believers be, after they are raised to be with Jesus. He states this explicitly in another letter: “he will transform the body of our humiliation that it may be conformed to the body of his glory” (Phil 3:21). That quasi-Platonic contrast between the earthly body of humiliation and the heavenly body of glory seems quite different to the understanding conveyed by Luke.
“Have you anything here to eat?” (v.41) is the third word of the risen Jesus. Only in Luke’s account does the risen Jesus show any interest in consuming food. That is not surprising, since Luke locates the earthly Jesus at table, sharing in a meal, more often than the other evangelists.
Mark tells us that as Jesus sat at dinner (or more accurately, reclined beside then table, leaning on his elbow) in Levi’s house, “many tax collectors and sinners were also sitting with Jesus and his disciples” (Mark 2:15–16; in Matthew’s account, he is renamed as Matthew, Matt 9:10–11).
In Luke’s narrative, this scene is replicated (Luke 5:29–31); yet Jesus also eats with with a Pharisee and a sinful woman (7:36–50); with Pharisees, a lawyer, and scribes (11:37–54); and with tax collectors and sinners (15:1–32; verses 1–2 infer the additional presence of Pharisees and scribes). After he shares a final meal with his closest followers (22:14–38), the risen Jesus then shares a meal with his fellow travellers on arrival in Emmaus (24:30). So this request should not be a surprise!
“Everything written about me must be fulfilled” (v.44) then follows as the fourth word. The fulfilment of prophecy in what is taking place during the lifetime of Jesus is a common claim in all four Gospel narratives, sounding forth from the baptism of Jesus (Mark 1:2 and pars) to the arrest of Jesus (Mark 14:49; Matt 26:53–56) and the events that follow (Luke 22:37; John 19:24, 36–37).
Indeed, the author of Luke’s Gospel has set the whole story of Jesus in relation to Hebrew Scripture, beginning with numerous scriptural allusions in the songs sung by Mary (Luke 1:46–55), Zechariah (1:68–79), and Simeon (2:29–32) and highlighting this in the words that Jesus spoke in his hometown synagogue (4:16–21) and in later sayings (6:20–26; 8:10; 12:52–53; 20:17–18, 41–44). The note of fulfillment sounded in the closing scene of the Gospel (24:44) gathers these threads into a cohesive climax.
For the fifth word, Jesus declares that “repentance and forgiveness of sins” are to be “proclaimed … to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem” (v.47). The activity of proclamation that he undertook during his life (Luke 4:43) was a charge that he gave his followers (9:2, 60;10:8–11). Throughout Acts, those followers continue to proclaim this message (Acts 5:42; 8:5, 35, 40; 9:20; 13:5, 38; 14:21; 15:35–36; 16:10; 17:13, 23).
The message of repentance, sounded both by John the baptiser (Luke 3:3, 8) and by Jesus (Luke 5:32; 13:1–5), is continued by Peter (Acts 2:38; 3:19), Philip (8:32), and by Paul (17:30; 26:19–20). In like manner, Jesus preaches forgiveness (Luke 5:24; 6:37; 7:47–48; 17:3–4), exhorts this as central to prayer (11:4), and exemplifies it even in his dying hour (23:34).23:34). Then, in Acts, forgiveness is indeed proclaimed by Peter (Acts 2:38; 5:31; 8:22; 10:43) and by Paul (13:38; 26:18).
The sixth word of the risen Jesus in Luke’s narrative sounds yet another key Lukan theme. “You are witnesses of these things” (v.48), Jesus tells his followers. The author then begins the second volume of his account by repeating and expanding this commission which Jesus gave his followers: “you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth” (Acts 1:8). The missionary impulse is clear.
Jesus foresees the “opportunity to testify” that his followers will have in the times of trial when they are persecuted, arrested, and “brought before kings and governors because of my name” (Luke 21:12–13). The book of Acts then reports on that testimony is given about Jesus at many places, in the witness offered by Peter (Acts 1:22; 2:32; 3:15; 5:32; 10:39–42) and by Paul (13:31; 20:24; 22:15; 23:11; 26:16).
“I am sending upon you what my Father promised” (v.49). This seventh and final word stands at the end of the Gospel, but does not provide full “closure” to that narrative. Rather, it takes us to the brink, as we anticipate the departure of Jesus (narrated at vv.50–51) and the ongoing work of bearing witness, for which the disciples have just been commissioned (v.48). The author would have us look immediately for the sequel to this Gospel.
And, indeed, the promise is subsequently seen to come to fruition when “the day of Pentecost had been filled to completion, when they were all together in one place” (Acts 2:1, my translation). The promise is fulfilled a second time in the house of Cornelius, when “the gift of the Holy Spirit [was] poured out even on the Gentiles” (Acts 10:45), and Peter rejoices that “God gave them [the Gentiles] the same gift that he gave us [Jews] when we believed in the Lord Jesus Christ” (Acts 11:17).
The Spirit continues as an active presence within all that the followers of Jesus do throughout much of Acts (4:8, 31; 6:10; 7:55; 8:29, 39; 9:17, 31; 10:19, 44–48; 11:12, 15, 24, 28; 13:2, 4, 9, 52; 15:8, 28;16:6–10; 19:6, 21; 20:22–23, 28; 21:4, 11). It is not without reason that some have proposed that “The Acts of the Apostles” would be more accurately named “The Acts of the Holy Spirit”.
Together, then, these seven words of the risen Jesus draw together key strands in the Gospel, anticipate important aspects of Acts, and provide a pivot point from the first volume to its sequel. It is a very rich passage.
The account of how Peter heals a lame man (3:1–11) is the passage proposed by the Narrative Lectionary for the Third Sunday in Easter this year. This healing provides a specific instance of the “many wonders and signs” which the apostles performed (2:43).
As this particular healing takes place in the grounds of the temple (3:2), the focus remains on the heart of the Jewish capital. Peter and John come to the temple to pray (3:1), in keeping with both the community practice of prayer (2:42) and of regularly attending the temple (2:46). The temple remained a focal point for prayer until its destruction in 70 CE.
The juxtaposition of the lame man and the temple setting is striking. Lame animals were decreed to be unsuitable as offerings to God (Deut 15:21; Mal 1:8,13) and lame people were amongst those forbidden from drawing near to offer sacrifice in the temple (Lev 21:18; 2 Sam 5:8). Yet amongst the prophets, the lame are included among the outcasts gathered by God as the faithful remnant (Jer 31:8; Mic 4:6-7; Zeph 3:19), and the vision of the return of the redeemed to Zion (Isa 35:1–10) includes the assertion that “the lame shall leap like a deer” (Isa 35:6).
Jesus has followed in this prophetic tradition by healing the various categories of outcast; by his activity, “the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have good news preached to them” (Luke 7:22, par Matt 11:5; see also Luke 4:18; Matt 15:30–31; 21:14).
In parables told only by the Lukan Jesus, the lame are included in the outcasts invited to the banquets (Luke 14:13,21). This compares with the account of how Mephibosheth, the lame grandson of Saul, son of Jonathan, ate regularly at the table of King David (2 Sam 4:4; 9:1–13).
Although no account of a specific healing of a lame person is found in Luke’s Gospel (cf. John 5:1–9), the healing of this lame man (the first specific healing incident in Acts) places the apostles in continuity with Jesus who heals the lame (Luke 7:22). A similar healing is later performed by Paul (14:8–10), whilst Philip is described as healing “many others who were paralysed or lame” (8:7).
The lame man’s expectation that he would receive alms (3:2–3) is reasonable. Caring for the needy was integral to Jewish piety (Deut 15:7–11). By the hellenistic period, almsgiving had become highly valued as a religious duty (Sir 3:30; 7:10; 29:9–12; 40:24; Tob 4:7–11,16; 12:8–10; 14:8–11; cf. Matt 6:2–4). The Lukan Jesus commended almsgiving (Luke 11:41; 12:33) and subsequent characters in Acts practice almsgiving—notably, Cornelius (Acts 10:2,4,31) and Paul (24:17).
However, as Peter and John “look intensely” at the man (3:4; on such intense scrutiny, see 14:9), they sidestep this responsibility, for the focus in this account is to be on their exercise of divine power. Peter commands the man to stand, revealing that his power comes from “the name of the Messiah, Jesus of Nazareth” (3:6).
This name has already been declared as the source of salvation (2:21) and forgiveness (2:38); “the name” remains a constant emphasis in the ensuing scenes (3:16; 4:7,10,12,17–18,30; 5:40-41) and appears subsequently in connection with proclamation (8:12; 9:15–16,27-28; 10:43; 15:14,17; 21:13), baptism (8:16; 10:48; 19:5; 22:16) and exorcism (16:18; 19:13,17).
As Peter raises up the lame man (3:7), he is healed and strengthened, and enters the temple (3:8). The healed man immediately recognises the source of this miracle, for he is portrayed as “praising God” (3:8,9). The man thus joins himself with the community members whose regular life is typified by an attitude of praise towards God (2:47).
Later in the account, even the people will praise God, recognising that God has been at work in this incident (4:21). At this point, their response is one of “wonder” (3:10), a questioning attitude also displayed towards Jesus (Luke 4:36; 5:9), and “amazement” (3:10), a more insightful appreciation of the incident, as also displayed towards Jesus (Luke 5:26).
The companion passage that is offered by the Narrative Lectionary alongside acts 3 is a short excerpt from Mark 6. If you’d like to explore some of the key elements in this passage—“take nothing for [the] journey except a staff; no bread, no bag, no money”, “if any place will not welcome you and they refuse to hear you, as you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet as a testimony against them”, and “casting out many demons”—see
There’s an interesting new book to be published in September: The Widening of God’s Mercy. Sexuality Within the Biblical Story. It is written by two eminent, conservative-ish American professors, Richard Hays and his son Christopher Hays.
Richard Hays is one of the most well-respected NT scholars in the world. He famously argued *against* LGBTQ inclusion in his landmark ethics book, The Moral Vision of the New Testament, 30 years ago. He teaches at Duke Divinity School. He now is a proponent of affirming and inclusion. His son, Christopher Hays, is one of the most well-respected OT/Ancient Near Eastern scholars in the world. He teaches at Fuller Seminary, an institution founded as a strongly conservative seminary, which has become less “conservative” in recent years.
In 1996, Richard Hays wrote about a range of ethical matters in his work The Moral Vision of the New Testament. A number of biblical scholars, theologians and ethicists provided positive reviews of the work, and it has been an important work for students in each of these disciplines.
In chapter 16 of this book, Hays discusses relevant New Testament passages and comes to a conclusion that homosexuality cannot be affirmed by any New Testament text. Reviewing that chapter, American scholar Dr Anna Sieges notes, “His careful argumentation and generous posture toward LGBTQ individuals (by 1996 standards, at least) made the chapter a fan favorite among those who wanted to respectfully and biblically exclude LGBTQ people from public spaces (religious or political) for what they deemed sexual immorality.”
Personally, I was surprised that Richard Hays had come to this conclusion about LGBTIQA+ people. I knew him in the 1980s when I was a doctoral student studying at Yale University, where he was a member of Faculty. I took a particularly lively seminar on “War and Peace in the Bible”, where we explored biblical texts and the full sweep of theological and ethical interpretations of this area.
Prof. Hays was consistently careful and compassionate as he explored key texts with critical acumen and a clear connection to contemporary thought. On that basis, as well as personal interactions with him in other contexts, the book was published, I had thought that he would have come to a different conclusion about the biblical texts relating to sexuality and gender. But he did not.
Thirty years later, he is publishing a work in which he argues differently. The book, we are told, will provide an argument for a theological and ethical position that supports, affirms, and encourages LGBTIQA+ people of faith as they exercise their ministries; and also in terms of how we relate to people of diverse secularities and gender indentures in society. It is an encouraging move.
The publisher’s blurb says:
“In this learned and beautifully written book, Richard and Christopher Hays explore a more expansive way of listening to the overarching story that scripture tells. They remind us of a dynamic and gracious God who is willing to change his mind, consistently broadening his grace to include more and more people. Those who were once outsiders find themselves surprisingly embraced within the people of God, while those who sought to enforce exclusive boundaries are challenged to rethink their understanding of God’s ways.
“The authors—a father and son—point out ongoing conversations within the Bible in which traditional rules, customs, and theologies are rethought. They argue that God has already gone on ahead of our debates and expanded his grace to people of different sexualities. If the Bible shows us a God who changes his mind, they say, perhaps today’s Christians should do the same. The book begins with the authors’ personal experiences of controversies over sexuality and closes with Richard Hays’s epilogue reflecting on his own change of heart and mind.”
“I think everyone in Hays’ circles in the 90s knew, to affirm gay people was career-suicide in their institutions. It still kinda is. I’m not suggesting it was deceptive or anything, but I think it’s very hard to imagine a theological conclusion when you subconsciously know you’re whole faith community will not go with you. Fear doesn’t inspire courageous thinking.”
Certainly, within the Uniting Church as a whole, and in formal decisions by councils of the church over the years, we have long accepted, affirmed, and encouraged LGBTIQA+ people within the life of the church.
And yes, I am aware that this has been seen as a slow and imperfect process by some, whilst others have fought tenaciously against each step with dogmatic aggression. But formally, and substantially, the Uniting Church has a position that would welcome the argument of Hays and Hays, when it is ultimately published.
*****
I need to note that Prof. Richard Hays was one of the examiners of my PhD thesis in 1988, while Karl Hand wrote a PhD under my supervision in the years 2008 to 2011.
*****
For my discussion of the “clobber texts” that feature so often in this area, see
The season of Easter stretches over seven weeks, from Easter Sunday to Pentecost Sunday. It takes those of us in the southern hemisphere from the balmy days of autumn into the time when the icy winds arrive and the temperatures drop. During this season, the lectionary replaces the stories from Hebrew Scriptures, and provides us with a diet of stories that tell of the church—stories taken from the Acts of the Apostles.
One explanation for replacing Hebrew Scripture passages with excerpts from Acts is that it reminds us that the risen Jesus, whom we celebrate on Easter Sunday, was at work in those early days amongst the first group of believers in Jerusalem, as they formed community together, and that Jesus was proclaimed and attested as people from that community travelled beyond Jewish territory, into the wider Hellenistic (Greek-speaking) world.
So this coming Sunday, the Second Sunday in Easter, we turn to an early chapter of Acts to hear a summary description of the early community of believers in Jerusalem (Acts 4:32–35). The community was still actively involved in Jewish religious life and was continuing to participate in temple rituals (2:46; 3:1; 5:20-21, 42).
The term “Christian” is not used for these people in Acts until Antioch in Syria (11:26). The were originally known as people of “The Way” (9:2; 19:9, 23; 24:14,22). They had formed a messianic Jewish community, since the central affirmation for the believers was that “the Messiah, he is Jesus” (2:36; 3:19–20; 5:42).
This passage provides a reminder of key elements in the life of this messianic Jewish community: unity of purpose (4:32; see 2:42,46), powerful testimony to the resurrection (4:33; see 2:24,32; 3:15; 4:2), and the manifestation of grace (4:33b; see 2:47). The major focus in this summary description is on the first feature, which is introduced with a striking phrase: the believers were “one in heart and soul”, to which is added a repetition of the earlier comment that “for them all things were common” (4:32; see 2:44).
Being “one in heart and soul” is a phrase which evokes the traditional Greek proverbs, “friends have one soul” and “the goods of friends are common property”, which were known since the time of Aristotle (Aristotle, Nicomedian Ethics 9.8.2; Cicero, De officiis 1.16.51; Plutarch, On Brotherly Love 490E, How to Tell a Flatterer 65A and De amic. mult. 96E; Iamblichus, Life of Pythagoras 65A; Dio Chrysostom Oration 34.20; Diogenes Laertius 5.20, 8.10).
The Jewish monastic community of Essenes were described in a similar way by Philo, Every Good Man is Free 85, and Josephus, J.W. 2 §122. It was a common trope, known to hellenised Jews. The first phrase is also reminiscent of the common Deuteronomic reference to “heart and soul” in the exhortation, “the Lord your God is commanding you to observe these statutes and ordinances; so observe them diligently with all your heart and with all your soul” (Deut 26:16; and see also 6:5; 10:12; 11:13; 13:4; 26:16; 30:2,6,10).
Luke, as a hellenised Jew, draws on this tradition to make a strong point about the community in Jerusalem: their unity was their strength. He is writing for Theophilus—a Greek name, meaning “lover of God”—who may indeed have been a real person, a patron who engaged Luke to undertake the collection of sources and careful analysis to which he refers at the start of his work (Luke 1:1–4).
So Luke, writing in Greek, draws both on the Hebrew Scriptures and on Greek ideas as he describes this Jewish messianic community. He writes a number of decades after the time on which he is reporting; he writes with an eye to his patron and an audience of educated Hellenistic readers. It is an idealised picture of the early Jerusalem community; certainly, we know from other sources—letters by Paul and John, especially—that the early communities formed of followers of Jesus had (more than?) their fair share of tension and conflict. They were, after all, only human.
Of course, unity of purpose was not simply a hellenistic ideal; it was also valued in Israelite society. To demonstrate this, the psalm which is proposed by the lectionary for this coming Sunday, Psalm 133, focusses strongly on this theme. It is presumably chosen by the lectionary as a complement to the passage from Acts 4 because of this very theme.
In this short psalm, the central thought concerns “when kindred [brothers and sisters] live together in unity” (v.1). Two images are used to indicate how much this unity is valued. The first image, “like the precious oil on the head, running down upon the beard” (v.2), perhaps evokes the “precious oil” stored in the treasure house of Hezekiah (2 Ki 20:13; Isa 39:2). This is something of immense value.
The second image, “like the dew of Hermon, which falls on the mountains of Zion” (v.3a), references one of the the prominent mountains in the north of Israel, on the border with Syria and modern. Lebanon. Today, it is part of the contested Golan Heights territory. Some scholars consider Mount Hermon to be the site where Jesus was transfigured, in company with Moses and Elijah (Mark 9 and parallels).
In later Jewish tradition, Hermon was said to be the place where the “watchers” amongst the fallen angels descended to earth to take wives amongst human beings. The story appears at Gen 6:1–4 without reference to location; Hermon is specified when the story is retold and developed within “The Book of the Watchers”, in 1 Enoch 6–11 (see 6:6 for the reference to Hermon).
Richard Clifford, in his commentary on the psalms, says: “Though the Mediterranean climate of Palestine had no rainfall from May or June to September, it had dew. Dew was important in the summer and a supplement to rain. Zion was therefore a place of fertility which even in the rainless season has an abundance of dew” (Psalms 73-50; Abingdon, 2003, pp.263-64). The majority of the water supplying modern Israel flows from the melting snow on Mount Hermon down into the River Jordan. See https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/0022169490900726
Hermon was a long way from Zion; so the dew of Hermon would not literally fall on Zion. This is a symbol of the unity of the whole nation of Israel. But the mention of Zion in Psalm 133 provides the opportunity for an affirmation that it was on Zion that “the Lord ordained his blessing”, which is immediately specified as “life forevermore” (v.3b). Blessings that last “forevermore” are celebrated in other psalms: “pleasures forevermore” (Ps 16:11), the Lord watching over his people (Ps 121:8) and surrounding them (Ps 125:2), the reign of the faithful sons of David (Ps 132:12), and the holiness of the Lord’s house (Ps 93:5).
The language of “ordaining” is usually applied to the priests (Exod 28:40-41; 29:9, 35; Lev 8:31-36; Num 3:1-3). However, in this psalm, perhaps the allusion is more directly to Solomon’s affirmation that “I am now about to build a house for the name of the Lord my God and dedicate it to him [for various offerings which are listed] … on the sabbaths and the new moons and the appointed festivals of the Lord our God, as ordained forever for Israel” (2 Chron 2:4). The pi almost, like the Chronicler, certainly valued the long term stability that was envisaged for Israel through God’s faithfulness.
During the season of Easter, it is worthwhile to give consideration of the nature of the community of faith to which we belong. What are the key values in this community? How do members of the community demonstrate these values in practical ways? How much is unity of purpose valued? What is done to ensure that diverse voices are valued, even as this focus on unity is maintained? These are good questions which these lectionary passages might invite us to consider this Easter.
This week, the lectionary starts a series, for the Epistle reading, of selections from the book known as 1 John. By tradition, this work is called a letter (or epistle)—a communication from a specific individual to another individual or to a community of people. But the form of this book raises immediate questions.
There is neither the kind of opening address expected in a letter, nor any form of epistolary conclusion at its end. The opening verses, instead of providing information about the context in which the document came into being, present with urgent rhetorical force the importance of the message which follows. The letter ends quite abruptly, with a stark admonition (5:21)— no discussion of travel plans or the sending of an emissary, no greetings, no final blessing. Is it a book, a letter, or a sermon?
The book clearly has the ethos of a letter, as found in the first person plural of the opening verses (“we declare…we declare…we are writing…”, 1:1–4), the direct address to “little children” (2:1; 3:18; 5:21) and “beloved” (2:7; 4:1, 7), and the repeated assertion that “I write these things” (2:1, 7, 12–14, 26; 5:13). Moral exhortation and doctrinal teaching, elements regarded as being classic component parts of early Christian letters, are interwoven throughout the book without clear distinction.
Yet there appears to be no marshalling of a case and no logical development of thought, such as is found in the carefully-shaped rhetoric of the letters of Paul. At first reading, the letter’s structure is somewhat circular and repetitive, more an extended meditation on “love” (the term appears around fifty times) than a tightly-argued instruction. The tone is often reflective—although there are moments of contention and dispute.
The author of the letter is never named, but the opening verse makes the claim that the letter comes from one who has “heard…seen…looked at and touched” for himself, the very “word of life” (1:1). The inference is that the author has had personal contact with Jesus himself; in the third century, Irenaeus made the definitive claim that the letter was written by “John, the disciple of the Lord” (Against Heresies 3.16.5).
This claim goes beyond any direct assertion within the letter itself; although such a claim might be reinforced by the author’s reiteration of his privileged status as eyewitness (and earwitness): “we have seen it” (1:2), “what we have seen and heard” (1:3), “the message we have heard from him” (1:5), as well as a later reminder: “just as he has commanded us” (3:23).
The frequent use of “from the beginning” (1:1; 2:7, 13, 14, 24; 3:11) might also be taken as a reference back to the teachings of Jesus, mediated through the writing of this author.
Likewise, from the text of the letter itself, its recipients cannot be specifically identified in any meaningful way. There are references to “little children…fathers…young people” (2:12–14) which are formulaic and generalised. They already know the message about Jesus, for they “know him who is from the beginning” (2:13, 14) and have already heard his commandment to “love one another” (2:7; 3:11).
Their situation involves a controversy about how to live in obedience to Jesus; the contrast between darkness and light, love and hate is marked throughout the work (1:5–10; 2:9–11; 3:11–15; 4:20–21). A key idea in this regard is the way that love reaches “perfection” (2:5; 4:12, 17–18) in the lives of believers. This is what the recipients of the letter are to set as their aim.
Set in stark contrast to the believers is “the world”, which is both personified and portrayed as a negative character. The world is full of desire (2:16); those in it do not help a person who is in need (3:17); it hates the believers (3:13) and does not know God (3:1; 4:3–6). The letter ends with the strong assertion that “the whole world lies under the power of the evil one” (5:20). This suggests high tension, even outright conflict, between the people addressed in this letter, and some indeterminate “opponents”.
The sectarian tendencies, already seen in John’s Gospel, appear to have intensified in the situation addressed in this letter. Yet, in the end, “the world” is only temporary (2:17); victory over the world is assured, for it has already come (4:4; 5:3–5). Indeed, the author of this document insists that God’s intention is to save the whole world (2:1–2; 4:9, 14).
This week we move on from the Gospel story, into the narrative of “the things fulfilled among us” that is attributed, by tradition, to Luke, the author of a Gospel and a sequel that we call the Acts of the Apostles. We will hear four excerpts from this second volume in the coming weeks.
I have already offered some exploration of the first parts of the passage on offer for this Sunday, in Acts 1:1–11. See
In this blog, we turn to the earliest reported gathering of the community in Jerusalem.
The list of those meeting in the upper room of the house in Jerusalem (Acts 1:12–14) includes both eleven of the twelve already identified (Luke 6:14–16) as well as “certain women, including Mary the mother of Jesus, as well as his brothers” (Acts 1:14). That is consistent with the notes of women who followed Jesus in Galilee (Luke 8:1–3; 23:27, 49) as well as the presence of his brothers (Luke 8:19–21). The community which met together “constantly devoting themselves to prayer” was a gender-inclusive group.
Luke uses a hugely significant Greek word here; the word homothumadon. This is a word used only 12 times in the New Testament, with most of those occurrences in the Book of Acts, and one in Romans. Luke uses it to help us understand the uniqueness of the Christian community. It is most often translated as “all together”.
Luke initially tells of how “they were all together in the upper room” (1:12), forty days after the resurrection of Jesus—the day when Jesus ascended into heaven. Ten days later, they were all together once again, in the precincts of the Temple (2:1), along with devout Jews from all the nations surrounding Israel (2:9–11).
Then in the days following, as “they devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers” (2:42), they continued to be all together; “they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God” (2:46).
And still later, the community of believers came together to welcome Peter and John, after their hearing before the authorities, and “they raised their voice to God all together in prayer” (4:24). And then again, some days later, “they were all together in Solomon’s porch” in the Temple precinct (5:12). Gathering together, meeting in unity, was a key characteristic of the early community of Jesus followers.
As the story continues, Phillip travelled north out of Judea into the region of Samaria, where he was preaching to the Samaritans. Here, Luke comments: “the people were all together listening to those things which Philip spoke” (8:6).
Then, some time later, after Saul had his Damascus Road experience and Peter had his vision of all foods being declared clean, after Paul and Silas and Barnabas had been travelling amongst the Gentiles sharing the good news, we read that there was a gathering of church leaders in Jerusalem, who conferred together, “the apostles and the elders, with the consent of the whole church, being assembled together as one, decided to choose … representatives and send them to you, along with our beloved Barnabas and Paul” (15:22,25).
So the point is, with each step along the way, this little community of assorted disciples, was all together … or, of one accord, in another translation.
Homothumadon is a compound of two words, homo meaning “in unison” and thumos meaning “temperament, emotion of the mind, the principle of life, feeling and thought.” One scholar writes that there is a musical sense to this word, where it suggests notes being brought into harmony together, under the masterful hand of the conductor. The role of the conductor is to ensure that flutes and cellos, drums and violas, trumpets and clarinets, are all making their distinctive contribution to the end result—the piece of music being performed for the audience to enjoy.
Perhaps another appropriate image, today, might be of the way that the artist sets out a palette of colours to be used in painting, and as the creative activity gets underway, those various shades and hues and colours are mixed together in such a way as to produce an intricate, complex, and aesthetically pleasing end result: a work of art.
That is how Christian community is to function. That is what we are to be, as the people of God in the place where we gather. Homothumadon denotes the unity of a group who have the same passion, who share the one persuasion, who are of the same mind, of one accord, with one purpose.
I suggests both a harmony of feelings as well as singleness of purpose. However, while i refers to a group acting as one, it does not mean lack of diversity. It means cooperation in the midst of diversity.
The word first appears in Greek literature from 500 years before the time of Jesus (in the plays of the dramatist Aristophanes, the treatises of the philosopher Plato, the oratory of the general Demosthenes) and was used in the political sphere to describe the visible, inner unity of a group which drew together when facing a common duty or danger. The New International Dictionary of New Testament Theology emphasises that “the unanimity is not based on common personal feelings but on a cause greater than the individual”.
In a sermon I gave on this passage, I noted that believers today stand with Peter and the disciples and the women and the brothers of Jesus in a liminal place, a place on the edge. We are leaving behind the old, reaching out to the new. The dramatic events of Pentecost, that we will recall in a week’s time, invite us to move to the future, and to change ourselves in a renewed commitment to our faith and our mission.
These words from the book of Acts challenge us not to simply continue our present practices and beliefs unchanged, but to hear a new message and a new way of being. We are being asked to change ourselves, to let go of what we find reassuring, and step out in faith into the chaos represented by the Spirit of God. We are being asked to be all together, to ‘act of one spirit’, to unite for the common good. May we be up to the challenge!
This blog is based on a section of my commentary on Acts in the Eerdmans Commentary on the Bible, ed. Dunn and Rogerson (Eerdmans, 2003). I have also explored the theme of the plan of God at greater depth in my doctoral research, which was published in 1993 by Cambridge University Press as The plan of God in Luke-Acts (SNTSM 76).
On Ash Wednesday each year, Christians around the world begin forty days (plus six Sundays) of the season of Lent. This was the focus for the first half of issue 17/6 of With Love to the World. Then, after the pivotal events of Maundy Thursday—Good Friday—Holy Saturday—Easter Sunday, believers trace the fifty days of the season of Easter, until we arrive at Pentecost. These fifty days are the focus for the second half of issue 17/6.
Easter is usually thought of, in contemporary society, as a time for a four-day long weekend—time to travel, Easter camps, the last fling of short-term holidays before the winter cold sets in. And Easter is, indeed, a holiday—in the older sense of “holy day”, when something at the heart of faith is remembered.
But the calendar of the church allocates more than just the four-day long weekend to Easter. The season of Easter stretches over seven weeks, taking those of us in the southern hemisphere from the last balmy days of summer into the time when the icy winds arrive and the temperatures drop. And that extended season, this year, offers us a good opportunity to reflect on the question posed by the story told at the very end of Mark’s Gospel: how is it that Jesus has risen? where is it that we find signs of the risen one?
To equip us to consider such questions, the lectionary replaces, for this time, the stories from Hebrew Scriptures, and provides us with a diet of stories that tell of the church—stories taken from the Acts of the Apostles. One explanation for this is that it reminds us that the risen Jesus was at work amongst the first group of believers in Jerusalem, as they formed community together, and that Jesus was proclaimed and attested as people from that community travelled beyond Jewish territory, into the wider Hellenistic (Greek-speaking) world.
So when we are offered readings from Acts, we might consider two different, but related, sets of questions. The first questions are, What do these stories tell us about how we are to “be church” in our own time? What tips might we pick up about being an intentional community, speaking our experience of Jesus in a way that communicates, performing acts of loving care as a testimony to Jesus? These are good, and helpful, questions to consider.
The second set of questions is more along these lines: What do these stories tell us about how Jesus continued to be present, to be at work, amongst those who had first known him in Galilee? We might wonder how we can discern how Jesus is acting in the community in Jerusalem. Perhaps we see him at work in what Philip does in Samaria, or in the vision which Peter sees in Joppa? in the travels of Paul, Barnabas, Silas, Timothy, and other fellow workers in the Gospel, as they preach, nurture, challenge, and equip new followers of Jesus in many places? How does Jesus continue to be at work among us?
This Easter as we read Acts, let us give consideration to both sets of questions: what do we need to do? and, how is Jesus present among us?
*****
During the season of Easter, you are invited to join an online Bible Study sponsored by With Love to the World, each Thursday, at either 10:00am or 7:00pm.
This week we move on from the Gospel story, into the narrative of “the things fulfilled among us” that is attributed, by tradition, to Luke, the author of a Gospel and a sequel that we call the Acts of the Apostles. We will hear four excerpts from this second volume in the coming weeks.
Luke, of course, is never identified as the author in either volume; the traditional ascription arises from a combination of factors: Pauline references to “Luke, the beloved physician” (Col 4:14), said to be present with Paul at one point (Phlmn 24, reflected again at 2 Tim 4:11), the references to “we” in the latter chapters of the narrative, and the developing patristic speculation which insisted that each canonical Gosepl needed to be either by one of the apostles or by someone closely associated with one,of the apostles.
The opening verse of this Sunday’s passage links back to the “first volume” (Acts 1:1), naming the same addressee, Theophilus (see Luke 1: 3), and summarising the earlier volume as being about “all that Jesus did and taught from the beginning” (presumably Luke 4:15 onwards) until “the day when he was taken up to heaven” (Luke 24:50–51). The intention for continuity is clear; the volume that follows will trace the development and spread of the movement that Jesus had initiated in Galilee (Luke 6:13–16; 8:1–3; 9:1–6, 10; 10:1–12, 17–20) and which he had then launched on a broader scale in Jerusalem, stretching out “to all nations” (Luke 24:44–49).
The author sets the scene for recounting various incidents in the life of the community of followers of Jesus who had gathered in Jerusalem. The author—writing a number of decades after the incidents which he reports, and most likely far removed from Jerusalem—tells of how these earliest followers established a pattern of faithful living through their common life, their public witness, and their persistent adherence to their Jewish traditions. The whole section of the second volume is located entirely within Jerusalem (1:4,8,12; 2:5; 4:5; 5:16; 6:7; 8:1) and is concentrated on incidents occurring in that city.
Ten days separate the ascension of Jesus (forty days after Passover, 1:3) from the coming of the Spirit on the day of Pentecost, which is told in the second chapter of volume 2 (2:1, fifty days after Passover). Initially, Jesus instructs the apostles not to depart from Jerusalem (1:4). This instruction keeps Luke’s geographic focus on Jerusalem, in contrast to other traditions concerning the post-resurrection departure of the apostles to Galilee which are inferred (Mark 14:28; 16:7; Matt 26:32) or explicitly told (Matt 28:7,10; John 21).
Remaining in Jerusalem is required so that the apostles might receive the promise (1:4), which is immediately explained as being the holy spirit spoken of by John (1:5; evoking Luke 3:16). The fulfilment of this promise in Jerusalem is, of course, narrated in detail in Acts 2.
Only two things are told of these ten days; already the process of selectivity which shaped the creation of Luke’s Gospel can be seen in this second volume. The first of these is an expanded retelling of the ascension (1:6–11), an event already reported in brief at Luke 24:50–53.
The ascension forms the pivotal moment in Luke’s narrative; it is the hinge between volume 1 (Luke) and volume 2 (Acts), and attention is drawn to the ascension and exaltation of Jesus at a number of points elsewhere (Luke 9:51; 22:69; Acts 2:33; 3:21; 5:31; 7:56). Luke expands this second narrative account of the ascension through the explicit recording of words spoken on that occasion. Key to this version are the last words of Jesus to his followers: a sequence of three clauses which stand as his last words before he ascends into heaven.
The first clause of Jesus’s words in 1:8 turns the question away from Israel, back to the primary theme of God’s sovereignty, with the clear declaration that the times and seasons are under the sovereignty of God who has “set them by his own authority” (1:7). Rather than the political independence of Israel, it is God’s unfettered freedom to act in history which is crucial to his enterprise.
The next clause, “you will receive power when the holy spirit has come upon you” (1:8), is a promise which reinforces the key role of the spirit, as divine agent, throughout this volume (beginning with the events of 2:1–4).
The third clause introduces the important motif of witness (1:22; 2:32; 3:15; 4:33; 5:32; 10:39,41,43; 13:31; 22:15,18,20; 23:11; 26:11,22) and provides a condensed geographical summation of the course of the ensuing events: “in Jerusalem [1:12–8:3] and in all Judaea and Samaria [8:4–12:25] and to the end of the earth [13:1 onwards]”.
The precise referrent of “the end of the earth” is debated. Although Psalms of Solomon 8:15 may suggest that it refers to Rome, it is preferable to see the reference as drawn from Isa 49:6, a verse cited at Luke 2:32 and Acts 13:47. It is thus a poetic statement about the extensive scope of the ensuing events.
These departing words of the Lukan Jesus neatly conjoin the geographical pattern and theological foundation of Acts: from Jerusalem outwards, the divine spirit will enable followers of Jesus to bear witness to the sovereignty of God.
As Jesus ascends into heaven (Acts 1:9–11), the story pivots from the earthly period of Jesus into the time when the movement of those who followed Jesus in that time will begin to form the customs and practices that led to the creation of the church. Luke presents the whole sequence of the death, resurrection and ascension of Jesus as both the climax to his earthly life and the foundation for the time of the church.
This is the issue in focus here: the departure of Jesus by means of his ascension into heaven is actually the moment when Jesus charges his followers to be engaged in mission. The departure of Jesus heralds the start of the church. The (physical) absence of the Saviour brings in the impetus for engaging wholeheartedly with the world which he has (physically) left.
….. to be continued …..
This blog is based on a section of my commentary on Acts in the Eerdmans Commentary on the Bible, ed. Dunn and Rogerson (Eerdmans, 2003). I have also explored the theme of the plan of God at greater depth in my doctoral research, which was published in 1993 by Cambridge University Press as The plan of God in Luke-Acts (SNTSM 76).
On Easter Sunday, we say: “Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!”, to celebrate that “God raised Jesus from the dead” (Gal 1:1; Rom 4:24; 10:9; Acts 2:32). Paul affirms this good news in this extract from his first letter to the saints in Corinth, which is the Epistle reading that the lectionary offers for Easter Sunday (1 Cor 15:1–11). Some verses in this passage have played a key role in the development of Christian tradition, which affirms in creeds and confessions a belief in “Jesus Christ … who was crucified, died, and was buried … who rose again from the dead on the third day”.
What is the nature of the confessional affirmation that Paul offers in this passage? The previous chapters of 1 Corinthians have alerted us to the disorganised ethos of the community in the cosmopolitan port city of Corinth. Those earlier chapters have indicated a number of problems that existed within the community of followers of Jesus. There was factionalism (chs.1–4), immorality (ch.5), resorting to civil lawsuits (ch.6), and dissension regarding marriage, celibacy, and sexuality (ch.7). There were differing attitudes towards consuming meat bought in the marketplace after it had been offered to idols (chs.8–10), and multiple issues that manifested in their gatherings for worship (chs.11–14).
Paul addresses each of these matters with the same intention, to bring about order in the midst of the chaos that he has been told about. His words in the midst of the lengthy discussion about marriage, celibacy, and sexuality state his purpose with clarity: “I say this for your own benefit, not to put any restraint upon you, but to promote good order and unhindered devotion to the Lord” (7:35).
The disorder and chaos evident in worship, in particular, led Paul, in the chapter immediately preceding this passage, to advise the Corinthians to seek to speak to others in worship “for their upbuilding and encouragement and consolation” (14:3). He advises them to exercise their spiritual gifts appropriately; to “strive to excel in them for building up the church” (14:12), to “not be children in your thinking … but in thinking be adults” (14:20). He advises them, “let all things be done for building up” (14:26), noting that “all things should be done decently and in order” (14:40), for “God is a God not of disorder but of peace” (14:33).
People speaking over the top of each other in worship, not attending to important words of prophecy and tongues, reflected the disordered chaos of the apparently quite libertine community. The infamous words ordering women to “keep silent” (14:33b—36), along with the adjacent commands to “keep silent” while one interprets tongues that are spoken (14:27–28) and “keep silent” to those seeking to offer a word of prophecy while others are still prophesying (14:29–31), are included in this letter precisely to address this chaotic disorder. And not for the first time in this letter, Paul invokes his higher authority to support his directions: “[you] must acknowledge that what I am writing to you is a command of the Lord” (14:37; see also 5:3–4; 7:40; 10:20–22; 11:27–28; 16:10; and cf. 7:25).
Immediately after this extensive discussion about worship, Paul turns to his foundational message about Jesus, in a four-part statement: Christ died—was buried—was raised—and then appeared to various people (15:3–5). He uses terms that denote the passing on of traditions: “I received … I handed on … which you received … in which you stand” (15:1); and he insists on the importance of what he passes on: “you are being saved, if you hold firmly to the message that I proclaimed to you” (15:2). These two verses provide a strong, insistent introduction to what follows in the ensuing verses.
We see this dynamic also in an earlier chapter, in the familiar words associated with the Last Supper: “I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you” (1 Cor 11:23), as well as in the commendation of the Corinthians as they “maintain the traditions just as I handed them on to you” (11:2).
The core tradition that Paul cites is the fourfold declaration that Jesus died, was buried, was raised, and appeared (vv.3–5). It may have already have been an existing formula; we know that Paul, in this letter and elsewhere, makes use of very short credal-like statements that it is likely had already been developed by others, some of which he cites in order to refute, such as: “is well for a man not to touch a woman” (7:1), “all of us possess knowledge” (8:1), “all things are lawful” (10:23), and “how can some of you say there is no resurrection of the dead?” (15:12).
There are other succinct sayings which Paul uses as the basis for further developments in his argument, such as “I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified” (2:2), “knowledge puffs up, but love builds up” (8:1), “there is no God but one” (8:4), and “all things are lawful, but not all things build up” (10:24). The discussion of factions in chs.1–4 is built off “I belong to Paul … I belong to Apollos … [but] what then is Apollos? what is Paul?” (3:4–5), while Paul’s lengthy discussion of spiritual gifts (12:4—14:40) jumps off from the unspiritual “Jesus be cursed!” and the spirit-inspired response, “Jesus is Lord” (12:3).
Furthermore, Paul writes a number of longer credal-like statements, some of which seem shaped for liturgical usage: the words which became the “words of institution” in the church’s eucharistic practice (1 Cor 11:23–26), and others such as Rom 8:28; 2 Cor 4:14; Gal 1:3–5; Phil 2:6–11. The writers in the school of Paul who later wrote letters claiming to have his authority ( the “pastoral epistles”) followed this practice (see 1 Tim 2:5–6; 3:16; 2 Tim 2:11–13; Titus 2:11–14).
Two clauses in Paul’s tradition-based affirmation of 1 Cor 15:3–5 are buttressed by reference to scripture, another voice of authority alongside “the tradition”. What the specific scripture passages are, Paul does not state; this has left open the door for speculation by later interpreters.
Supporting arguments by reference to scripture is not unknown in Paul’s writings; as a Pharisee, he had attained a good awareness of Torah and its application to life (see Gal 1:14; Phil 3:5–6). He bases his magnum opus, Romans, on a scripture citation (Rom 1:17, citing Hab 2:4) and there is barely a chapter of this letter that does not contain scripture quotations and allusions in abundance.
Key moments in 1 Corinthians are likewise supported by verses from Hebrew Scripture (1 Cor 1:19, 31; 2:9, 16; 3:19–20; 14:21; 15:54–55), and the well-known “words of institution” themselves (11:23–26) reference the tradition which emerges in later decades in the Synoptic Gospels, recording the words of Jesus himself at the last supper (Mark 14:22–25; Matt 26:26–29; Luke 22:14–20).
By using the terminology of traditions being received and handed on, Paul is reining in the wayward Corinthians, recalling them to the fundamentals of their faith. So he sets out the dynamic of died—buried—raised—appeared (15:3–5) as the foundation for then discussing, in the remainder of the chapter, issues associated with the resurrection of Jesus (15:6–58).
Who saw the risen Jesus? First, Paul tells of an appearance to the early leaders, Cephas (Peter) (v.5) and James (v.7)—of which, neither appearance is reported in any Gospel. Then, Paul indicates that Jesus appeared to “the twelve” (v.5) and “all the apostles” (v.8)—apparently alluding to narratives found in the later texts of three Gospels Matt 28:16–20, Luke 24:33–48; John 20:19–23, 24–29; 21:1–14. (The appearances narrated in the shorter and longer endings of Mark, added after 16:8, are not relevant; these are later patristic additions based on the other three Gospels, designed to harmonise the ending of Mark with these others.) Acts 1:6–11 might also be relevant here.
An interesting question is, how did he distinguish between these two groups—“the twelve” on the one hand, and “all the apostles” on the other. Indeed, these terms appear to be inherited by Paul from earlier traditions. This is the only place in all Pauline letters which refer to “the twelve”; and besides, the Gospel narratives noted above do not have Jesus appearing to “the twelve”, as Judas was absent from all of them, and so was Thomas in John 20:19–23.
As far as the word “apostle” is concerned, in 16 of the 18 occurrences in the Pauline corpus (including those not authentic to Paul) Paul explicitly apply the term to himself. Paul acknowledges others as apostles: James (Gal 1:19), Peter (Gal 2:8), perhaps Barnabas (1 Cor 9:1, 5–6), an unspecified number of believers who were given gifts to be apostles (1 Cor 12:28–29; see also Eph 4:11), and most strikingly, Andronicus, a male, with Junia, a female (Rom 16:7). Are these the people that Paul has in mind at 1 Cor 15:8? Or is this simply a phrase inherited from the tradition, which Paul has repeated?
Next, Paul identifies an appearance to “more than five hundred brothers and sisters at one time” (v.6), which again has no place in any Gospel account. Last, Jesus appears to Paul himself (v.8), which he briefly reports at 1 Cor 9:1 and Gal 1:1. Strikingly absent from his list is the empty tomb and the appearances to Mary in the garden (John 20:14), to the women as they left the tomb (Matt 28:9–10), to the two travellers to Emmaus (Luke 24:15), or to the seven fishing by the Sea of Tiberias (John 21:1–4). What a perplexing inconsistency between the various testimonies to these appearances!!
This is an early collection of “witnesses to the resurrection”; Paul wrote to the Corinthians in the mid 50s. But there is no mention of what was important to all four evangelists, writing in later decades: the women at the empty tomb and the role that women played in bearing testimony to the risen one. Is this accidental? or deliberate? Given what we have noted about 1 Corinthians as a whole—and especially what ch.14 reveals about the disorderly behaviour of Corinthian women—we might well wonder, is Paul shaping the received tradition to “fit the context” already at this early stage? It is a tantalising suggestion.
There is a wonderful quote that is pertinent to this issue, which is attributed to Gustav Mahler, the late 19th century Austro—Bohemian composer: “Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire.” These words indicate that if tradition stands still, it will run out of momentum and fizzle out of energy. Tradition always needs to be reinvigorated and renewed, in the way that fire sizzles and snaps as it continually changes its shape and form.
And that’s a fine thought for us to have as we consider the resurrection of Jesus. As the Apostles Creed affirms, echoing 1 Cor 15:3–5, “we believe in Jesus Christ … who was crucified, died, and was buried … who rose again from the dead on the third day”. We need to renew and rekindle that tradition, to find fresh ways to understand and proclaim that mysterious happening, which sits at the heart of classic Christian confessions.
I’ve offered my own initial reflections on precisely that task in this blog:
The time is early in the morning – quiet, dark, peaceful; the same time of day as when we came to this place. The cast of characters is well-known; Mary Magdalene; Salome, Joanna, another Mary; we know these women. And the message is, likewise, a comforting, familiar refrain: The tomb is empty. He is not here. He is risen. In all that we have heard, we are on familiar ground.
It is most likely that each of us are also well-acquainted with the flow of the story—the women come, bearing their spices, to anoint the body; the stone is found rolled away; the tomb is seen to have no body; and the message is delivered in short, succinct phrases: The tomb is empty. He is not here. He is risen.
The place may be a little unusual, in our way of thinking: it is a tomb, carved out of the rock, large enough to enable a number of adults to be buried together. As people of Anglo heritage, we are used to individual plots, dug deep into the ground, where one person, or maybe a married couple, are laid to rest.
But this is different: it is a large cavity in the side of a rockface, carved out to enable space for a number of adults to enter; space enough for generations of a family to be laid to rest within the one very large tomb. This practice can be seen in phrases, frequently used in mentioning the Patriarchs and David, in Hebrew Scriptures: when such an eminent person died, he would be “gathered unto his fathers,” “sleeping with his fathers,” or “gathered unto his people.”
But these aren’t just euphemisms for death—like we say, ‘passed away’, or ‘went to their eternal rest’; no, this was a literal, physical description of what was done with the bodies of deceased people in ancient times: they were placed in the family tomb, alongside the resting-places of relatives and ancestors.
So the physical location, and the cultural custom, is rather unfamiliar to us today. But the rest of the story, we reassure ourselves, runs along familiar lines, following the well-trodden pathway.
Or does it?
Step back from the empty tomb; walk away, for a moment, from the Easter narrative. Consider the broad sweep of our Christian faith; the overarching drama of our Christian lives.
What do we expect to be central and essential to our Christian faith? What is it that we anticipate finding at the very heart of our faith? How does faith function in the lives of people today, in or time, amidst the stresses and pressures of 21st century living?
Psychologists—those who study the human mind—tell us that people in our times are more likely than ever before to be depressed. Our deepest yearning is to be happy, to feel appreciated, to have assurance that we are valued, that we are loved.
Sociologists—those who study human societies—tell us that people in our times feel disconnected, isolated, and cut off from one another. Our common yearning is to be a part of a group, to feel that we belong. We need to know that others need us.
What this analysis often leads to, is a sense that people today are looking for certainty—we want to be grounded in a group, we want to be part of the tribe, we want to be loved and appreciated, we want to know the assurance of the absolute.
And faith—Christian faith, or indeed any form of faith—can then be offered as the way for people, in their fear and anxiety, in their loneliness and uncertainty—faith can be offered as an answer to these ills. ‘Just take this pill (this pill of absolute faith) and you will be right.’ ‘Just switch your allegiance in one fell swoop, and all will be different.’
Let me invite you to think about these issues in the light of the story which we have heard retold today. For as we encounter and engage with the unfamiliar dimensions of the story, we will find a rather different response to our situation emerging from the interplay.
There are two striking and unfamiliar elements in the story of the empty tomb. The first has to do with who is there. And the second has to do with who is NOT there.
Who is there, that early morning, in the tomb where the body of Jesus had been laid, just a few days earlier? Who are the ones who see, and hear, and experience for themselves, the jarring reality of that early morning encounter?
In a society so dominated by males—male priests, male scribes, male teachers of the Law, male heads of each household—is it not striking and jarring that the great news of Easter is entrusted, first of all, and in all its fullness, to a group of women?
Women—who come to perform their traditional female role, of anointing the freshly-interred body. Women—who come in subservience and devotion, to enact the ritual which has been set aside for them to undertake, as befits their allocated role in society. Women—who, if the traditional pattern is to be followed, will come, unwind the covering on the body, anoint the body with spices, reroll the covering and replace the body, and reverently leave the tomb.
But these women are unable to carry out the male-determined ritual for the body of the recently deceased. The familiar pattern is interrupted; the servant role is removed; and it is these women to whom the striking news of Easter is given.
It is to these women that the responsibility is given, for declaring that the body of Jesus is no longer gripped by death. It is to these women that the role of being the first, the primary, witnesses, to the interrupting action of God: the one who was dead, Jesus, our Master, is no longer here.
The tomb is empty. He is not here. He is risen.
God is now working in ways that challenge, disturb, and overturn the well-worn, familiar, traditional patterns of society. The women cannot carry out the duties and responsibilities that they have long been given. The women, now, are to be witnesses to what God has done. They are to return and tell the men—the apostles, the pillars, the chosen ones—what God has been doing. He is not here. He is risen.
It is the women, and not the men, as expected, who are the ones to break the news: He is not here. He is risen. It is the women who become the first evangelists, the first to proclaim the good news of God. It is the women who become apostles, even to the apostles, the men waiting in the city, unaware of what has occurred at the tomb, and unacquainted with what God has been doing through Jesus. He is not here. He is risen.
If the first striking feature of this story is, who IS here; then the second arresting aspect, is who is NOT here. This is a story about Jesus, in which Jesus does not appear.
This is an account of the most dramatic and significant moment in the whole narrative about Jesus—but there is no Jesus to be seen! No Jesus to be touched! No Jesus with whom to talk! No Jesus to stand, centre-stage, as demonstration of the realities of how God is now at work.
So here is the conundrum: this is the precise moment in the story when God acts in a new and surprising way. This is the pivot point upon which the whole of the narrative turns.
And yet, at the heart of the story, there is—nothing! No central character. No resurrected Jesus, shining forth God’s glory for all to see. No dramatic, booming voice from the heavens, declaring the risen Jesus as the Lord of all. All that we have, are the words of the young men: He is not here. He is risen. There is nothing, but a startling absence, precisely at the moment when we expect a dramatic presence.
In my mind, this paradoxical turnaround is highly significant, hugely important. At the centre of our faith, there is an enticing invitation—to explore, to ponder, to imagine, to wonder.
There is no clear, black-and white, unequivocal proof. There is no definitive dogmatic assertion, no unquestionable, unambiguous deed, no unarguable proclamation—no resurrected Jesus standing in the tomb. There are simply the women, stunned; and the young men, explaining: He is not here. He is risen.
So, at the heart of the Easter story, we find absence; mystery; the glimpse of a possibility; the wisp of a wondering; the beginnings of a pondering: ‘how can this be’; ‘what does this mean?’; ‘what do we do next?’; ‘where is this all leading?’.
And in my mind, this central absence, at the heart of the story, reminds us of the essence of our faith. In our faith, we have no clearcut, unquestionable dogma; we have no unchangeable given, no unarguable declaration. We have no absolute assurance, no certainty set in concrete.
Rather, we have an invitation to walk the way of faith, with openness; an invitation to delight in the mysteries which God unravels before our eyes, in our own lives; an invitation to search, to explore, to ponder; and perhaps then, to encounter, to marvel, and to rejoice.
He is not here. He is risen. So let us enter into the mystery, the enticement, and the joy, of faith!
“What do you wish me to do?”, Pilate asks—according to the earliest account of his interaction with Jesus of Nazareth, recounted in the Gospel we attribute to Mark (although the narrative itself refrains from offering any identification of the author). Pilate, the Governor, representative of the mighty Roman Empire, asking a rag-tag crowd of Jews for advice on what he should do? Is there any historical plausibility in this scene which the unknown first century writer constructs?
I have had a number of discussions of this issue with my wife, Elizabeth Raine, whose knowledge of ancient authors and ancient Roman practices has been illuminating for the way we might understand the Gospel accounts. Much of what follows reflects those discussions.
“What do you wish me to do?” (Mark 15:12). It is not only this question that should cause us to question the narrative. Earlier, Pilate had seemed at a loss: “do you want me to release for you the King of the Jews?” (15:9). The narrative offers an explanation: “he realized that it was out of jealousy that the chief priests had handed him over” (15:10). And then it presses the point: “the chief priests stirred up the crowd to have him release Barabbas for them instead” (15:11), and so he asks the crowd, “what do you want me to do?” (15:12). For us, the question is: what do we make of this dithering, indecisive Pilate?
The narrative plays out the conflict by making sure that we understand Pilate has been cowed by the crowd, reporting that the crowd shouted at the Governor, “Crucify him!” (15:13). Instead of portraying the Governor as responding with all his imperial might, the narrative continues with Pilate asking a naïve question, “Why, what evil has he done?” (15:14a). To this, the crowd pressed still louder, “Crucify him!” (15:14b). And so, the denouement plays out: “Pilate, wishing to satisfy the crowd, released Barabbas for them; and after flogging Jesus, he handed him over to be crucified” (15:15).
We know that the Gospels were not written as “eye-witness accounts”. It would especially have been unlikely that one of the followers of Jesus was there, taking notes, as Pilate dealt with Jesus Barabbas and Jesus of Nazareth. The unlikelihood of this slim possibility is intensified by the comment in Mark’s Gospel, about the followers of Jesus, that “all of them deserted him and fled” (14:50). Clearly, the author envisages that none of those followers were there at this scene. (The reference to a group of women “who used to follow him and provided for him when he was in Galilee” refers, not to this moment in the sequence of events, but only to the later scene when Jesus is dying on the cross; see 15:40–41.)
We can’t treat the Gospels as actual “history-as-it-took-place”. We can’t treat the Markan account of Jesus before Pilate as historical. That is especially the case regarding the way that Pilate is portrayed. Most of our knowledge of Pilate outside the New Testament comes from the writings of the Romano-Jewish historian Flavius Josephus, who details many incidents during the governorship of Pilate, and PhiloJudaeus, a learned Jewish philosopher living in diaspora in his Alexandria. The Pilate they describe is quite different.
Their Pilate is said to have displayed a serious lack of empathy for Jewish sensibilities, for example by displaying Roman battle standards in Jerusalem. Josephus writes, “On one occasion, when the soldiers under his command came to Jerusalem, he caused them to bring with them their ensigns, upon which were the usual images of the emperor. The ensigns were brought in privily by night, but their presence was soon discovered. Immediately multitudes of excited Jews hastened to Caesarea to petition him for the removal of the obnoxious ensigns. For five days he refused to hear them, but on the sixth he took his place on the judgment seat, and when the Jews were admitted he had them surrounded with soldiers and threatened them with instant death unless they ceased to trouble him with the matter.”
The story does end with Pilate backing down; but this is in the face of a large uprising, and not just in relation to one individual. Josephus continues, “The Jews thereupon flung themselves on the ground and bared their necks, declaring that they preferred death to the violation of their laws. Pilate, unwilling to slay so many, yielded the point and removed the ensigns.” (Josephus, Jewish War 2.169–174; Antiquities of the Jews 18.55–59)
Philo of Alexandria tells us that on other occasion Pilate dedicated some gilt shields in the palace of Herod in honour of the emperor. On these shields there was no representation of any forbidden thing, but simply an inscription of the name of the donor and of him in whose honour they were set up. The Jews petitioned him to have them removed; when he refused, they appealed to Tiberius, who overrode the governor, ordering that they should be removed to Caesarea. (Philo, Legatio ad Gaium, 38)
Josephus also reports how Pilate appropriated Temple funds for the construction of an aqueduct: “At another time he used the sacred treasure of the temple, called corban (qorban), to pay for bringing water into Jerusalem by an aqueduct. A crowd came together and clamoured against him; but he had caused soldiers dressed as civilians to mingle with the multitude, and at a given signal they fell upon the rioters and beat them so severely with staves that the riot was quelled.” (Josephus, Jewish War 2.175–177; Antiquities of the Jews 18.60–62)
Pilate may possibly have responded harshly to the unrest in Jerusalem during the Passover in 33 CE, because, due to other political machinations at that time, the powerful neighbouring Roman province of Syria was unable to provide him military support, as usual. (This the hypothesis that Elizabeth has developed; I think it makes sense.) Pilate wanted to suppress the potential uprising before it got momentum.
We do know that in approximately 36 CE, Pilate used arrests and executions to quash a Samaritan religious uprising. After complaints were then made to the Roman legate of Syria, Pilate was recalled to Rome; he is believed to have later committed suicide.
So, we can see that the character of Pilate in other ancient texts beyond the earliest Christian texts is far more ferocious and determined than how he is depicted in the Gospels; and, indeed, he is antagonistic towards Jews in particular. His vascillation, and his bowing to the shouted demands of the crowd, do not correlate with the character of the figure to which these two Jewish writers attest.
Thus, there is a clear political improbability to the account found in Mark’s Gospel—indeed, in all four Gospels, whose authors each strengthen the Markan portrayal. Matthew has Pilate wash his hands of his decision, saying, “I am innocent of this man’s blood; see to it yourselves” (Matt 27:24). Luke has Pilate declare that Jesus was innocent not once, but three times (Luke 23:4, 14, 22). And John’s Pilate engages in a philosophical discussion with Jesus (John 18:33–38) and questions him further, seeking to find a way to excuse him (John 19:8–12), before bowing to the pressure of the crowd (John 19:13–16).
So Pilate as we know him from other accounts was a ferocious and fearless leader whose strength of character is made clear by the numerous times that, according to Josephus, he sent in his troops to quell an uprising, to scatter a crowd, to squash a rebellion.
American scholar Bart Ehrman concludes that Pilate “was a brutal, ruthless ruler with no concerns at all for what the people he governed thought about him or his policies. He was violent, mean-spirited, and hardheaded. He used his soldiers as thugs to beat the people into submission, and he ruled Judea with an iron fist.” (See https://www.patheos.com/blogs/rationaldoubt/2019/05/pilate-released-barabbas-really/)
Surely Pilate would not have been cowed by the crowd in Jerusalem for Passover? Had he wanted to act, he would simply have ordered his troops to attack, scatter the crowd, and disperse the built-up tension. The Gospel accounts of Pilate, across all four narratives, are improbable; the apologetic purpose (to show the Romans in a better light, to avoid being seen as an agitator or rebel, and to place the blame on the Jewish authorities) becomes clear, when we read in this way. We need to bear all of this in mind, as we read and listen to the familiar narrative this Easter, and each Easter.
Would a Roman Governor ask a Jewish crowd for advice? That would be an untenable act, completely undermining his authority. Would a Roman Governor release a known insurrectionist from his sentence? There is no known precedent for this—indeed, no evidence at all, apart from the Gospels, of this practice. It is historically implausible (particularly in the light of the fact that Barnabas means “son of God”).
Would a Roman Governor be so under the control of the Jewish Sanhedrin to act in this way? Especially since it was Rome which appointed the High Priest; it was the Jewish hierarchy which needed to do as Rome commanded. In the earliest account, Pilate questions the crowd as to whether he should sentence Jesus (Mark 15:5, 14). The same question is noted in Matt 27:23. By the time of Luke’s Gospel, he speaks a clear threefold affirmation of the innocence of Jesus (Luke 23:4, 13–16, 22).
By the fourth Gospel, the scene where Jesus is brought to Pilate is changed from a trial to a philosophical discussion (John 18:29–31, 38). Pilate (quite uncharacteristically) backs down in the face of a baying crowd (Mark 15:6-15, and parallels). In Matthew’s account, Pilate enacts the potent symbol of washing his hands of the whole affair (Matt 27:24).
The Jewish Sanhedrin, by contrast, is placed firmly in the firing line. All four Gospels tell the story in the same way: the central factor that leads to Jesus being condemned to death is the decision of the Jewish Sanhedrin (Mark 14:63-64, and parallels), and their agitation amongst the crowd (Mark 15:11; Matt 27:20; Luke 23:13-16; John 18:38b-40). Mind you, the Gospel accounts are also on shaky historical ground in the way they describe the actions of the Sanhedrin. See
So another relevant question is: Would a follower of a man put to death under Roman rule for treason write a narrative which placed the blame squarely on the shoulders of the Roman Governor? I can see exactly why the Gospel writers sought to move the blame away from Pilate, onto the Jewish leadership in Jerusalem. Yes, Jesus was crucified by order of the Roman Governor (Mark 15:15 and parallels); but his hand was forced, they say.
So, with supreme irony, the inscription set over Jesus identifies him as King of the Jews (Mark 5:26). Ironic, because the inscription was ordered by Pilate, the Roman Governor over Judea—and Romans did not honour kingship, did not value kingship. Their rulers were Caesars, not Kings, elected by the Senate, not inherited by birth. The irony of the way that this story is told is that the Roman Governor apparently recognises the kingship of Jesus. The reality of the moment was that the Governor recognised a threat to the power of Rome, and acted to quell that.
In Luke, the Roman soldiers at the cross taunt Jesus, saying, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” (23:37)—a taunt provoked by the sign that was affixed to the top of the cross, bearing an inscription that read, “This is the King of the Jews” (23:36). That inscription; although it is intended to identify Jesus, is actually a statement of power and authority, made by Governor Pilate on behalf of the Roman Empire which he served. In the end, he asserts his authority. The Roman Governor has a pretender King put to death for treason. That much, I believe, can be retrieved as bedrock history, nestled within this rather fanciful narrative.
And so, in the end, even the Gospel accounts attest to the reality of Roman power. Their constant presence, their marching legions, their brutal commanders, intervening to execute their bloodthirsty justice … and their governor, Pilate, as fierce and rough and unbending as any governor ever known, ensured that Jesus went to his death.
We are offered an abundance of richness in the scripture passages that the lectionary proposes for our use during the coming week. The passages in the opening days of Holy Week help us to prepare for what follows over the Easter weekend. As well as passages for each day in Holy Week, there is a collection of four important passages that are offered for Good Friday: Isaiah 52–53, Psalm 22, Hebrews 4–5, and the full passion narrative of John’s Gospel.
Unlike the majority of Sundays throughout the year, when the selections in each category (First Reading, Epistle, Gospel) run largely in parallel and do not regularly correlate with one another—except for the choice of Psalm on many Sundays—these four readings have been chosen deliberately to focus in on a common theme, as befits the day, Good Friday.
The first passage comes from prophetic words within the second main section of Isaiah (chs. 40—55), known as Deutero-Isaiah. These chapters are fundamental for the theological developments that we find in the New Testament. In these chapters, Israel,is addressed as “my servant, Jacob, whom I have chosen,the offspring of Abraham, my friend; you whom I took from the ends of the earth, and called from its farthest corners” (Isa 41:8–9; see also 42:1; 43:10; 44:1–2, 21; 45:4; 48:20; 49:3, 5–6; 52:13; 53:11).
Scattered through this section, we find four oracles known as the Songs of the Servant—three relatively brief (42:1–9; 49:1–7; 50:4–11); and the fourth, best-known within Christian circles, a longer description of the servant who “was despised and rejected by others; a man of suffering and acquainted with infirmity” (Isa 52:13–53:12).
The resonances that this longer song has with the passion narrative of Jesus are crystal clear. The song is explicitly linked with Jesus six times in the New Testament (Matt 8:14–17; Luke 22:35–38; John 12:37–41; Acts 8:26–35; Romans 10:11–21; 1 Pet 2:19–25); furthermore, so many of the details of the passion narrative are shaped in the light of this song, along with a number of psalms of the righteous sufferer. (See https://johntsquires.com/2021/03/22/3-mark-placing-suffering-and-death-at-the-heart-of-the-gospel/)
The prophet describes the marred appearance of the Servant (52:14); he is despised, rejected, and suffering (53:3), bearing our infirmities (53:4), and wounded for our transgressions (53:5). The Servant is led like a lamb to the slaughter (53:7), suffering “a perversion of justice” (53:8). We can hear clear prefigurings of the passion of Jesus.
Furthermore, the Servant does not act with violence nor speak deceit (53:9). He is buried with the rich (53:9); the song declares that he gives his life as “an offering for sin” (53:10), carrying the iniquities of many (53:11), making them righteous (53:11), bearing the sin of many (53:12), making “intercession for the transgressors” (53:12). The resonances with the way that the death of Jesus is understood in later Christian theology are strong.
The narrative of the death of Jesus that Mark narrates in his passion narrative (and which was offered for last Sunday’s Passion Sunday) relates Jesus to the figure of the righteous person who suffers injustice, who appears in various Hebrew Scripture passages beyond this fourth, and longest, Servant Song. The author of this Gospel takes great pains to show that Jesus sought to remain faithful to his calling despite the pressures he faced, just as the righteous sufferers of old also held to their faith.
The Gethsemane scene draws on imagery from Hebrew Scripture to underline this. The narrative evokes the suffering of the faithful righteous person, referring especially to some phrases found in the Psalms. The Golgotha scene also contains this orientation. What takes place is interpreted with reference to scripture; here, the allusions are both subtle, and more direct.
However, at the end, Jesus appears to lament that God has abandoned him; yet the cry which Jesus utters at the ninth hour, Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani (15:34), is a clear reference to Psalm 22, one of the psalms of the righteous sufferer, as he quotes its first verse.
Psalm 22:1-8 in the St. Albans Psalter. The first words of the Psalm in the LatinVulgate are Deus, Deus meus, abbreviated here as DS DS MS.
This is the Psalm, unsurprisingly, which the lectionary offers for Good Friday. It is a psalm of individual lament, as the psalmist reflects the wretched condition of a person who is suffering unjustly, crying out, “why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? … I am a worm, and not a human … all who see me mock at me; they make mouths at me, they shake their heads …. I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast; my mouth is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to my jaws; you lay me in the dust of death.” (Ps 22:1, 6, 14–15). It is a psalm most suitable to,shape our reflection as we hear the narrative of crucifixion and death on Good Friday.
Two passages from Hebrews are suggested by the lectionary for this day. The “word of encouragement” to the Hebrews is best known for its thoroughly theological explanation of the death of Jesus as both the new high priest and also the sacrifice supreme. It is strongly supercessionist in its dismissal of the Jewish sacrifical system that was practised in the Temple; it posits that Jesus and his sacrifice replaces all of that. We need to take great care as we preach on such passages!
The first section of Hebrews that is offered for Good Friday (Heb 10:16–25) affirms “the confession of our faith” which is offered by the writer in response to God’s fidelity to the covenant in which “I will put my laws in their hearts, and I will write them on their minds” (10:16, quoting Jer 31:33b). This covenant provides “confidence” as it assures believers that “our hearts [are] sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies [are] washed with pure water” (10:22).
The writer affirms that “he who has promised is faithfully (10:23), for God asserts “I will remember their sins and their lawless deeds no more” (10:17, quoting Jer 31:34b). This understanding of the significance of the death of Jesus, as God’s chosen victim who effects redemption, plays a key role in the development of an understanding of the atonement in later generations. The writer rejoices with his audience that they have “our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water” (10:22).
The other excerpt from Hebrews (4:14–16; 5:7–9) provides two brief snapshots of Jesus. These two excerpts focus more on the humanity of Jesus, helping us to enter more fully into the Good Friday story. Jesus is tested as we are, yet has the strength of character not to submit to sin (4:15). The effect of the story of his passion in light of this would therefore be to provide the exemplar supreme for faithful people, holding fast in the midst of suffering.
This letter also indicates that Jesus knew the anguish and despair of human tragedy, as he prayed “with loud cries and tears” (5:7). Submission, suffering, and obedience lead, for Jesus, to perfection (5:9), making him “the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him” (5:10). As we reflect on this story from centuries ago, may we know the same dynamic, moving us from our sufferings into a sense of God’s salvation.
Last week, the lectionary offered Mark’s account of the passion of Jesus, in preparation for Passion Sunday. On Good Friday the whole story is offered again for our reflection on those events, from John’s account, which has some distinctive features. As we consider the significance of the death of Jesus, the comment in 18:14 (hearking back to 11:50) provides a classic political (and theological) insight. Jesus then asserts that “I have always taught in synagogues and in the temple … I have said nothing in secret” (18:20). His words and life are for all.
When he is before Pilate, rather than being silent (Mark 15:5), Jesus here engages in a quasi-philosophical debate about kingship and truth which is reported only in John’s Gospel (John 18:33–38; 19:8–12). Mocked by the Roman soldiers as a king (19:1–3), Jesus is sentenced by the Roman Governor under the ironic accusation, “King of the Jews” (19:15, 19–22). The irony in this title is made clear by the Johannine author’s observation that “the chief priests of the Jews said to Pilate, “Do not write, ‘The King of the Jews,’ but, ‘This man said, I am King of the Jews.’ ” (19:21).
Distinctive to John’s account is the presence of the mother of Jesus and the beloved disciple (19:25–27), witnessing a majestic final moment for Jesus. “It is finished” (19:30), the final word of Jesus in this Gospel, is better translated, “It now comes to complete fulfilment”, a recognition that now “the hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified” (12:23).
The whole sequence of events recounted in this narrative (John 18–19) is understood as fulfilment of scripture (19:24, 28, 36, 37). God’s will is done. That is the ultimate perspective that this particular narrative offers each Good Friday.
“They took Jesus to the high priest; and all the chief priests, the elders, and the scribes were assembled” (Mark 14:53). That’s how the author of the good news of Jesus the chosen one reports the scene when the fate of Jesus is sealed (Mark 14:53–65). Accused of predicting that the Temple would be destroyed (14:58), Jesus is interrogated by the high priest (14:60–63) before the declaration is made: “you have heard his blasphemy!” (14:64).
After further consultation by the chief priests “with the elders and scribes and the whole council”, Jesus is led away to Pilate, the Roman Governor (15:1). And so the fateful course of events is set in motion—questioned by Pilate, sentenced to be crucified, nailed to a cross where he dies, and the the lifeless body of Jesus is handed over to some of his followers (15:2–47).
The other evangelists follow suit. One notes that “the assembly of the elders of the people, both chief priests and scribes, gathered together, and they brought him to their council” (Luke 22:66), another specifies that “they took him to Caiaphas the high priest, in whose house the scribes and the elders had gathered” (Matt 26:57). The fourth gospel reports that “first they took him to Annas, who was the father-in-law of Caiaphas, the high priest that year” (John 18:13), and subsequently “Annas sent him bound to Caiaphas the high priest” (John 18:28).
The account of the time that Jesus spent being interrogated by them Jewish leadership appears, on the surface, to be an objective account of what transpired in that meeting. The council was the Great Sanhedrin, the supreme religious body in Israel during the Second Temple period—from the time when the exiles returned to the land under Nehemiah, until the destruction of the Temple in the year 70 CE. See more at https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/the-sanhedrin
The source of the narrative in Mark 14 is unclear; indeed, the narrator has emphasised just before reporting on this meeting that when Jesus was seized in the garden by “a crowd with swords and clubs [who had come] from the chief priests, the scribes, and the elders” (14:43), after a token display of resistance (14:47), “all [of his followers] deserted him and fled” (14:50).
The narrator underscores this with a tantalising glimpse of the figure whom I (anachronistically) call “the first Christian streaker”— “a certain young man [who] was following him” who escaped the grasp of those in the crowd, shedding his linen cloth, “and “ran off naked” (14:51–52). And Peter, most pointedly, was outside the chamber, warming himself by the fire (14:54), and denying that he even knew Jesus—not once, but three times (14:68,70,71). There was nobody—absolutely nobody—from amongst the followers of Jesus who was present to witness what transpired as Jesus was brought before “the chief priests and the whole council” (14:55).
So how do we know what happened in that council meeting?
Further exploration of the scene is warranted. Such further examination might well consider some key factors. When did the council meet? Where did they meet? How did they conduct their business? And how did they come to a decision about Jesus?
To guide any exploration of these matters, scholars have turned—with due caution—to a Jewish text which sets out the designated procedures for a meeting of the Jewish council at which serious matters such as blasphemy were considered. The due caution is warranted, because the text is found in the Mishnah, a document written early in the third century CE—thus, almost 200 years after the time when Jesus was said to have been brought before the council. Did the provisions of this 3rd century text apply in the 1st century?
The opening page of the Kaufmann manuscript of the Mishnah, the most complete early manuscript of the Mishnah, dated to the 10th or 11th centuries CE.
And such caution is intensified by the fact that the Mishnah is written at a time long after most Jews had been expelled from Jerusalem. This expulsion was finalised during the abortive uprising by Bar Kochba in 132–135 CE. Indeed, the book was written well after the time when the Sanhedrin had ceased to function as the peak legislative and judicial body in Jerusalem. After the failed war against the Romans of 66—74 CE, there was no longer any such body operating in Jerusalem. Yet 150 years later, a text was written that set out specific details of how the council was to function.
So some interpreters claim that this account is simply to be seen as an idealistic, romanticised recreation of “how things used to be”, expressed in such a way that is oblivious to the reality of the time—that there was no longer a functioning Sanhedrin in Jerusalem.
Alongside these notes of caution, we must hear also the claim that is made, not just about this text, but about many texts within the body of rabbinic literature that survives, from first through to sixth centuries. That claim is that, in an oral culture such as Second Temple Judaism and Rabbinic Judaism, where stories and laws and prescriptions and debates were passed on by word of mouth, from teacher to student, from that student to their student, and so on—the reliability and historical validity of what is written can be assessed positively.
For myself, given what I have learnt in recent years about the importance and validity of stories and laws passed on over time in the oral cultures of First Nations peoples in Australia, I am inclined to accept this positive assessment of the ancient Jewish oral traditions in general, although specific texts are always open to informed critical exploration of their details.
I’m aware also, from discussions that have happened in the Uniting Church Dialogue with Jewish People that Elizabeth and I were members of for some years, that many rabbis today, who know their sacred texts well, consider that the Gospel narratives about this scene cannot be historical—for reasons that will be explored in what follows.
So, what does this text from the Mishnah say about a council meeting called to interrogate a possible criminal, such as we find in the Gospel narratives about Jesus? The relevant passages are in chapters 4 and 5 of tractate Sanhedrin, a part of the fourth order, Nezikin, which deals with Jewish criminal and civil law and the Jewish court system. And a comparison between the Gospel narratives and the Mishnah provisions raises a number of problems.
At night
The first matter is that the meeting with Jesus took place at night. Earlier, the narrator of Mark’s account has reported that the disciples “prepared the Passover meal; when it was evening, he came with the twelve” (14:16–17). Some hours later, after Jesus is apprehended in the Garden, he is taken to “the high priest … the chief priests, the elders, and the scribes” (Mark 14:53). It is still night when that meeting takes place. After coming to their decision that Jesus was “deserving death”, (14:64), the narrator notes that “as soon as it was morning, the chief priests held a consultation with the elders and scribes and the whole council” (15:1a).
So this meeting took place at night. But Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:1 states, “in cases of capital law, the court judges during the daytime, and concludes the deliberations and issues the ruling only in the daytime.” A court meeting at night, to determine a matter in which a person is determined to be “ deserving death”, is contrary to this provision.
The same section of the Mishnah also states that “in cases of capital law, the court may conclude the deliberations and issue the ruling even on that same day to acquit the accused, but must wait until the following day to find him liable” (Sanhedrin 4:1). Coming to a decision of guilty in the same session as the evidence is heard, without an overnight pause for the members of the council to consider, was also contrary to what was required. In the case of Jesus, this provision has been breached.
On a feast day
A second matter is that the meeting with Jesus took place during a festival. The whole sequence of events begins “on the first day of Unleavened Bread, when the Passover lamb is sacrificed” (14:12). At the end of their interrogation of Jesus, the narrator notes that “they bound Jesus, led him away, and handed him over to Pilate” (15:1b), and then observes that “at the festival he used to release a prisoner for them, anyone for whom they asked” (15:6).
Again, the provisions in Sanhedrin 4:1 state that “since capital cases might continue for two days, the court does not judge cases of capital law on certain days, neither on the eve of Shabbat [Sabbath] nor the eve of a Festival.” So the Markan narrative is in breach of this provision as well, by reporting that this meeting took place during Passover.
In the lack of evidence for this custom of releasing a prisoner at Passover, see more at
Where exactly did this interrogation of Jesus take place? The implication in Mark is that the council was meeting in the house of Caiaphas. “Peter had followed him at a distance, right into the courtyard of the high priest; and he was sitting with the guards, warming himself at the fire” (14:54). This implication is made explicit at Matt 26:57 (“they took him to Caiaphas the high priest, in whose house the scribes and the elders had gathered”) and Luke 22:54 (“bringing him into the high priest’s house”).
Once more, this flies in the face of the prescriptions of tractate. Later in the tractate Sanhedrin, there is a reference to “the Sanhedrin of seventy-one judges that is in the Chamber of Hewn Stone” (Sanhedrin 11:2). This means the meeting should have taken place in this part of the Temple; in the Babylonian Talmud, it is stated to have been in the north wall (b.Yoma 25a). The Gospel narratives locate the meeting with Jesus in the house of the high priest; this is a third breach of the Mishnaic provisions.
The witnesses did not agree
A fourth issue is the observation that Mark makes and then repeats, that “many gave false testimony against him, and their testimony did not agree. Some stood up and gave false testimony against him … even on this point their testimony did not agree” (14:56–59).
Tractate Sanhedrin requires a verdict to be made only if the witnesses are in agreement, declaring, “At a time when the witnesses contradict one another, their testimony is void” (Sanhedrin 5:2). In a later rabbinic text, the Talmud, this requirement is expanded: “afterward they bring in the second witness and examine him in the same manner. If their statements are found to be congruent the judges then discuss the matter” (b.Sanhedrin 29a). This clearly did not occur in the case of Jesus.
A page of the Babylonian Talmud, showing how the central text of Mishnah (in large print) is then commented upon in Gemara (in medium print) and later medieval notes (in small print) surround these in the margins.
These various matters would seem, on the surface, to indicate that the members of the council were so panicked by Jesus that they acted to condemn him with flagrant disregard for their own provisions—assuming that the later text of the Mishnah does, in fact, describe the requirements in place in the first century.
An alternative explanation is that the narrative was compiled by someone who was ignorant of these provisions, and they simply “made up” a narrative which demonstrated the desperation of the Jewish authorities to deal with Jesus and have him out of the way.
We should place this view alongside the observation that the narratives in the Gospels take a number of steps to minimise the blame that Pilate must bear for sentencing Jesus to he crucified.
On the flawed picture of Pilate in the Gospels and the implausibility of the role assigned to him in these accounts, see
Minimising the culpability of the governor of the imperial power in these events, and strengthening the role of the Jewish authorities, go hand-in-hand. A clear apologetic purpose is at work in this narrative. It made sense for the narrator to avoid further condemnation by Rome, which held continuing power during the time he was writing, and to magnify the blame of the Jewish authorities, with whom the fledgling movement of followers of Jesus had been in increasing tension and conflict.
In other words, the narrative of this trial before the Sanhedrin is both historically implausible, and apologetically purposeful, as it shifts the blame for sentencing Jesus more onto the Jewish authorities than on Pilate. And in a later scene, it is the Jewish crowd which calls for Pilate to hand down the sentence of death (“crucify him! crucify him!”, 15:13–14). That is a most unlikely occurrence, indeed.
And so another element grew in the developing Christian ideology which placed the blame for the death of Jesus on the Jewish authorities (and sadly, in later centuries, on “the Jews” themselves). It is a view that we would do well to reject.
The passage of Hebrew Scripture we hear this coming Sunday (Isa 50:4–9a) is a significant passage. It comes from the second section of this long book (Isa 40—55), which opens with the familiar song, “comfort, comfort all my people” (Isa 40:1). Widely considered to be written in a period later than the earlier section (Isa 1—39), this section of Isaiah is called Second Isaiah. (The third main section, chapters 56—66, is called Third Isaiah.)
The comfort sung about by the prophet speaks to the situation of the people: their forebears had been taken into exile by the Babylonians in 587 BCE, and now a new generation (perhaps four to five decades later) yearns to return to the land of Israel, given to the people in ancient times, as recounted in the foundational myth—story of the Exodus. Other parts of the Hebrew Bible reflect the anguish of the people during their time of Exile (Ps 137 is the most famous instance). Deutero-Isaiah, however, focuses consistently on the hope of return to the land of Israel.
Looking to the new power of Persia to permit this return, the prophet of this later period speaks with hope and joy, to the people living in exile, using vivid imagery and dramatic scenes of promise and confidence. A joyous, positive tone runs right through the oracles in this section of Isaiah. “I am about to do a new thing”, says the Lord; “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert” (43:19). “I will pour water on the thirsty land and streams on the dry ground”, the Lord continues; “I will pour my spirit upon your descendants, and my blessing on your offspring” (44:3).
Deutero-Isaiah is fundamental for the theological developments that we find in the New Testament. Scattered through this section, we find four Songs of the Servant—three relatively brief (42:1–9; 49:1–7; 50:4–11); and the fourth, best-known within Christian circles, a longer description of the servant who “was despised and rejected by others; a man of suffering and acquainted with infirmity” (Isa 52:13–53:12).
The resonances that this longer song has with the passion narrative of Jesus are crystal clear. The song is explicitly linked with Jesus six times in the New Testament (Matt 8:14–17; Luke 22:35–38; John 12:37–41; Acts 8:26–35; Romans 10:11–21; 1 Pet 2:19–25); furthermore, so many of the details of the passion narrative are shaped in the light of this song, along with a number of psalms of the righteous sufferer. (See
The third of these songs, which we hear this coming Passion Sunday, portrays the speaker as a Teacher. The resonances of this song with the story of Jesus are also clear. The punishment experienced by the Teacher—his back is struck, his beard is pulled, he is insulted, people spit on his face (Isa 50:6)—is echoed in the punishments inflicted on Jesus by Roman soldiers and Jewish passers-by. He is struck with a reed by Roman soldiers and spat upon (Mark 15:19). He is insulted by passers-by and the Jewish authorities (Mark 15:29–32).
The lectionary offers us this passage for Passion Sunday, a time when we reflect at some length on the passion of Jesus, which we recall also each Good Friday. The lectionary also offers the full story of the fate of Jesus after he entered Jerusalem at Passover. This part of the Gospel story (chapters 14–15 in Mark) is known as the passion narrative, because it tells about what Jesus suffered in his final days. (“Passion” comes from the Latin word passio, meaning suffering.)
The author of the beginning of the good news, which we know as Mark’s Gospel, seems to have been the first person (as far as we know from the evidence) who drew together a number of expressions about the way of Jesus, and worked them into a single, cohesive whole, in a continuous narrative style.
This narrative recounts the death of Jesus by relating it to the figure of righteous person who suffers injustice, who appears in various Hebrew Scripture passages. The author of this Gospel takes great pains to show that Jesus remains faithful to his calling despite the pressures he faces, just as the righteous sufferer of old also held to their faith.
The Gethsemane scene (Mark 14:32–42) draws on imagery from Hebrew Scripture to underline this. The narrative evokes the suffering of the faithful righteous person, referring especially to some phrases found in the Psalms. The Golgotha scene (Mark 15:21–41) also contains this orientation. What takes place is interpreted with reference to scripture; here, the allusions are both subtle, and more direct. The cry which Jesus utters at the ninth hour, Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani (15:34), is a clear reference to Psalm 22, by quoting its first verse. See more at
The offering of Isa 50:4–9a thus “fits” with the way that the author of the Markan passion narrative presents to story of the final hours of Jesus. His intense feeling of the agony inflicted on him, and yet his steadfast grappling with the faith he holds, is to the fore. The story invites us into sombre meditation as we approach the annual return of Easter.
This coming Sunday, known as Palm Sunday, we will hear the story of Jesus, riding into Jerusalem, acclaimed by the crowds, for the festival of Passover. This year, we hear the story as it is told by Mark (Mark 11:1–11). It is a story which is well-known across the church, and is often re-enacted by children waving branches, adults singing songs—and sometimes a co-opted donkey—at this time of the year. It is a story which is often misinterpreted as portraying the gentle Jesus, meek and mild, receiving the accolades of the crowd with a beatific smile as he gently trots in to the city amidst the cheering crowd of pilgrims.
The actual story is far from that, however. If we read it carefully, we will find a number of indications that point us in quite a different direction entirely. There is no “gentle Jesus, meek and mild” in this story. Instead, we find a politically acute Jesus, provocatively and deliberately entering the city at the start of the important festival of Passover, with a clear message to the people of Israel and to the powers of Rome.
(The interpretation that follows is the result of careful exploration of the text in the context of Jewish and Roman history, that my wife Elizabeth and I have undertaken. See the end of the blog for more details.)
The political focus of Passover
The festival of Passover recalls the story that is told in the Hebrew Scriptures, about the exodus of Israel out of Egypt. This is a story of the liberation of an oppressed people, suffering under the burdens of forced labour. Every year throughout the centuries, Jews have recounted the sequence of events that led to the miraculous escape from slavery of their ancestors, crossing through the Sea of Reeds, travelling unhindered through the wilderness, towards a land which the story claims was promised by God—a promised land, gifted to a chosen people by a holy God (Exod 13–15).
Passover is therefore a political festival, recalling a central event in which the leader of a group of enslaved people confronted the leader of an oppressive power and gained liberation through divine intervention. In the time of Jesus, Jews from around the ancient world flocked to Jerusalem for this high moment of celebration, and the story was retold each year with notes of jubilation and joy.
During feast days, especially at each Passover, tensions reached fever pitch. Fervent Jews known as Zealots would use the opportunity of the many pilgrims in the city to mingle in the crowd with daggers hidden under their tunic—and take the opportunity to cause a commotion in the crowd, hoping that they could stab Roman soldiers, their dreaded enemy. The Romans increased their military presence to prevent open revolt. (See Josephus, Jewish War 2:255; Jewish Antiquities 20:186.)
So the Roman soldiers charged with keeping the peace in Jerusalem at Passover would therefore have been on high alert as the pilgrims entered the city. It is in this context that the story of Mark 11 takes place.
Riding on a donkey shows messianic intention
Jesus, seated on the colt, riding on a donkey, was the centre of attention—at least for his own followers (Mark 11:7). Those in the crowd who knew their scriptures, would have immediately recognised the allusion. What did this mean for observant Jews? First, Jesus was on a donkey, not a horse. Indeed, Jesus, as a faithful Jew, would never ride in triumph on a horse! See more at
The account of this story that we find in Matthew’s Gospel actually specifies the verse that interprets the significance of the donkey (Matt 21:4-5). Matthew refers to Zechariah 9:9, where a clear vision is offered: “your king comes to you, triumphant and victorious, humble and riding on a donkey”. And Zechariah himself may well have been referencing the moment when the young Solomon is summonsed to his father, the old king, David, and instructed to “ride on my own mule, and bring him down to Gihon” (1 Ki 1:33)—which Solomon duly does (1 Ki 1:38).
On his arrival, “the priest Zadok took the horn of oil from the tent and anointed Solomon. Then they blew the trumpet, and all the people said, “Long live King Solomon!” And all the people went up following him, playing on pipes and rejoicing with great joy, so that the earth quaked at their noise.” (1 Ki 1:39–40). Solomon’s journey on a mule is the journey to his accession to the throne. The resonances in the story about Jesus are clear.
That is what the reference to the words of the prophet evokes. In this story of Passover pilgrims, Jesus can be seen to be bringing the prophetic vision to fruition, as the fulfilment of the role that kingship plays in Israel. Zechariah’s vision declares that this coming ruler “shall command peace to the nations, and his dominion will be from sea to sea, from the river to the ends of the earth” (Zech 9:10). That is the vision that Jesus evokes as he rides into Jerusalem on this donkey.
The cries of the crowd evoke political resistance to Rome
The crowd sings out, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord” (Mark 11:9). The words were familiar words to observant Jews; they clearly evoke a well-known and oft-sung psalm, Psalm 118: “Save us, we beseech you, O Lord! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord” (Ps 118:25–26).
Why were they singing this psalm? Psalm 118 was one of the HallelPsalms, the Praise Psalms, which were associated with celebrations on each of the three great festival days—the Feast of Tabernacles, or Booths; the Feast of Weeks, or Pentecost; and the Feast of Passover. These psalms of praise became particularly associated with the celebrations of the rebuilding of the Temple.
Rebuilding the Temple was an inherently political action. It was the foreign invasion of Palestine by the Hellenistic Seleucids some two centuries before Jesus which had led to the destruction of the Temple. It was the political activity of the Jewish Maccabees which had led to the reclaiming of the Temple two decades later.
The HallelPsalms had become Psalms of Praise for liberating political activity. When the people cried out “hosanna”, a word from their native Hebrew language, they were crying “save us”. It is a cry for salvation; a yearning for deliverance. This is what the people were singing out; so the people singing this at the festival of Passover as Jesus entered the city was a strong political statement. See more at
This Sunday in the church year is traditionally called Palm Sunday. However, no palms are mentioned in the reading we have heard from Mark’s version of the story (nor in Matthew or Luke). That the branches are from palm trees is noted only in John’s version (John 12:13). Both Mark (11:8) and Matthew (21:8) refer to branches that the people cut and placed on the ground, even though they don’t specify that they are palm branches. (Nevertheless, waving palm branches has come to define this day—Palm Sunday—in contemporary re-enactments.)
This waving of palm branches was an activity intimately associated with the actions of the Maccabees, who were men from a priestly family who took up arms to fight back the Seleucid overlords and reclaim the Temple. The instructions in one of the Jewish books (2 Maccabees 10) direct the people to “carry ivy-wreathed wands and beautiful branches and fronds of palms, and offer hymns of thanksgiving to [God] who had given success to the purifying of their own holy place”. So the palms that are noted in John’s Gospel, at least, evoke the famous military campaign of centuries earlier.
The cloaks on the ground recall political leadership
Some people threw their cloaks over the donkey before Jesus sat on it—but Mark also notes that “many people spread their cloaks on the ground” (Mark 11:8). This is a curious detail; what can this mean? Perhaps the more astute of the Jews along the side of the road, would have had some insight; perhaps they recalled the story of the time when a young prophet from Ramoth-gilead declared that God was anointing Jehu, the son of Jehoshaphat, as the next king of Israel.
The story is recounted in 2 Kings 9, and it contains this striking detail, as the prophet decreed, “Thus says the Lord, ‘I anoint you king over Israel’”, and so they took their cloaks and spread them for him on the bare steps, and blew the trumpet, and proclaimed, ‘Jehu is King’” (2 Kings 9:13). There are clear resonances with the story of the Passover pilgrims. The cloaks on the steps, when Jehu is King … the cloaks on the wayside, when Jesus comes as King.
So Jesus, the prophet from Nazareth in Galilee, entered the city in the midst of the pilgrims, for the festival of Passover. Did he come as King, in the minds of the crowd? The festival of Passover was a most appropriate time for him to enter the city and make his mark as God’s chosen King. The donkey and the songs, the branches and the cloaks, all point to the immediate political significance of this event.
The incident in the temple sets the ball rolling
Once in the city, Jesus goes to the temple, where another famous incident occurs. Jesus, as he is portrayed in the striking account of this incident, demonstrates very little gracious, self-effacing humility. There is no “gentle Jesus, meek and mild” here, to be sure! Rather, Jesus is acting out his righteous anger, embodying zealous piety.
Jesus enters the temple precincts, overturning the tables of the money changers (Mark 11:15; Matt 21:12) and driving them out of the temple area (Mark 11:15; Matt 21:12; Luke 19:45). In John’s account, Jesus also tips out the coins of those money changers and knits together cords to form a whip (John 2:15), by which he drives out the moment changers. (Of course, John has completely relocated this scene to the beginning of the public activity of Jesus, rather than near its end, as in the Synoptic accounts of this scene).
Jesus was entering the area with intention and purpose. What was taking place there was, in his eyes, contrary to God’s will. So he performs a prophetic action designed to convey his message to those present (and to those of us in later times who hear and read the account of this incident).
James McGrath notes that “both the selling of animals for sacrifices and the payment of the temple tax were activities required by Jewish law and central to the temple’s functions” (see https://www.bibleodyssey.org/en/passages/main-articles/jesus-and-the-moneychangers). What Jesus does is therefore not an incidental act of anger; it is part of a deliberate plan of action.
McGrath suggests that the reference to the Temple as a marketplace might be an allusion to the eschatological prophecy of Zechariah, that “there shall no longer be traders in the house of the Lord of hosts on that day” (Zech 14:21). Is Jesus enacting this prophecy through his actions in the Temple forecourt?
Certainly, the actions of Jesus when “he would not allow anyone to carry anything through the temple” was confronting. He accuses the money changers of making the temple “a den of robbers” (Mark 11:17, Matt 21:13, and Luke 19:46). That most likely references the rhetorical question of the prophet Jeremiah: “Has this house, which is called by my name, become a den of robbers in your sight?” (Jer 7:11).
Gail O’Day considers that “by going to the Jerusalem temple and disrupting the practices that were necessary for the celebration of Passover, Jesus places himself in a long line of Israel’s prophets who go to Jerusalem, the center of religious and political power, and announce and enact the word of God.” (see https://www.bibleodyssey.org/en/passages/related-articles/cleansing-or-cursing)
In this dramatic prophetic action, Jesus acts and speaks carefully, deliberately, with “righteous anger”. He makes it clear what he is standing against, and what he is working towards—and he knows what the cost will be for him. After his dramatic entry into the city (Mark 11:1–11), he then presses on relentlessly into the temple (Mark 11:15–17), even symbolising his message in what he says to the fig tree: “may no one ever eat fruit from you again” (Mark 11:12–14).
Jesus knows exactly what he is doing. He has set in motion the events that will lead to his death: “when the chief priests and the scribes heard it, they kept looking for a way to kill him; for they were afraid of him” (Mark 11:18). His actions in the temple precincts were just as political as his entry into the city.
This is no “gentle Jesus, meek and mild”. This is a leader acting with a clear, focussed intent, regardless of the cost to himself and his followers. So this Palm Sunday, let us banish the Sunday School stereotype of Jesus, and acknowledge him in his full and fierce expression of his faith.
This blog on the Palm Sunday story is based on research by Elizabeth Raine and John Squires, published in Validating Violence—Violating Faith? Religion, Scripture and Violence. Edited by W. Emilsen & J.T. Squires, ATF Press, Adelaide 2008. See https://assembly.uca.org.au/rof/images/stories/interfaithsep/25sept.pdf
Continuing my explorations of the First Peoples of the area which has been cared for by the Gringai people for millennia. The traditional lands of the Gringai include an area centred on the place where the town of Dungog is situated, next to the Williams River. It is thought that the name Dungog is derived from a word meaning “clear hills” in the Gringai language.
It seems that in Gringai land (as elsewhere), contact with whites led to a decline in the numbers of Indigenous peoples in the area within a relatively short time. It is estimated that around 500 Gringai people would have lived in the area in the late 18th century. However, interactions with the invading settlers soon reduced this number. Syphilis contracted from convicts, and other introduced diseases, contributed to this decline in numbers. By 1847, thirty Gringai children had died of measles.
In 1845, Dr McKinlay, a Dungog-based doctor, had reported that the ‘District of Dungog’ (which he described as ‘from Clarence Town to Underbank’), had 63 Aboriginal inhabitants, made up of 46 ‘men and boys’, 14 women, and three children.
Dr Ellar McKellar McKinlay (1816–1889), the first white medical practitioner in Dungog
McKinlay also estimated that this was only half the number of Aboriginal people living there ten years earlier, which he attributed to “diseases which affected the women and children in particular”. Although typical of its time, this explanation offered an easy way for the invading settlers to excuse their dominating colonising activities, which included poisoning and shooting “the natives”.
The well-to-do British settlers had high status within the developing society of the Colony. Many deployed their assigned convicts to the work of clearing land and building houses around the district. By the early 1830s the centre of the district was a small settlement first known as Upper William. A Court of Petty Sessions was established in 1833; in 1836, John M’Gibbons was appointed to be the Watch-house Keeper, and Thomas Brown, holding a Ticket-of-Leave, to be Constable at Dungog.
There is a most informative website, History in the Williams Valley, which provides further details. It notes that “Tenders were called in 1837 for the erection of a Mounted Police Barracks and the Police Magistrate was transferred from Port Stephens to Dungog. The first courthouse and lockup was on land now occupied by Dungog Public School and St Andrews Presbyterian Church. The barracks were placed on another hill dominating the town which, after the withdrawal of the troopers, was converted into a new courthouse that continues to operate today.”
It is courtesy of the records of this local court house that two individuals of the Gringai are known by name, because of their arrests and trials. Wong-ko-bi-kan (Jackey) and Charley were both arrested within a year or so of each other in the 1830s.
Dungog early in the period of white settlement
On 3 April 1834, Jackey (Wong-ko-bi-Kan) was judged guilty and sentenced to be transported to Van Diemen’s Land for manslaughter, after he had speared and killed the settler John Flynn. Flynn had been a member of an armed troop of nine settlers who went to the Gringai camp at the Williams River at dawn to arrest some of them for culling sheep on their land.
From another perspective, of course, Wong-ko-bi-kan could be said to have been defending the native camp from armed intruders. True justice would have been to uphold his rights to his ancestral land—but in this instance, as with thousands of similar cases, the justice that was meted out favoured the recent invading colonisers, not the longterm inhabitants of the land.
It was said that Wong-ko-bi-kan’s case elicited some sympathy from the presiding judge and several observers, because of the way the settlers had approached the native camp with aggression. Wong-ko-bi-kan did not spend much time in Van Diemen’s Land; he died there in prison in October 1834. A sad end to a sorry tale.
The current Court House in Dungog (built some decades after the original building)
Another Gringai man, known only as Charley, was arrested in May 1835, soon after the incident with Wong-ko-bi-kan. In August of that year, he was deemed responsible for the death of five convict shepherds who were working for Robert Mackenzie (who would later become Premier of Queensland). Mackenzie had a property at Rawden Vale, 26 miles west of Gloucester.
Charley’s interpreter in the course case was Lancelot Threlkeld, a missionary who had been appointed by the London Missionary Society (LMS) to teach Aboriginal people European agricultural and carpentry skills, and to establish a school for children. The LMS also required Threlkeld to learn the local language, for this was seen to be a precursor which would open the way for successful Christian conversions amongst the Aboriginal people.
Threlkeld reported Charley’s defence, that he had acted after an Englishman had stolen a sacred object, a talisman called a muramai. The man showed the muramai to a native woman with whom he was cohabitating. Charley’s actions were thus in accord with his tribal law, consistent with a decision had been made by the elders.
Charley was sentenced to be hung in public as a warning to other Gringai; this took place in Dungog. Local historian Michael Williams comments that “Charley … was both an enforcer of one law and the victim of the enforcement of another set of laws.” One later story, recounted in 1922 in the Wingham Chronicle, suggests that a raiding party set out to enforce the verdict by hunting other Gringai, managing to round some up and push them all over a cliff at Barrington.
An impression of a government convict gang in the 1830s
A report in the Sydney Gazette for 27 June 1835 that relates to the Dungog area refers to “the insolence and outrage of Convicts who in the service of gentleman squatters … and out of the reach almost of a magistrate, offend and ill-treat the poor blacks with impunity.” The next year, settler Lawrence Myles, J.P., requested assistance from mounted police because of intelligence he had received “that the Blacks are becoming more troublesome” (from the Dungog Magistrates’ Letterbook of 15 May 1836).
Nevertheless, in 1838 the Police Magistrate, Mr Cook, wrote to the Colonial Secretary that “the conduct of all the Blacks in this neighbourhood has been quiet and praiseworthy during the last two years”. Cook noted this in his Return on Natives taken at blanket distribution for 1838. In this region, as elsewhere in the Colony, the annual report of blankets distributed gives an idea of the numbers of Aboriginal people who were in contact with the British colony.
From the records of blanket distribution, names of some Gringai people are known today: Mereding, known as King Bobby, who had two wives; Dangoon, or Old Bungarry; Tondot, known as Jackey; as well as some men from the Wangat group. The report for 1837 lists 144 “natives”; undoubtedly there were more living in the area not identified in the report. Men named Fulham Derby and Pirrson are identified in a legal process of the same year, for instance, as noted in the Dungog Magistrates’ Letterbook for 14 December 1837.
In the Maitland Mercury for 18 July 1846 (p.2), a visitor to Dungog reported, “On the skirts of the brushwood, we came upon some tribes of blacks, encamped. They are a very fine race here, being chiefly natives of Port Stephens and its neighbourhood. A princely-looking savage, almost hid in glossy curls of dark rich hair, calling himself “Boomerang Jackey,” smiled and bowed most gracefully, saying, “bacco, massa? any bacco?” Some chiefs, with shields, and badges of honour on their breasts, sat silently by the fire with some very young natives, who were going to a “wombat,” or “grand corrobbaree,” when the moon got up.”
Later that same year, the Maitland Mercury (2 Dec 1848, p.2) reported that some farmers in the Paterson area were employing local natives—the price demanded by white labourers was considered too high. “They have certainly exhibited an industry, perseverance, and skill in the execution of their task which cannot be surpassed by Celt or Saxon”, said one farmer. Another noted, “they have done their work very creditably; but unfortunately their habits of industry are not of long duration, and they could not be kept long enough at work to make themselves really valuable.”
The Williams Valley Historical site then notes that “In the last quarter for the 19th century there was an increasing consciousness of severe Aboriginal population decline, the attitude to which was mixed. Many were indifferent; some welcomed it as removing a problem, while a few looked on with pity and made efforts to assist the survivors.”
This site also notes that a number of the settlers exhibited “an interest in tribal habits and customs … of a scientific and anthropological nature … thus James Boydell compiled lists of Aboriginal words, and Dr McKinlay and others made various observations, many of which were used by Howitt. Howitt [also] compiled a study based upon information elicited from many locations, including the Dungog area.” (Howitt, Alfred William, The native tribes of south-east Australia.)
A photograph of a group of Aboriginal children (date and place unknown) under the care of the Aborigines Protection Board
By the 1880s, across the Colony, a paternalistic approach to dealing with Aboriginal people had gained hold. A “Protector of Aborigines” was appointed, then replaced with the “Aborigines Protection Board”. The Board disapproved of “the system of issuing Government rations to able bodied aboriginals, as it tends to encourage idleness in a large degree”, and maintained that “a supply of flour, suet, and raisins sufficient to make a pudding can be issued to the aged, young and helpless, and those unable to earn a living through bodily infirmity, for Christmas Day”. (Maitland Mercury, 23 July 1887, p.13)
Numbers reported in ensuing years varied, but those noted in various locations were inevitably small. A man named “Brandy” was tagged as “The Last of the Gringai” by writers in the area—but, as is always the case (witness the famous case of Triganini, in Tasmania), this claim ignores the reality of the forced movement and relocation, as we as the continued intermarriage of Gringai with nearby Worimi and Wonnarua peoples. People of Gringai heritage are found today across many parts of The Hunter region, and in Sydney.
After the passing of the Native Title Act in 1993, a group of local Indigenous people worked to make a claim for an area of roughly 9,500 square kilometres (3,700 sq mi). The claim included the towns of Singleton, Muswellbrook, Dungog, Maitland, and the shire council lands of the Upper Hunter.
The claim was made on behalf of the Plains Clans of the Wonnarua People by Scott Franks and Anor, on 19 August 2013. The claim was registered in January 2015 and referred to the Federal Court to deliberate over the claim and to make a determination. However, it was ultimately discontinued and removed from the register of native title claims on 2 March 2020.
The discontinuance appears to have been the result of disputes with other Aboriginal people who claimed native title in the area. These disputes led to an independent anthropologist, Dr Lee Sackett, being appointed by the Court to prepare a report to resolve the different views of native title in the area. Dr Sackett’s conclusions were to the effect that key details of the claim’s structure were not supported by the evidence.
“Put a new and right spirit within me”, the psalmist sings (Ps 51:10), in the psalm that is offered by the lectionary for this coming Sunday, the Fifth Sunday in Lent, as a companion piece for the well-known Hebrew Scripture passage for this Sunday about the “new covenant” to be given to Israel and Judah (Jer 31:31–34).
Perhaps the key to this passage comes in the prophet’s words from God, “this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel; I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people.” (Jer 31:33). For more on this passage, see
The prophet indicates that the promise God offers is that “I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more” (Jer 31:34b), which is perhaps why the psalmist is confident to pray for God to have mercy: “blot out my transgressions, wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin” (v.2), then “purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow” (v.7), and still more, “hide your face from my sins, and blot out all my iniquities” (v.9).
Forgiveness of sin has been a characteristic of the Lord God throughout the narrative books which tell the saga of Israel. Abraham bargains with God about forgiving Sodom (Gen 18:22–33). Moses likewise pleads with God, after the people had built a Golden Calf, to forgive them—“but if not, blot me out of the book that you have written” (Exod 32:32).
Yet these narratives also make it clear that God’s forgiving nature needs to be balanced by an understanding of the vengeance that upholds divine justice. In the wilderness of Paran, after spies returned from Canaan and stirred up discontent amongst the people, Moses recognises this capacity for vengeance; he implores the Lord not to kill the people in retaliation, praying, “forgive the iniquity of this people according to the greatness of your steadfast love, just as you have pardoned this people, from Egypt even until now”—to which the Lord God replied, “I have forgiven them, just as you have asked” (Num 14:19–20).
This story also indicates that divine forgiveness was conditional, for God immediately declared, “none of the people who have seen my glory and the signs that I did in Egypt and in the wilderness, and yet have tested me these ten times and have not obeyed my voice, shall see the land that I swore to give to their ancestors; none of those who despised me shall see it” (Num 14:22–23).
Later in this same book, note is made that “the Lord will forgive” a woman who makes a vow that displeases her father (Num 30:5) or her husband (Num 30:8, 12). God clearly sided with the male who had positional authority in the patriarchal structures of society!
At the renewal of the covenant when the people are in the land of Canaan, Joshua reminds the people that “you cannot serve the Lord, for he is a holy God. He is a jealous God; he will not forgive your transgressions or your sins. If you forsake the Lord and serve foreign gods, then he will turn and do you harm, and consume you, after having done you good” (Josh 24:19–20).
When Solomon dedicates the temple, he recounts the saga of Israel and five times asks for God to “hear in heaven” and “forgive your people who have sinned against you, and all their transgressions that they have committed against you” (1 Kings 8:30, 34, 36, 39, 50). And when Ezra leads a ceremony of rededication for the people as they return to the land after exile, in his extended prayer he reminds God, “you are a God ready to forgive, gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, and you did not forsake them” (Neh 9:17).
So the psalmists pray for God to forgive sins (Ps 25:18; 65:3; 79:9), confident that “there is forgiveness with you, so that you may be revered” (Ps 130:4). Amos prays to God, “O Lord God, forgive, I beg you!How can Jacob stand? He is so small!” (Amos 7:2), Daniel likewise pleads, “O Lord, hear; O Lord, forgive; O Lord, listen and act and do not delay!” (Dan 9:19).
Both Jeremiah (Jer 33:8; 36:3) and Ezekiel (Ezek 16:63) envisage that God will forgive, although Hosea reports the strident command of God when his wife bore a daughter: “name her Lo-ruhamah, for I will no longer have pity on the house of Israel or forgive them” (Hos 1:6). This is what we have come to expect from the prophetic word, which consistently berates the people and warns them of the judgement that God will bring upon them because of their sinfulness. See
By contrast, God continues, “I will have pity on the house of Judah, and I will save them by the Lord their God” (Hos 1:7). So forgiveness—limited, directed by divine decree—is indeed possible. Accordingly, we see in the psalm for this Sunday (Psalm 51:1–12) that the psalmist is confident to seek divine forgiveness, declaring “I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me” (v.3), even going so far as to say “I was born guilty, a sinner when my mother conceived me” (v.5).
That’s a serious claim. Augustine would certainly agree, no doubt. Personally, I find this a hard view to agree with, however; see
It is in the spirit of seeking divine compassion for the sinfulness of humanity that the psalmist ends this section of the psalm with another petition for forgiveness: “restore to me the joy of your salvation, and sustain in me a willing spirit” (v.12). In forgiveness, there is joy at what God does and a willingness to continue to work with God into the future.
These ancient words, we can be confident, stand as relevant and nourishing for people of faith today, deep into this Lenten season. And so we hear this psalm this coming Sunday.
“The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified” (John 12:23). So Jesus says to Andrew and Philip, who come with a request from “some Greeks” who were in Jerusalem for the festival of Passover (12:20; see 12:1). Two terms in this declaration by Jesus require exploration; two terms which are key ideas in this Gospel, the book of signs.
The story which John’s Gospel reports contains a contrast between the largely public activities of Jesus, and a secret element, described as the hour, which does not come until the climax of the story is reached. There are pointers to this contrast from the very first sign, at a wedding in Cana, when Jesus declares, “my hour has not yet come” (2:4).
What is this hour? The first part of the Gospel leaves it as a mystery, for the time being (see 7:30 and 8:20). Then, after the seventh sign, events in Jerusalem show that the hour has come (12:23, 27); the narrator explains that “Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from the world” (13:1).
Thus, at the beginning and at the end of the public activities of Jesus in this Gospel narrative, the focus is firmly on “the hour”.
Then, some time later on, at the end of his last meal with his followers, Jesus finally prays: “Father, the hour has come: glorify your Son” (17:1). In what will take place after this prayer—the arrest, trial, crucifixion, burial, and resurrection of Jesus (John 18–21)—this “hour” is realised.
The Johannine Jesus describes these events, the fulfilment of “the hour”, as the means by which God is glorified (11:16, 23–33; 13:31–32; 17:4).
The word glory, in Hebrew Scriptures, signals the divine presence (Exod 16:1–12; 24:15–18; 40:34–39; Lev 9:22–24; Num 14:10–12; 16:19; Deut 5:22–27; 1 Sam 4:19–22). In the book of signs, it is God’s glory which is now made manifest in Jesus (John 1:14; 2:11; 12:27–28; 17:5).
The language of “hour” and “glory” thus provides a framework for interpreting the events in chapters 2–12 as steps on the way towards a full understanding of Jesus, and the events of chapters 13–21 as the realisation of God’s presence in the world in all its fullness. This is the heart of the incarnational theology that is advocated by the writer of this Gospel.
The story of the Gospel fills out the details as to how it is that “the Word became flesh and lived among us”, which means that for human beings, “we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth” (John 1:14).
The passage offered in this Sunday’s lectionary readings provide part of the Johannine account of the final public moments of Jesus before his arrest (12:20–50). Here, Jesus speaks of this imminent glory (12:20–26), an angel testifies to God’s glory in the death of Jesus (12:27–33), Jesus explains that he comes as light into the world (12:34–36), the scriptures join as witnesses (12:37–43) and Jesus asserts that he speaks God’s commandment of eternal life (12:44–50).
This scene sums up what has come before and opens the door to the events which follow, culminating in the cry of the crucified Jesus, “it is fulfilled” (19:30; the NRSV translation, “it is finished”, downplays the sense of fulfilment in the verb used, teleō). The author of this Gospel thereby indicates that the deepest fulfilment of the hour of Jesus comes on the cross, as the glory of God is revealed in its entirety.
The Gospel reading which the Narrative Lectionary proposes for this coming Sunday (Mark 13:1–8, 24–37) is an excerpt from a longer speech, a block of teaching which Jesus delivered to his disciples (13:3–37) some time after they had arrived in the city of Jerusalem (11:1–11). It’s a striking speech, with vivid language and dramatic imagery. As Jesus’ last long speech in this Gospel, it certainly makes a mark!
The speech is delivered beside the towering Temple, built under Solomon, rebuilt under Nehemiah (13:1, 3). That temple was a striking symbol for the people of Israel—it represented their heritage, their traditions, their culture. The Temple was the place where the Lord God dwelt, in the Holy of Holies; where priests received sacrifices, designed to enable God to atone for sins, and offerings, intended to express the people’s gratitude to God; where musicians led the people in singing of psalms and songs that exulted God, that petitioned God for help, that sought divine benevolence for the faithful covenant people.
Or so the story goes; so the scriptures said; so the priests proclaimed. The holiest place in the land that was holy, set apart and dedicated to God. Yet what does Jesus say about this magnificent construction? “Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down” (13:2). Jesus envisages the destruction of the Temple. Not only this; he locates that destruction within the context of widespread turmoil and disruption: “nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines” (13:8). And then, to seal this all, Jesus refers directly to the fact that “the end is still to come” (13:7).
The End. Eight centuries before Jesus, the prophet Amos had declared, “the LORD said to me, ‘the end has come upon my people Israel; I will never again pass them by’” (Amos 8:2). Amos continues, declaring that God has decreed that “on that day … I will make the sun go down at noon, and darken the earth in broad daylight. I will turn your feasts into mourning, and all your songs into lamentation; I will bring sackcloth on all loins, and baldness on every head; I will make it like the mourning for an only son, and the end of it like a bitter day” (Amos 8:9–10).
That image of The Day when the Lord enacts justice and brings punishment upon the earth, because of the evil being committed by people on the earth, enters into the vocabulary of prophet after prophet. Amos himself declares that it is “darkness, not light; as if someone fled from a lion, and was met by a bear; or went into the house and rested a hand against the wall, and was bitten by a snake. Is not the day of the LORD darkness, not light, and gloom with no brightness in it?” (Amos 5:18–20).
Isaiah, just a few decades after Amos, joined his voice: “the Lord of hosts has a day against all that is proud and lofty, against all that is lifted up and high … the haughtiness of people shall be humbled, and the pride of everyone shall be brought low; and the Lord alone will be exalted on that day” (Isa 2:12, 17). He warns the people, “Wail, for the day of the Lord is near; it will come like destruction from the Almighty!” (Isa 13:6).
Isaiah uses a potent image to describe this day: “pangs and agony will seize them; they will be in anguish like a woman in labour” (Isa 13:7). He continues, “the day of the Lord comes, cruel, with wrath and fierce anger, to make the earth a desolation, and to destroy its sinners from it” (Isa 13:8), and later he portrays that day as “a day of vengeance” (Isa 34:8).
Zephaniah, who was active at the time when Josiah was king (640–609 BCE) declares that “the day of the Lord is at hand; the Lord has prepared a sacrifice, he has consecrated his guests” (Zeph 1:7); “the great day of the Lord is near, near and hastening fast; the sound of the day of the Lord is bitter, the warrior cries aloud there; that day will be a day of wrath, a day of distress and anguish, a day of ruin and devastation, a day of darkness and gloom, a day of clouds and thick darkness ” (Zeph 1:14–15).
Habakkuk, active in the years just before the Babylonian invasion of 587 BCE, declares that “there is still a vision for the appointed time; it speaks of the end, and does not lie” (Hab 2:3); it is a vision of “human bloodshed and violence to the earth, to cities and all who live in them” (Hab 2:17).
Later, during the Exile, Jeremiah foresees that “disaster is spreading from nation to nation, and a great tempest is stirring from the farthest parts of the earth!” (Jer 35:32); he can see only that “those slain by the Lord on that day shall extend from one end of the earth to the other. They shall not be lamented, or gathered, or buried; they shall become dung on the surface of the ground” (Jer 35:33). He also depicts this day as “the day of the Lord God of hosts, a day of retribution, to gain vindication from his foes” (Jer 46:10).
And still later (most likely after the Exile), the prophet Joel paints a grisly picture of that day: “the day of the Lord is coming, it is near—a day of darkness and gloom, a day of clouds and thick darkness! Like blackness spread upon the mountains, a great and powerful army comes; their like has never been from of old, nor will be again after them in ages to come. Fire devours in front of them, and behind them a flame burns. Before them the land is like the garden of Eden, but after them a desolate wilderness, and nothing escapes them.” (Joel 2:1-3).
Later in the same oracle, he describes the time when the Lord will “show portents in the heavens and on the earth, blood and fire and columns of smoke; the sun shall be turned to darkness, and the moon to blood, before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes” (Joel 2:30–31). Joel also asserts that “the day of the Lord is near in the valley of decision; the sun and the moon are darkened, and the stars withdraw their shining” (Joel 3:14–15).
*****
The language of The Day is translated, however, into references to The End, in some later prophetic works. In the sixth century BCE, the priest-prophet Ezekiel, writing in exile in Babylon, spoke about the end that was coming: “An end! The end has come upon the four corners of the land. Now the end is upon you, I will let loose my anger upon you; I will judge you according to your ways, I will punish you for all your abominations.” (Ezek 7:2–3).
And again, Ezekiel declares, “Disaster after disaster! See, it comes. An end has come, the end has come. It has awakened against you; see, it comes! Your doom has come to you, O inhabitant of the land. The time has come, the day is near—of tumult, not of reveling on the mountains. Soon now I will pour out my wrath upon you; I will spend my anger against you. I will judge you according to your ways, and punish you for all your abominations.” (Ezek 7:5–8). This day, he insists, will be “a day of clouds, a time of doom for the nations” (Ezek 30:3; the damage to be done to Egypt is described many details that follow in the remainder of this chapter).
Obadiah refers to “the day of the Lord” (Ob 1:15), while Malachi asserts that “the day is coming, burning like an oven, when all the arrogant and all evildoers will be stubble; the day that comes shall burn them up, says the Lord of hosts, so that it will leave them neither root nor branch” (Mal 4:1).
Malachi ends his prophecy with God’s promise that “I will send you the prophet Elijah before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes; he will turn the hearts of parents to their children and the hearts of children to their parents, so that I will not come and strike the land with a curse” (Mal 4:5–6). This particular word is the final verse in the Old Testament as it appears in the order of books in the Christian scriptures; it provides a natural hinge for turning, then, to the story of John the baptiser, reminiscent of Elijah, who prepares the way for the coming of Jesus, evocative of Moses.
Another prophet, Daniel, declares that “there is a God in heaven who reveals mysteries, and he has disclosed to King Nebuchadnezzar what will happen at the end of days” (Dan 2:28), namely, that “the God of heaven will set up a kingdom that shall never be destroyed, nor shall this kingdom be left to another people. It shall crush all these kingdoms and bring them to an end, and it shall stand forever” (Dan 2:44).
Whilst the story of Daniel is set in the time of exile in Babylon—the same time as when Ezekiel was active—there is clear evidence that the story as we have it was shaped and written at a much later period, in the 2nd century BCE; the rhetoric of revenge is directed squarely at the actions of Antiochus IV Epiphanes, who had invaded and taken control of Israel and begun to persecute the Jews from the year 175BCE onwards.
The angel Gabriel subsequently interprets another vision to Daniel, “what will take place later in the period of wrath; for it refers to the appointed time of the end” (Dan 8:19), when “at the end of their rule, when the transgressions have reached their full measure, a king of bold countenance shall arise, skilled in intrigue. He shall grow strong in power, shall cause fearful destruction, and shall succeed in what he does. He shall destroy the powerful and the people of the holy ones.” (Dan 8:23–24). This seems to be a clear reference to Antiochus IV.
Still later in his book, Daniel sees a further vision, of seventy weeks (9:20–27), culminating in the time of “the end” (9:26). In turn, this vision is itself spelled out in great detail in yet another vision (11:1–39), with particular regard given to the catastrophes taking place at “the time of the end” (11:1–12:13; see especially 11:25, 40; 12:4, 6, 9, 13).
This final vision makes it clear that there will be “a time of anguish, such as has never occurred since nations first came into existence” (12:1), when “evil shall increase” (12:3) and “the wicked shall continue to act wickedly” (12:10). The visions appear to lift beyond the immediate context of the Seleucid oppression, and paint a picture of an “end of times” still to come, after yet worse tribulations have occurred.
***
Could these visions of “the end” be what Jesus was referring to, as he sat with his followers on the Mount of Olives, opposite the towering Temple? Later in the same discussion with his disciples, he indicates that “in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken” (Mark 13:24). This picks up the language we have noted consistently throughout the prophetic declarations, in Amos, Joel, Isaiah, Habakkuk, Zephaniah, Ezekiel, and Daniel.
The judgement of God, says Jesus, with the “gathering up the elect from the four words, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven” (13:27), will be executed by “the Son of Man coming in clouds with great power and glory” (13:25)—language which draws directly from the vision of Daniel concerning “one like the Son of Man, coming with the clouds of heaven” (Dan 7:13).
So the resonances are strong, the allusions are clear. Jesus is invoking the prophetic visions of The Day, The End; the judgement of God, falling upon the wicked of the earth. And he deliberately applies these vivid and fearsome prophetic and apocalyptic traditions to what he says about the Temple.
By linking his teaching directly to the question of four of his disciples, Peter, James, John, and Andrew (Mark 13:3), enquiring about the Temple, Jesus appears to be locating the end of the Temple—its sacrifices and offerings, its psalms and rituals, its wealth and glory … and perhaps also its priestly class—in the midst of the terrible, violent retributive judgements of the Lord God during the days of the end.
The language also resonates with the end section of 2 Esdras, in which God informs “my elect ones” that “the days of tribulation are at hand, but I will deliver you from them”. Those who fear God will prevail, whilst “those who are choked by their sins and overwhelmed by their iniquities” are compared with “a field choked with underbrush and its path overwhelmed with thorns” and condemned “to be consumed by fire” (2 Esdras 16:74–78). (This book claims to be words of Ezra, the scribe and priest who was prominent in the return to Jerusalem in the 5th century BCE, but scholarly opinion is that it was written after the Gospels, perhaps well into the 2nd century CE.)
All of the happenings that are described by Jesus in his teachings whilst seated with his followers outside the Temple (Mark 13:3) can be encapsulated in this potent image: “this is but the beginning of the birth pangs” (13:8). This is imagery which reaches right back to the foundational mythology of Israel, which tells of the pains of childbirth (Gen 3:16). It is language used by prophets (Jer 4:3; 22:23; 49:2; 49:24; Hos 13:13; Isa 21:3; 66:7–8; Micah 4:9; 5:3).
This chapter in Mark’s Gospel, along with the parallel accounts in Luke (chapter 21) and Matthew (chapter 24), are regarded as instances of apocalyptic material. The meaning of apocalyptic is straightforward: it refers to the “unveiling” or “revealing” of information about the end time, the heavenly realm, the actions of God.
Such a focus does not come as a surprise to the careful reader, or hearer, of this Gospel. This style of teaching is consistent with, and explanatory of, the message which the Gospels identify as being the centre of the message proclaimed by Jesus: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news” (Mark 1:14); “repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near” (Matt 4:17); “I must proclaim the good news of the kingdom of God to the other cities also; for I was sent for this purpose” (Luke 4:43). Each of these distillations of the message is apocalyptic—revealing the workings of God as the way is prepared for the coming of the sovereign rule of God.
Apocalyptic is the essential nature of Jesus’ teachings about “the kingdom of God”. This final speech confirms the thoroughly apocalyptic character of Jesus’ teaching. The parables he tells about that kingdom are apocalyptic, presenting a vision of the promised future that is in view. The call to repent is apocalyptic, in the tradition of the prophets. The demand to live in a way that exemplifies righteous-justice stands firmly in the line of the prophetic call. Such repentance and righteous-just living is as demanding and difficult as giving birth can be.
Mark’s Gospel has drawn to a climax with the same focussed attention to the vision of God’s kingdom, as was expressed at the start. The beginnings of the birth pangs are pointers to the kingdom that Jesus has always had in view. Jesus was, indeed, a prophet of apocalyptic intensity.
*****
I have written another blog that sets this apocalyptic teaching of Jesus into its literary and historical contexts, at
A sermon preached by the Rev. Elizabeth Raine in Sunday worship at the Dungog Uniting Church on 10 March 2024.
The passage from Numbers which the lectionary places before us this Sunday (Num 21:4–9) is a strange reading. It is included in the lectionary primarily because it is alluded to in the passage from the Gospel of John, where the lifting up of Christ on the cross is compared to Moses lifting up the serpent in the wilderness (John 3:14–21).
For modern Western ears, this passage contains many unfamiliar or even superstitious concepts, concepts that do not fit with our Christian ideas of a God of love, compassion and forgiveness. Poisonous snakes biting the complaining people, bronze snakes on poles curing the bites – all of this seems to have stepped straight out of a myth.
I have always felt sorry for the Israelites in the story. The Hebrew text itself emphasises the psychological and physical predicament of the people. The Hebrew word translated as ‘impatient’ means a people who are utterly tired, completely discouraged and at the end of their tether – ‘impatient’ doesn’t begin to accurately describe their condition, and neatly lifts the blame for what follows from God onto the people.
And when the people begin to murmur against Moses and God, the retribution is swift. Instead of comforting the people, they are sent a plague of fiery serpents. Just imagine if you complained about the food at a restaurant and the chef’s response was to drop a red belly black on your table.
The punishment seems to be disproportionately harsh. Yet many of the commentators I looked at when preparing for this sermon took the line that Israel deserved to be punished. There seemed to be a calm acceptance that God’s action was good and necessary. I disagree, and the story needs some drastic reinterpreting to begin to make any sense, especially for us in a modern world.
The book of Numbers contains census, itineraries, statutes, rituals and priestly concerns, wilderness stories, and what is known as the ‘murmuring’ tradition.
Other peculiar things found in Numbers include a talking donkey, the earth opening to swallow up people, fiery creatures, an extremely vengeful God and quarrelling prophets. Perhaps as an antidote to some of the other things, Numbers also contains the beautiful and well-known Priestly Blessing (The Lord bless you and keep you, Num 7:24-26). The promise of land is ever present in the book of Numbers, and the journey, albeit a long and circuitous one, depicts a gradual process of getting to the edge of that land.
A lot of the material in Numbers is connected directly with the book of Exodus, especially in chapters 16 to 18, and the same journey of Israel in the wilderness is related somewhat differently. When the people’s complaint about the lack of food is heard in Exod 16–17, God provides them with meat, food and water. The God of Numbers is not quite so forgiving or generous.
In Exodus, God’s reaction was stern, but God heard and helped. But in Numbers, God responds to complaint by killing the Israelites off with a plague of fiery snakes.
I can understand the weariness of the Israelites but I can’t understand the divinely sanctioned plague of snakes. What has changed? Is it God? Is it the people? Is it the author, who perhaps has a nastier and more theologically vindictive imagination than the author of Exodus?
The rabbis in the Targumim believed that the snakes came to teach humility and patience to a people apparently lacking both. The problem with this idea is twofold. First, it is hard to understand what lessons a bitten, and therefore dead person, can actually learn. And the surviving members of his or her family may not be terribly inclined to worship a God who sends such a punishment.
Secondly snakes, particularly venomous ones, command our full attention. When someone mentions that a snake is nearby, I don’t stop to ask what lesson I can learn from its presence. Instead, I am much more inclined to climb a nearby tree or to run over the top of the nearest person to get away from it.
And what are these snakes? Numbers 21 does not use the common word for snake (nahash) but instead says the creatures are seraphs, a creature better known to us as the winged creatures around the throne of God in Isaiah’s vision:
In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple. Seraphs were in attendance above him; each had six wings: with two they covered their faces, and with two they covered their feet, and with two they flew. And one called to another and said: “Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory”. (Isa. 6:1-3, NRSV)
These winged fiery creatures were known for their supernatural powers, both destructive and constructive. The seraphs were the beings who carried the plagues and punishments decreed by the God. They were also agents of healing and purification, as in the story from Isaiah. These seraphs were seenas fiery, serpent-like creatures, hence their association with venomous snakes.
When the people pray for forgiveness, God does not stop the plague of divinely-sanctioned poisonous seraphs but instead commands Moses to craft a bronze seraph and raise it on a pole. When someone is bitten by a snaky seraph, they are to lift their eyes to the elevated bronze snake so as not to die from the bite.
Theologically, this is a problematic solution. At best, it appears as cheap grace: one glance at a serpent on a stick and all is restored. At worst, it reminds us of superstitious magic or of a healing idol of winged serpent, the type that was left behind in Egypt.
So what are we to do with this story of divine retribution, deadly angels and healing idols on sticks?
We have seen with covid lockdowns that the wilderness, especially if we find ourselves in it for too long, can become life-draining, not life-giving. We can become worn out and disillusioned, and unsure where our journey is leading us. Our energy sapped, our faith tested, like the Israelites we became prey to self-doubt.
We may find that deep spiritual and personal reflection spent in times ofwilderness has the downside of our own symbolic fiery seraphs returning to haunt us. Doubt, our past experiences and fears may get in the way as we attempt to move forward. Like the Israelites, we can tend to look downward to find mud and despair, and we miss seeing the stars of hope.
How do we prevent being stuck in the wilderness?
In John 3, we find a first-century Christian author recycling the myth of Moses’ bronze seraph as a prophecy of the crucified one; the dying victim on a cross who is also the source of new life for those who look to him in faith.
John’s gospel says the dreadful imagery of a crucified man achieves the same purpose. By looking toward the crucified Christ, the believer looks beyond it to the God who redeems. The symbol of the bronze serpent and the cross are signs of divine involvement in the people’s journey toward understanding, repentance and reconciliation.
In this case it will not just be ‘life’ given to the one who looks up to the Son of Man, but ‘eternal life’. John has taken the imagery of the bronze serpent and given it new meaning and power for the followers of Jesus.
Most of us will have been overpowered by painful bites in our lives. But the two lectionary stories today offer us comfort for those times. When we look up, we look to the face of the God who walks with us, who offers comfort to us, who helps restore us to equilibrium and who ultimately saves us.
To look up to Jesus as he is lifted up, is to see God’s healing presence in the world. Paradoxically, hidden in the crucifixion is the redemption and reconciliation of the Son of Man with God’s desire to heal the world.
May we continue to look up, to see the stars and find hope and redemptionfrom the one who was crucified. And may we experience the love and healing that God intends us to find when we do. Amen.
Late last year, Elizabeth and I moved to Dungog, a rural town with a population of a little over 2,000, nestled amidst the rolling hills beside the Williams River, one of the tributaries that flows into the Hunter River. (The other major tributaries include Moonan Brook, Stewarts Brook, Pages Creek, Pages River, Paterson River, Goulburn River, and Wollombi Brook.)
The town has one picture theatre, one high school, two primary schools, three pubs, five active churches, five sports clubs, and six tennis courts. It is the place where Test cricketer Douglas Walters was born (in 1945) and later married, and where indigenous boxer Dave Sands died, aged 26, in a road accident in 1952.
The First Peoples of this area are the Gringai. The traditional lands of the Gringai include an area centred on the place where the town of Dungog is situated, next to the Williams River. It is thought that the name Dungog is derived from a word meaning “clear hills” in the Gringai language.
As I have done with each move of recent times, I have taken some time to investigate a little of what is known about the First Peoples of the area to which we have moved. I have been exploring the stories about contact between the invading British colonisers and the First Peoples who have cared for the land from time immemorial.
In years past, I have found stories about people in the places where Elizabeth and I have lived: the Eora peoples of Sydney, where I grew up and lived for decades; the Biripi peoples, on the mid north coast of NSW; and the Noongyar peoples, of Perth, WA. More recently, I have read and learnt about the Ngunnawal, Ngarigo, and Ngambri peoples, whose lands overlapped in the southern of Canberra, where we were living. It is always an enriching process. You can find the link to my blogs about these peoples and their lands at the end of this blog.
This time, the task of investigating and reporting has been somewhat more difficult. The land council for the area where the Gringai lived is based in Karuah, where the Karuah River flows into Port Stephens. As far as I can tell, there are very few people who claim Gringai heritage today in the area. The invading British colonisers, in their insatiable search for land to settle in the early 19th century, were quite thorough, it would seem, in removing from that land those Indigenous people who had lived on it for millennia.
There are scattered references to the Gringai people in the writings of the settlers from the late 19th century. (I am indebted to Noel Downs, who provided me with links to this material.) And it seems that there has been some debate about the precise scope of the lands of the Gringai, and their relationship to the neighbouring nations of the Wonnarua and the Biripi.
A local history site refers to “two major tribal groups of the broader Hunter River Valley and coastal region; the Wonnarua of the Hunter Valley and the Worimi of the Port Stephens coast area” and claims that “the Gringai were not a separate tribe but a sub-group of one of the two region’s tribes, though which one is in some doubt, with perhaps the Wonnarua being the more likely.” See
Working from “land borders” is a very western way of operating; we want to identify and demarcate the lands of one people from another by drawing a clear, precise border. We erect fences around houses, draw lines to mark off states and set up different time zones according to those lines, and have stern staff at the borders of the country to ensure that “undesireables” don’t enter the country. It’s all very precise.
However, Indigenous life was not so squared-off and precise. I remember an Aunty in Wauchope telling us about land not far from where we lived, that was in Biripi country but was considered Dunghutti land, as that was where the two groups of people would meet and yarn and trade—and also where marriages were arranged. This is something that jars to western ears—how can both sets of people “own” the same land?
A better way to go is to be guided by the markers which linguists make from their study of what we know of the languages of the peoples of the First Nations. Linguist Amanda Lissarrague has researched and published A grammar and dictionary of Gathang, in which she explores the links between “the languages of the Birrbay, Guringay and Warrimay peoples”.
These languages, spoken on the northern side of the Hunter River, she identifies as the Lower North Coast (LNC) language also known as Katang, or Guthang. This is distinguished from the Darkinjung and Wanaruah, on the south of the Hunter River, who speak the Lake Macquarie (HRLM) language.
[Lissarrague’s argument for linking the three groups into the LNC language is technical: “The evidence for linking Wonnarua (M, F), Awabakal (T), Kuringgai (L) and ‘Cammeray’ (M2) is found when one compares verbal inflections and pronoun forms, including bound pronouns, from different sources.” ]
In 1788, Britain established a penal colony at a place that was named Sydney Cove, after Thomas Townshend, the 1st Viscount Sydney. Early in the colonial era, the invading settlers began moving into the region north of Sydney, building on land and claiming the use of that land, citing the grant of land from the British Governor in support of that activity. That inevitably brought them into conflict with the local pIndigenous peoples, who had cared for this land from time immemorial. We now know that this relationship with the land has stretched back at least 60,000 years—perhaps even longer.
The first exploration of the Hunter, Williams and Paterson Rivers by those invading British colonisers had already commenced just 13 years after that initial settlement in Sydney. Convict timber cutters were sent into the area from 1804 onwards, and small land grants at Paterson were made from 1812, and at Clarence Town from 1825.
The Williams River near Dungog
By 1825 most of the prime alluvial land along the lower reaches of the Paterson River had been granted to the settlers amongst the British colonists who prosecuted the increasing invasion of Aboriginal land. This scale of settlement drastically reduced the hunting areas of the Indigenous people, restricted their supply of game and materials, and further exposed them to diseases brought by the British, against which they had little or no immunity.
In 1825, Robert Dawson named the Barrington area after the British Lord Barrington (who had never travelled downunder, of course, to this area). Two young Welshmen, George Townshend (1798–1872) and Charles Boydell (1808–1869), arrived in Australia on 22 March 1826 to take up land grants in the region. They named the Allyn River, the locality of Gresford, and their homesteads, Trevallyn and Camyr Allyn, after places near their homes in Wales.
In 1827, surveyor Thomas Florance named the Chichester River after the city of that name in England. Then, in 1829, George Boyle White explored the sources of the Allyn and Williams rivers. (The origins of the name for the Williams River is uncertain; see the excellent discussion at https://williamsvalleyhistory.org/williams-river-origin/)
Land grants along the Williams River were made to a number of men, including Duncan Mackay, John Verge, and James Dowling (after whom the main street of Dungog is named). Dowling was later to become the second Chief Justice of NSW, serving from 29 August 1837 to 27 September 1844, the day of his death.
The practice of obliterating the Indigenous names by imposing English names is evident in a number of names in the region. The river known as Coqun, meaning “fresh water”, was renamed the Hunter River, after Vice-Admiral John Hunter, the second Governor of NSW (1795–1800). The river known as Yimmang is now known as the Paterson River, named after Colonel William Paterson, who surveyed the area beside the river in 1801. Erringi, meaning “black duck”, was renamed Clarence Town in 1832, after the Duke of Clarence, who had been crowned King William IV in 1830—who, of course, never came to the colonies!
Some Gringai words are retained in the names of the Wangat River and the rural locations of Wallarobba (“rainy gully”), Dingadee (“place for playing games”), Wirragulla (“place of little sticks”), Mindarabbah (“hunter”), and Bolwarra (“high place”).
“O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; for his steadfast love endures forever” (Ps 107:1) is the opening sentence of the psalm that is proposed by the lectionary for this coming Sunday, the Fourth Sunday in Lent. The reference to “steadfast love” recurs in verses 8, 15, 21, and 31, as the psalmist recounts key moments in the long story of the people of Israel and invites those hearing their words, “let them thank the Lord for his steadfast love”, before the psalm concludes, “let those who are wise give heed to these things, and consider the steadfast love of the Lord” (v.43).
Elsewhere throughout the psalms there are many references to God’s steadfast love: an affirmation that “with the Lord there is steadfast love, and with him is great power to redeem” (Ps 130:7); a plea, “let your face shine upon your servant; save me in your steadfast love” (Ps 31:16); a note of praise that “steadfast love and faithfulness will meet; righteousness and peace will kiss each other” (Ps 85:10); and the recurring phrase, “his steadfast love endures forever”, throughout the song recalling the acts of God in Ps 136. (The phrase occurs in each of the 26 verses of this psalm, and then around 100 times in the other psalms.)
The English phrase “steadfast love” translates an important Hebrew word, חֶ֫סֶד (hesed). It signifies a love that is loyal, faithful, dependable, and on many occasions, unconditional. The word is applied both to human beings, as they exhibit “steadfast love” to one another, but also—and more often—to God, who shows “steadfast love” to the people of Israel, with whom God was bound in covenant. This is clear from the use of the word in the final verse of Micah’s prophetic words, affirming that God “will show faithfulness to Jacob and unswerving loyalty (hesed) to Abraham, as you have sworn to our ancestors from the days of old” (Mic 7:20).
Moses is reported as having told Israel that “the Lord your God is God, the faithful God who maintains covenant loyalty (hesed) with those who love him and keep his commandments, to a thousand generations” (Deut 7:9). God, speaking through the prophet Nathan, offers assurance that “I will not take my steadfast love (hesed) from him [David], as I took it from Saul, whom I put away from before you” (2 Sam 7:15).
The unnamed prophet (by tradition, Jeremiah) who laments the destruction of Jerusalem and the ravaging of her people includes at the heart of their extended poems the ringing affirmation that “the steadfast love (hesed) of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end” (Lam 3:22). And then Nehemiah, when he hears about the damage in the city to which the exiles are returning, prays to the Lord, “God of heaven, the great and awesome God who keeps covenant and steadfast love (hesed) with those who love him and keep his commandments” (Neh 1:5; also 9:32).
So the steadfast love of the Lord is celebrated in the foundational sagas of the Israelite people, where it is found in words attributed to key characters such as Jacob (Gen 32:9–10), Moses (Exod 15:13; Num 14:18–19), David (2 Sam 2:6; 15:19–20; 22:51; 1 Chron 16:34), Solomon (1 Ki 3:6; 8:23-24; 2 Chron 1:8; 6:14–15, 42), Ezra (Ezra 7:27–28; 9:9; Neh 9:32) and Nehemiah (Neh 1:5; 13:22).
The Chronicler reports that under David, a specific group was engaged in the Temple “to render thanks to the Lord, for his steadfast love endures forever” (1 Chron 16:41); this continues under Solomon (2 Chron 7:4-6) and is reinstated after the Exile under Nehemiah (Ezra 3:10-11). So there is recurrent noting of the song which is regularly offered to God, “O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; for his steadfast love endures forever” (1 Chron 16:34; 2 Chron 5:13; 7:3; 20:21; Ezra 3:11; Jer 33:10-11; in Ps 136 and in a number of other psalms).
Furthermore, God is affirmed as being “merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for the thousandth generation” in a number of books (Exod 34:6; 2 Chron 30:8–9; Neh 9:17, 32; Jonah 4:2; Joel 2:13; Ps 86:15; 103:8, 11; 111:4; 145:8–9).
The compilers of the Revised Common Lectionary have selected a psalm for each Sunday of the year, noting that this has normally been in order to provide a passage that complements the First Reading, which is most often a passage from Hebrew Scripture. In this instance, the portion of the psalm chosen (Ps 107:17-22) appears to match a story told in Numbers, when poisonous serpents are sent by God to punish the complaining Israelites (Num 21:4–9).
The psalm summarises the incident as a time when “some were sick through their sinful ways” (v.17) and “loathed any kind of food” (v.18); this only generally approximates the account of Numbers, in which the people complain that “there is no food and no water, and we detest this miserable food” (Num 21:5). There is no mention in the psalm of the “poisonous [or fiery] serpents” sent by God to punish the people (Num 21:6), simply that “they drew near to the gates of death” (v.18), presumably because they did not eat the “miserable food”, whereas in the narrative of Numbers “many Israelites died” from being bitten by the serpents (Num 21:6).
Certainly, in both the poetry of the psalm and the prose of the narrative account, the people seek relief from the Lord God. The psalmist reports that “they cried to the Lord in their trouble, and he saved them from their distress … he healed them, and delivered them from destruction” (v.19-20). The prayer has been effective, so the song continues with the refrain, “let them thank the Lord for his steadfast love, for his wonderful works to humankind” (v.21) and an encouragement to the people to offer sacrifices and joyful songs (v.21).
In Numbers, it is Moses who offers prayer (Num 21:7), but an additional element is included: the Lord instructs Moses to “make a poisonous [or fiery] serpent, and set it on a pole; and everyone who is bitten shall look at it and live” (Num 21:8). Moses does as instructed, and so “whenever a serpent bit someone, that person would look at the serpent of bronze and live” (Num 21:9). Simply looking at the bronze figure was sufficient to effect healing! (And the narrative gives no indication of the response of the people to such healing, in contrast to the extended joyful response of the psalmist.)
On the language for “poisonous [or fiery] serpent” used in the story told in Numbers, see
As we hear this psalm this coming Sunday, we would do well to recall the joyful response to the way that God has acted, with a steadfast love that endures forever, that the psalmist reports. May this be our experience and our practice as we encounter difficulties in our lives and, through faith and persistence, surmount them and thrive.
“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind” (Deuteronomy 6:5). “You shall love your neighbour as yourself” (Leviticus 19:8). These two commandments are cited in a story about Jesus engaging in a discussion with a scribe, a teacher of the Law, which ends with Jesus saying, “there is no commandment greater than these” (Mark 12:31).
The Narrative Lectionary includes this story (Mark 12:28–34) as the opening section of a longer Gospel passage that is proposed for worship this coming Sunday (12:28–44). It’s a passage that takes us deep into the heart of Torah—those guidelines for living all of life in covenant faithfulness with God. Torah sits at the centre of Judaism. See more on this at
Of course, Jesus hasn’t answered the question precisely in the terms that it was asked; he doesn’t indicate what is “the first” commandment, but which two are “greatest”. It’s like a dead heat in an Olympic race: a race when even a finely-tuned system can’t differentiate between the two winners, even down to one thousandth of a second. Both love of God and love of neighbour are equally important. Joint winners—like that high jump competition a year or two back where the two leading jumpers just decided to share the gold medal, rather than keep competing—and risk not getting gold.
Both commands are biblical commands, found within the foundational books of scripture within Judaism. They were texts that Jewish people, such as Jesus and his earliest followers would have known very well. Each command appears in a significant place within the books of Torah, the first five books of Hebrew Scriptures.
The command to “love God” sits at the head of a long section in Deuteronomy, which reports a speech by Moses allegedly given to the people of Israel (Deut 5:1–26:19). The speech rehearses many of the laws that are reported in Exodus and Leviticus, framing them in terms of the repeated phrases, “the statutes and ordinances for you to observe” (4:1,5,14; 5:1; 6:1; 12:1; 26:16–17), “the statutes and ordinances that the Lord your God has commanded you” (6:20; 7:11; 8:11).
After proclaiming the Ten Commandments which God gave to Israel through Moses (Deut 5:1–21; cf. Exod 20:1–17) and rehearsing the scene on Mount Sinai and amongst the people below (5:22–33; cf. Exod 19:1–25; 20:18–21). Moses then delivers the word which sits at the head of all that follows: “Hear, O Israel: The LORD is our God, the LORD alone. You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might. Keep these words that I am commanding you today in your heart” (Deut 6:4–6). This, it would seem, is the key commandment amongst all the statutes and ordinances.
These words are known in Jewish tradition as the Shema, a Hebrew word literally meaning “hear” or “listen”. It’s the first word in this key commandment; and more broadly than simply “hear” or “listen”, it caries a sense of “obey”. These words are important to Jews as the daily prayer, to be prayed twice a day—in keeping with the instruction to recite them “when you lie down and when you rise” (Deut 6:7). As these daily words, “love the Lord your God” with all of your being are said, they reinforce the centrality of God and the importance of commitment to God within the covenant people.
The command to “love your neighbour” in Leviticus 19 culminates a series of instructions regarding the way a person is to relate to their neighbours: “you shall not defraud your neighbour … with justice you shall judge your neighbour … you shall not profit by the blood of your neighbour … you shall not reprove your neighbour … you shall love your neighbour” (Lev 19:13–18).
These instructions sit within the section of the book which is often called The Holiness Code—a section which emphasises the word to Israel, that “you shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy” (Lev 19:2; also 20:7, 26). Being holy means treating others with respect. Loving your neighbour is a clear manifestation of that ethos. Loving your neighbour exemplifies the way to be a faithful person in covenant relationship with God.
So it is for very good reasons that Jesus extracts these two commandments from amongst the 613 commandments that are to be found within the pages of the Torah. (The rabbis counted them all up—there are 248 “positive commandments”, giving instructions to perform a particular act, and 365 “negative commandments”, requiring people to abstain from certain acts.)
Jesus, of course, was a Jew, instructed in the way of Torah. He knew his scriptures—he argued intensely with the teachers of the Law over a number of different issues. He frequented the synagogue, read from the scroll, prayed to God, and went on pilgrimage to Jerusalem and into the Temple—where, once again, he offered a critique of the practices that were taking place in the courtyard of the Temple (11:15–17).
Then he engaged in debate and disputation with scribes and priests (11:27), Pharisees and Herodians (12:13), and Sadducees (12:18). Each of those groups came to Jesus with a trick question, which they expected would trap Jesus (12:13). Jesus inevitably bests them with his responses (11:33; 12:12, 17, 27). It was at this point that the particular scribe in our passage approached Jesus, perhaps intending to set yet another trap for him (12:28).
So Jesus, good Jew that he was, is well able to reach into his knowledge of Torah in his answer to the scribe. The commandments that he selects have been chosen with a purpose. They contain the essence of the Torah. His answer draws forth the agreement of the scribe—there will be no robust debate now! In fact, in affirming Jesus, the scribe reflects the prophetic perspective, that keeping the covenant in daily life is more important that following the liturgical rituals of sacrifice in the Temple (see Amos 5:21–24; Micah 6:6–8; Isaiah 1:10–17).
The scene is similar to a Jewish tale that is reported in the Babylonian Talmud, a 6th century CE work. In Shabbat 31a, within a tractate on the sabbath, we read: “It happened that a certain non-Jew came before Shammai and said to him, ‘Make me a convert, on condition that you teach me the whole Torah while I stand on one foot.’ Thereupon he repulsed him with the builder’s cubit that was in his hand. When he went before Hillel, he said to him, ‘What is hateful to you, do not to your neighbour: that is the whole Torah, the rest is the commentary; go and learn it.’”
Hillel, of course, had provided the enquiring convert, not with one of the 613 commandments, but with one that summarised the intent of many of those commandments. We know it as the Golden Rule, and it appears in the Synoptic Gospels as a teaching of Jesus (Matt 7:12; Luke 6:31).
Some Jewish teachers claim that the full text of Lev 19:18 is actually an expression of this rule: “You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against any of your people, but you shall love your neighbour as yourself: I am the LORD.” Later Jewish writings closer to the time of Jesus reflect the Golden Rule in its negative form: “do to no one what you yourself dislike” (Tobit 4:15), and “recognise that your neighbour feels as you do, and keep in mind your own dislikes” (Sirach 31:15).
Paul clearly knows the command to love neighbours, for he quotes it to the Galatians: “the whole law is summed up in a single commandment, ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself’” (Gal 5:14), and James also cites it: “you do well if you really fulfill the royal law according to the scripture, ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself’” (James 2:8). Both writers reflect the fact that this was an instruction that stuck in people’s minds!
And I wonder … perhaps there’s a hint, in these two letters, that the greater of these two equally-important commandments is actually the instruction to “love your neighbour”?
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I have provided a more detailed technical discussion of the words used in this passage, and its Synoptic parallels, in this blog:
We are in the season of Lent, a 40-day season in the Christian calendar when the focus is firmly on the pathway that Jesus trod as he walked towards Jerusalem, where he would meet his fate. The Gospel passages offered by the lectionary include the baptism and testing of Jesus at the start of his ministry (Mark 1), his prediction about what awaits him in Jerusalem (Mark 8), the incident in the temple (in the version told in John 2), his saying about a grain of wheat falling into the ground and dying (John 12), and ultimately his entry into the city to the acclamation of the crowd (Mark 11).
These passages, rightly, attract the attention of preachers during the season of Lent. And each Sunday, a psalm is offered to accompany and often complement the particular Gospel reading for that Sunday. These psalms offer reflections on the nature of God and God’s covenant relationship with the people of God. I have been offering weekly blogposts reflecting on the Gospel and the Psalm for each Sunday.
However, the sequence of Hebrew Scripture passages proposed by the lectionary during Lent also merit our consideration. At this midpoint of the season, it is appropriate to pause and reflect somewhat on the passages that are designated by the lectionary. For this past Sunday, the Ten Words that God gave to Moses (Exodus 20:1–17) were the Hebrew Scriptures passage. These words set out the requirements of the people as they commit to the covenant with the Lord God. I have reflected on this when the passage occurred last year during the season after Pentecost; see
This sequence of passages began with two excerpts from Genesis, in which that covenant is described in passages. In the first passage (Gen 9:8–17), the covenant is made with Noah, “with you and your descendants after you, and with every living creature that is with you, the birds, the domestic animals, and every animal of the earth with you, as many as came out of the ark” (Gen 9:9–10). It is striking that this is not just a covenant with a select group of human beings, but a covenant with the whole of creation—humans and other creatures, “every living creature of all flesh” (Gen 9:15–17).
The Hebrew word translated as “creature” is nephesh, which is a highly significant word. being. In Hebrew, nephesh has a unified, whole-of-person reference, quite separate from the dualism that dominates a Greek way of thinking. It is used to refer to the whole of a human being.
Nephesh appears in the second creation story, where it describes how God formed a man from the dust of the earth and breathed the breath of life into him, and “the man became a living being (nephesh hayah)” (Gen 2:7). It appears also a number of times in the first creation story in Hebrew scripture, where it refers to “living creatures” in the seas (Gen 1:20, 21), on the earth (Gen 1:24), and to “every beast of the earth, and to every bird of the air, and to everything that creeps on the earth, everything that has the breath of life (nepheshhayah)” (Gen 1:30).
The claim that each living creature is a nephesh is reiterated in the Holiness Code (Lev 11:10, 46; 17:11). The fact that all living creatures are nephesh signals the inherent interconnectedness of all creation. The covenant forged in Gen 9 is one that has a cosmic scope.
In the second passage (Gen 17:1–7, 15–16), the covenant is made, or perhaps renewed, with Abraham as “the ancestor of a multitude of nations” (Gen 17:4). The Lord God declares that this covenant relationship is “between me and you, and your offspring after you throughout their generations, for an everlasting covenant, to be God to you and to your offspring after you” (Gen 17:7).
The means for sealing this covenant is circumcision (Gen 17:10–14). The lectionary skips over these verses, which have been critical for Israelites and Jews through the centuries, as circumcision has been one of the central identity markers for those who adhere to the Torah given by God through Moses.
The covenant had been made with Abraham after his meeting with Melchizedek (Gen 15:18), with the cutting of animals to signify this covenant (Gen 15:9–10). In this passage, however, it is the circumcising of all males which confirms this covenant relationship. And the passage makes it clear that it is not Ishmael, the son of Abraham through Hagar (Gen 16:15–16) who will provide the line through which the covenant continues; it will be a son born to Sarai who will provide that continuity (Gen 17:16).
That same covenant is then renewed with that son, Isaac (Gen 17:19, 21) and then with Jacob (Israel) (Gen 35), and later is extended to Moses and the whole people (Exod 19), which is where the Ten Words are given, articulating the terms and conditions of that covenant. Later still, the promise that this covenant is to be renewed with the people again is articulated by Jeremiah (Jer 31).
For my consideration of the covenant with Abraham, see
The passages that follow after this Sunday’s focus on the Ten Words (Exod 20:1–17) continue the theme of covenant. The story of the impatience of the people, in the wilderness after they had left Mount Hor (Num 21:4–9), offers both a warning to those who would breach the covenant—they will die (v.6)—and also a reaffirmation of the centrality of the covenant relationship between Israel and God.
The people recognise that they have sinned (v.7) and thus the punishment has been merited. However, Moses stands as intermediary between the people and the Lord God (v.7), and a reminder of the commitments that the people had made is raised before them (vv.8–9). And as the psalmist sings, it is because of the steadfast love of the Lord (Ps 107:1, 21) that they are healed and saved (vv.19–20). This is the love that undergirds the covenant and drives the relationship of the Lord God with regard to Israel. See
On the following Sunday, the lectionary offers a visit to a familiar and widely-cited passage from the prophet Jeremiah, in which the “new covenant” is canvassed (Jer 31:31–34). In this covenant, God promises that “I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts” (v.33); the blessings continue to be that “I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more” (v.34).
These terms and conditions reflects the initial covenant, the words of which the people are to “write on the doorposts of your house and on your gates” (Deut 6:9), and which likewise promised that God will forgive iniquity (Num 14:18–20). It seems that what Jeremiah is speaking about is not a new covenant, per se, but a renewal of the covenant made earlier with Noah, Abraham, and then Moses. See
Finally, the Hebrew Scripture passage for the sixth Sunday in Lent (Isa 50:4–9a) is one of the well-known Servant Songs from the second main section of Isaiah (Isa 40—55). There are four Songs of the Servant—three relatively brief (42:1–9; 49:1–7; 50:4–11); and the fourth, best-known within Christian circles, a longer description of the servant who “was despised and rejected by others; a man of suffering and acquainted with infirmity” (Isa 52:13–53:12).
In the second of these songs, Isaiah had looked for “my servant … my chosen … [who] will bring forth justice to the nations … he will faithfully bring forth justice … [he will] establish justice in the earth” (Isa 42:1–4). In this third song, the Servant is described as a teacher, “that I may know how to sustain the weary with a word” (v.4), who would stand up to his adversaries (v.8). So he declares, “I have set my face like flint, and I know that I shall not be put to shame” (v.7), exuding confidence because “he who vindicates me is near” (v.8).
The song provides a firm assurance that the justice for which the Servant is working will, indeed, eventuate. That Servant fulfils the word announced at the start of this prophet’s work; of “the voice … crying in the wilderness” (40:4, 6), the prophet poses the rhetorical,question, “who. did he consult for his enlightenment, and who taught him the path of justice? who taught him knowledge, and showed him the way of understanding?” (40:14).
It is, of course, the Lord God who so instructs the voice in the wilderness (40:9–11, 22–23). And it is the Servant who brings to fulfilment the promises articulated by the prophet, and whom Christians see as being brought to fruition in Jesus of Nazareth—which makes this a most appropriate Hebrew Scripture passage to conclude this sequence of passages offered throughout Lent.
As we look over these passages, we need to remember that we are to be very careful in how we speak about these passages. We do well to remember that we are taking passages from scriptures that are sacred to people of another faith, which existed long before the Christian faith came into being as a system of belief; indeed, long before Jesus himself was born.
We know “in our heads” that Christianity emerged from the Jewish faith—but often we act as if this newly-formed religious system now stands in the place of Judaism, as the body of belief to which the Lord God, the ancient of days, now relates and responds; and that Judaism itself is now obsolete, no longer relevant, superseded. Presenting readings from Hebrew Scripture as if they speak directly and clearly about Jesus, and about us as followers of Jesus, without any reference to what came before him, continues such an attitude.
Judaism is not, of course obsolete; there are still millions of people holding the beliefs of Judaism and keeping the practices of Judaism around the world—in Israel, in the United States, in Australia, and in any other countries. The Jewish faith has not ended; Christian believers have not superceded Jews as God’s chosen people.
God’s covenant with Jewish people continues; as Paul declared so clearly, “God has not rejected God’s people” (Rom 11:1), “the gifts and the calling of God [to Israel] are irrevocable” (Rom 11:29). The covenant traced through these Lenten passages flows on, into the story of Jesus and then of his followers. And whilst “salvation has come to the Gentiles” (Rom 11:11), even so, Paul asserts, “all Israel will be saved” (Rom 11:26), for “as regards election, they are beloved” (Rom 11:28). See more at
Indeed, there is much in common amongst these two faith. Jews and Christians each orient our belief towards the same God, the God of Abraham and Sarah, of Isaac and Rebekah, the God of Moses, Aaron, and Miriam—those who first entered into covenant with the Lord God. Christians believe that this God is the same as the God of Mary and Jesus, of Peter and Paul, of Priscilla and Phoebe, and the God in whom we believe; and so, that ancient covenant continues on today, not only amongst Jews, but also amongst Christian’s. We need to give due acknowledgement of that reality in our worship and preaching.
Supersessionism is a term used to describe the way that the Church, through the centuries, has simply taken over Jewish elements (such as scripture, the covenant, the Ten Commandments, Pentecost, the Passover Seder—and these specific passages that we are hearing this Lent). We have “baptised” them so that believers have the view that these are Christian elements, without any sense of their Jewish origins—and their continuing place in contemporary Jewish life.
The church to which I belong, the Uniting Church in Australia, adopted a Statement on Jews and Judaism in 2009 (I was on the working group that developed initial material for this) which offered guidance about our theology, exegesis, and preaching. It is in the same vein as many other statements issued by various enlightened denominations around the world, ever since the lead was taken by the Roman Catholic Church in promulgating NostraAetate in 1965.
This document repudiated the centuries-old “deicide” charge against all Jews, stressed the religious bond shared by Jews and Catholics, reaffirmed the eternal covenant between God and the People of Israel, and dismissed church interest in trying to baptize Jews. It called for Catholics and Jews to engage in friendly dialogue and biblical and theological discussions to better understand each other’s faith.
The 2009 Uniting Church Statement declares that “The Uniting Church acknowledges with repentance a history of interpretation of New Testament texts which has often failed to appreciate the context from which these texts emerged, viz. the growing separation of Christianity and Judaism with attendant bitterness and antagonism, resulting in deeply rooted anti-Jewish misunderstandings” (para. 9). See https://assembly.uca.org.au/resources/key-papers-reports/item/1704-jews-and-judaism
That’s a key guiding principle for me, as I read and interpret the Gospels—particularly those attributed to John and Matthew, for these books contain texts which have been grossly and inventively distorted and misused by the Church over many centuries, to fuel the false doctrine of supersessionism and thus the hatred of antisemitism. They do provide evidence for the growing separation between Judaism and Christianity, but they should not be used in a supersessionism way or to fuel antisemitism.
The Uniting Church Statement offers concise definitions of supersessionism (“the belief that Christians have replaced Jews in the love and purpose of God”) and antisemitism (“a term coined in imperial Germany during the 1870s by propagandists who did not wish Jews to enjoy equal rights with Christians. Its true political meaning is ‘I am against the Jews’.”). We should take care not to reflect either of these in our interpretation of scripture, during this Lent, or at any time.
As it is St David’s Day today, we are honouring our Welsh heritage, as we remember our various Welsh ancestors:
John’s paternal grandfather, John Squires and his parents (Gilbert Squires and Charlotte Jones) from Monmouthshire;
Elizabeth’s paternal great-great-grandfather, John Griffith and his parents (George Griffiths and Mary Humphries) from Breconshire;
Elizabeth’s paternal great-great-grandmother, Winifred Harris and her parents (David Harris and Miriam Jenkins) from Monmouthshire;
John’s maternal great-great-great-grandfather, William Hoskin, from Pembrokeshire;
and way, way back on Elizabeth’s maternal Lowe line, which reaches back into the aristocracy and eventually back to the royal families of old, there are Welsh ancestors galore from the medieval period!
Today (1 March) is the day in the Christian calendar that is set side to remember Saint David. This Welsh Saint shares his name with the most well-known King of Israel—David, son of Jesse, father of Solomon, ancestor of Jesus, whose reign is said to have lasted for forty years (1010 to 970 BCE), although the biblical term of “forty years” signals something like “a long, long time”, rather than being a precise chronological measurement.
And although the books of 1–2 Kings and 1 Chronicles purport to describe his reign, the actual historical reality of David is buried in the mists of time. Indeed, there is some debate amongst biblical scholars as to whether he did actually exist, or whether he was a literary figure created centuries later to symbolise the alleged might of Israel at an earlier time.
But today is a day devoted to his namesake, Dewi, Bishop of Mynyw. It is said that the birth of Dewi was foretold by an angel thirty years before it took place, both to his father, Sant, a man of the royal house, and to Patrick in Ireland.
Dewi’s mother, Non, also of noble birth, was a great beauty. When Sant saw her on his travels, was enflamed with passion for her and forced her to lie with him. The local ruler threatened to kill the child at birth, but when that day came a violent storm arose, and Non fled for shelter to a chapel by a holy well. The lightning flooded the area with brilliant light, protecting both Non and her baby.
The hagiography about Dewi, developed in the centuries after his life to extol him as a saint, makes the claim that he became a renowned preacher, founding monastic settlements and churches in Wales, Brittany and southwest England (including, possibly, the abbey at Glastonbury). It is said that he made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, from which he brought back a stone that now sits in an altar at St David’s Cathedral, built on the site of his original monastery.
Such stories come from a book written by Rhygyfarch, an 11th century Bishop in the city of St Davids in Pembrokeshire, who claimed that his work was based on documents found in the cathedral archives. By this time, hagiographies of various saintly figures had been written for some centuries; standard elements included comparing the life of the saint with the life of Jesus, and providing a detailed account of the martyrdom of the saint if they died as a martyr.
The purpose of hagiographical writing was not to preserve “actual history” (not that such a thing is actually possible to access). It is thought that hagiographies provided priests and theologians with models to follow as they preached and wrote. They have a similar function to classical handbooks, as they provide the rhetorical tools necessary to present Christian faith through the example of the saints’ lives.
So “what actually happened to Dewi” is not the point at hand; rather, “how Dewi models faithful discipleship” is the reason for remembering him, telling stories of his life, providing an example for medieval Christians.
The religious symbol associated with Dewi is a white dove. The story that explains this is that whilst Dewi was preaching at the Synod of Brefi, a mound arose from the ground to form a small hill, and a white dove settled on his shoulder. The sermon, apparently, was a criticism of Pelagianism, a belief that the fall did not introduce original sin, and that human beings can work to achieve perfection in God’s sight.
Dewi was ascetic and vegetarian; he believed that “hard manual labor was the duty of all, thus preferring not to use cattle to help them plow the fields” and imposed on his community “a diet of bread and vegetables, with just a sprinkling of salt, so as not to inflict unnecessary suffering upon any creature by taking its life for food.” (Holly Roberts, Vegetarian Christian Saints, Anjeli Press, 2004, p. 131.)
It is said that he taught the monks of his community how to grow leeks—a vegetable which has become associated with Wales. It’s a tasty vegetable which adds flavour to various meals that we cook, today.
Dewi died peacefully at the end of the 6th century; it is said that the monastery was “filled with angels as Christ received his soul”. His remains were initially placed in the cathedral, but later conflicts meant that they were disrupted and moved. Dewi was canonised as Saint David in 1120 and declared to be the National Saint of Wales. Over 50 churches in South Wales had been dedicated to him before the Reformation.
So today, we give thanks for David: monk, saint, national hero.
The compilers of the Revised Common Lectionary have selected a psalm for each Sunday of the year, noting that this has normally been in order to provide a passage that complements the First Reading, which is most often a passage from Hebrew Scripture.
The psalm for this coming Sunday, Psalm 19, was obviously chosen as a companion reading alongside the Hebrew Scripture passage from Exodus 20, which recounts The Ten Words given to Israel, through Moses, when he met with the Lord on Mount Sinai (Exod 20:1–17). For that passage, see
Creation is the focus in the first six verses of the psalm, where the psalmist’s view is fixed on “the heavens”, which are “telling the glory of God” (v.1). In those heavens the Lord “has set a tent for the sun, which comes out like a bridegroom from his wedding canopy, and like a strong man runs its course with joy” (v.4–5)—clearly a description of the daily movement of the sun across the sky (from our perspective), from east to west, as verse 6 then elucidates.
However, at this point the focus changes to Torah. The psalmist expresses a consistently positive attitude towards Torah in verses 7–14. Those verses contain a ringing affirmation of the Torah as “perfect, reviving the soul … sure, making wise the simple … right, rejoicing the heart … clear enlightening the eyes … pure, enduring forever … true and righteous altogether … more to be desired than gold … sweeter also than honey” (Ps 19:7–14).
The terms used here in parallel to describe Torah (law, decrees, precepts, commandment, fear, ordinances) are found regularly in the narrative books to describe the collection of laws (Deut 8:11; 11:1; 1 Ki 2:3; 6:12; 8:58; 2 Ki 17:34–37; 1 Chron 22:13; 28:17; Neh 9:13; 10:29) as well as right throughout Psalm 119. See
Such affirmations of Torah sound out insistently throughout the majestically grand doublets of the longest psalm, Psalm 119. The 176 verses of this psalm, artistically arranged into acrostic stanzas of eight verses at a time, are bracketed by delight and confidence (“happy are those … who walk in the way of the Lord … I long for your salvation, O Lord, and your law is my delight”, vv.1, 174). This psalm indicates that the Law shapes the way that the covenant is kept; and the covenant gives expression to the steadfast love and grace of God.
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So much is Torah valued, that it apparently offers perfection: “the law of the Lord is perfect” (Ps 19:7), which we might compare with “I have seen a limit to all perfection, but your commandment is exceedingly broad” (Ps 119:96). In this regard, the psalmist’s appreciation for Torah as perfection seems to reflect the priestly desire for people to offer perfect sacrifices, without blemish (Lev 22:21), and Solomon’s desire to build the Temple as a perfect house for God (1 Ki 6:22).
Indeed, such a conception of perfect Torah also resembles the sage’s musings regarding Wisdom: “to fix one’s thought on her is perfect understanding” (Wisdom 6:15), and thoughts found in a prayer attributed to Solomon: “even one who is perfect among human beings will be regarded as nothing without the wisdom that comes from you” (Wisdom 9:6).
Much value is accorded to these words of Torah. As well as calling the law “perfect”, we hear that “the decrees of the Lord are sure” (Ps 19:7), a claim echoed in another psalm (Ps 93:5). The precepts of the Lord that are right (Ps 19:8; see also 119:75, 137, 172) means that one who is faithful and obedient will be led “in right paths” (Ps 23:3) as they pray “put a new and right spirit within me” (Ps 51:10). “The commandment of the Lord is clear” (Ps 19:8) is a claim that informs the later portrayal of those who trace the course of Wisdom “from the beginning of creation … [who] make knowledge of her clear” (Wisd Sol 6:22).
The psalmist extends the adoration of the Law, declaring that “the fear of the Lord is pure” (Ps 19:9), a claim extended in another statement found in wisdom texts, “the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (Ps 111:10; Prov 1:7; 9:10; 15:33; Sir 1:18, 27; 19:20). A further elaboration, “the ordinances of the Lord are true and righteous altogether” (Ps 19:9), is the way that Ezra describes the laws given to Moses on Mount Sinai (Neh 9:13). They are righteous (Ps 119:7, 62, 106, 160, 164), good (119:39), the basis of hope (119:43) and comfort (119:52).
The closing affirmation in this shorter psalm, “more to be desired are they than gold, even much fine gold; sweeter also than honey, and drippings of the honeycomb” (Ps 19:10), is echoed in the longest psalms, “how sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!” (Ps 119:103).
By contrast, when Job asks, “where shall wisdom be found? and where is the place of understanding?”, he proposes that “gold and glass cannot equal it, nor can it be exchanged for jewels of fine gold” (Job 28:12–19), and concludes, “the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understanding” (Job 28:28).
Wisdom, love, the fear of the Lord, enlightenment, and rejoicing—these are the fruits of Torah, as the psalmist sings. These are the benefits of the law which are to be valued even into our own times, as this Sunday we hear again the words of this ancient psalm and affirm its relevance and importance in the contemporary world.
The parable of Jesus which is set in this Sunday’s lectionary appears to offer an invitation to adopt a negative approach towards Jews and Judaism. The author of “the good news of Jesus, chosen one” (by tradition, the evangelist Mark) interpreted this story as a polemic against the Jewish authorities who had gathered to hear Jesus teach (Mark 11:27).
As Jesus concludes his parable with a typical rabbinic scripture citation, designed to drive the point home with deep authority (Mark 12:10–11, citing Ps 118:22–23), the narrator comments, “when they realized that he had told this parable against them, they wanted to arrest him, but they feared the crowd; so they left him and went away” (Mark 12:12).
Often in Christian history, that negative portrayal of the Jewish authorities of the first century has been used as the basis for a direct attack on Jews of later times. That’s a very poor line of interpretation that we should ensure we do not follow.
The parable that Jesus tells is set in a vineyard. That’s an age-old symbol for the people of Israel. We can see this most clearly in passages of Hebrew Scripture such as Isaiah 5:1–7 and Psalm 80:7–15; they show how old and enduring this imagery was.
The parable that Jesus tells recounts the hard-hearted way in which the tenants in the vineyard (a traditional symbol for the people of Israel) reject the messengers sent to them by the landowner (seen as a symbol for God), culminating in the atrocious treatment meted out to the landowner’s son (whom we are meant to identify as Jesus, son of God).
The son is put to death. The punchline that Jesus crafts for this parable is potent: the owner of the vineyard “will come and destroy the tenants and give the vineyard to others” (vv.8–9). In Matthew’s parallel version of this parable, Jesus extends this ending to include the clear statement that “those who do not produce the fruits of the kingdom will not inherit the kingdom” (Matt 21:43).
The parable of the vineyard is one of the passages that has been difficult for us to understand accurately. When taken at a literal level, it has led to modern interpretations that are as damaging as they are unfair. The assumption is that the Pharisees and scribes are the ‘bad guys’, and this has led to the belief that Pharisee equals hypocrite. It is disturbing that such a stereotype has found its way into the language of our modern church.
The context of the parable suggests that although its message was aimed at the chief priests and the Pharisees, it does not exclude other Jewish people. The parable is told in one of a number of encounters between Jesus and Jewish leaders (11:27—12:44). Was this a consistent attitude of Jesus?
Equally disturbing is the notion that Jesus here seems to contradict his own teaching about loving one’s enemy and turning the other cheek. He depicts God as the avenging Lord. So what is really happening here?
I don’t think the parable of Jesus is intended to be simply an anti-Jewish polemic, an invitation to deride or dismiss Judaism and Jews.
It is true that, in the Gospel of Matthew, we find Jesus making some strident accusations and engaging in some vigorous debate with the Jewish authorities. But does he really believe that no faithful Jew will ever again enter the kingdom of heaven?
Judaism was in a state of flux as people lived under the continuing oppression of Roman rule. The destruction of the Temple in 70 CE was a pivotal moment. Evidence indicates that, during this time, there were various sectarian groups within Judaism who were contesting with each other for recognition and influence. Instead of making common cause against Rome, they continued to fight each other. Vigorous polemic and robust debate amongst Jews were not uncommon. See
During this period, the Pharisees were becoming increasingly important as an alternative to the Temple cult, and emerging as the dominant Jewish religious movement. Their power base was moved from Jerusalem and spread throughout the area. When the Temple was destroyed, they moved into the vacuum that was created, and became even more dominant.
(From this time on, Pharisees evolved into the “Rabbis”, and they developed the kind of Judaism that became dominant through to the present time. We need to be sensitized to the fact that, for many modern Jews, when we make damning criticisms of the Pharisees, they hear that as a criticism of their Rabbis, and, by extension, of the faith that they practise today.)
The kind of debates that we see in the Gospels—debates where Jesus goes head-on with the Pharisees—need to be understood in this context. Jesus was not “cutting the cord” of his connection with Judaism. He was not rejecting his faith as irrelevant or obsolete.
He was advocating, vigorously and persistently, for the kind of faith that he firmly believed in—and criticisng the Pharisees for their failure, in his eyes, to adhere to all that they taught. He wanted to renew Israel, to refresh the covenant, as the prophets before him had done.
And let’s remember that the accounts that we have of these debates come from years later than when they actually occurred; years that had been strongly shaped by the polemic and antagonism of the intervening decades.
Older academic Christian scholarship and popular evangelical Christian tradition perpetuate the stereotype that the Judaism of the time of Jesus was a harsh, legalistic, rigid religion—a stereotype heightened by an unquestioning acceptance of the New Testament caricature of the Pharisees as hypocritical legalists who made heavy demands but had no soul commitment to their faith. It was claimed that they were the leaders of a static, dying religion.
This stereotype has been completely demolished in recent decades—both through the growing interaction between Christian and Jewish scholarship, and also through a more critical reading of the relevant primary texts. I am very pleased that the church to which I belong, the Uniting Church in Australia, has made it very clear that we do not adhere to these inaccurate and hurtful stereotypes.
In 2009, the UCA national Assembly adopted a Statement which says, amongst other things:
The Uniting Church does not accept Christian teaching that is derogatory towards Jews and Judaism; a belief that God has abolished the covenant with the Jewish people; supersessionism, the belief that Christians have replaced Jews in the love and purpose of God; and forms of relationships with Jews that require them to become Christian, including coercion and manipulation, that violate their humanity, dignity and freedom.
Indeed, when we look to Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus does nothing to overturn the Law or to encourage his followers to disregard the Law; he is portrayed as a Jew who keeps Torah to the full. “I have come, not to destroy, but to fulfil the Law”, he says (5:17). See
And in that same section of the Gospel, Jesus is quoted as advocating for a better righteous-justice; a righteous-justice that “exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees” (5:20). See
Virtually all of his criticisms of the Pharisees in the Synoptic Gospels can be understood within the framework of first century debates over the meaning and application of Law. The memory of Jesus is as a Torah-abiding Jew, who nevertheless stakes out a distinctive position within the context of those contemporary debates.
We should not interpret the parable of Jesus in Mark 12 as an outright condemnation of Judaism as a whole. As he debates the Jewish leadership of his day, he makes strong statements. But let’s not claim that Jesus validates any sense of anti-Jewish or antisemitic attitude.
Unfortunately, these words of Jesus and other parts of the New Testament story have been used throughout the centuries to validate anti-Jewish attitudes, to foster antisemitic hatred of the Jews. It is important for us to remember the real sense of the words of Jesus, and not follow the pathway to bigotry, hatred, persecution, and tragic attempts to annihilate the Jews.
When Jesus instructed his followers to tread the pathway of humility and submission (Mark 8:34–38; 9:35–37; 10:38–44)—the same pathway that he himself has been following as he walks towards Jerusalem (8:31; 9:31: 10:32–34), he speaks about laying down his own life, just as he urges his followers to lay down their lives (10:45). This has been a regular refrain throughout his teachings.
However, in this particular saying, Jesus indicates that the laying- down of his life is to be seen, not just as the model for his followers to emulate, but as “a ransom for many” (10:45). There are two important observations to make about this short statement. The first relates to the word “ransom”; the second will be canvassed in a later post.
Ransom is a term that we associate with the forced kidnapping of a person and the demand for a payment in order for them to be released. This is not the way the term is used in biblical texts, where payment in return for release of a captive is not in view. Rather, the orientation is towards the idea that there is a significant cost involved in the process of ransoming.
The Greek word used in Mark 10:45, lutron, comes from a verb, lutrein, which means “to release”. It was a common term for the payment needed to secure the release of slaves, debtors, and prisoners of war. The noun, translated as ransom, occurs in the Septuagint. It identifies the price paid to redeem a slave or captive (Lev 25:51–52) or a firstborn (Num 18:15). It also indicates the price to be paid as recompense for a crime (Num 35:31–32) or injury (Exodus 21:30). In these instances, it translates the Hebrew word koper, which has the basic meaning of “covering”.
Another form of that word appears in another form in the name of the Great High Holy Day in Judaism—Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement (see Lev 16:1–34; Num 29:7–11). On that day, as the cloud of incense covers the mercy seat (kapporeth, Lev 16:13), the mercy seat is smeared with the blood of the sacrificed bull (16:14) and then the blood of the goat which provides the sin offering (16:15). According to Leviticus, it is these actions which “shall make atonement (kipper) for the sanctuary, because of the uncleannesses of the people of Israel, and because of their transgressions, all their sins” (16:16).
The process of atonement in the Israelite religion was to cover up, to hide away from view, the sins of the people. This is developed to some degree in the fourth Servant Song of Deutero-Isaiah, when the prophet honours the servant because “he was wounded for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities” (Isa 53:5). His life was understood as “an offering for sin” (53:10) which “shall make many righteous” (53:11). Indeed, as the Song ends, it affirms that “he bore the sin of many” (53:12). The Song resonates with the language and imagery of righteous suffering as the means of dealing with, and perhaps atoning for, sins.
That notion is further expounded in a later text which provides an account of the way that a righteous man, Eleazar, was martyred as a means of ransoming the nation during the time of upheaval under Antiochus Epiphanes (175–167 BCE). “Be merciful to your people, and let our punishment suffice for them”, he prays; “make my blood their purification, and take my life in exchange for theirs” (4 Macc 6:28–29).
The idea then appears in New Testament texts which describe the effect of the death of Jesus for those who have placed their trust in him. Paul uses ransom language tells the saints that they were “bought with a price” (1 Cor 6:20; 7:23). He also uses apolutrosis, a compound word but from the base word lutrein, to describe the redemption which was accomplished by Jesus, both in a formulaic way (1Cor 1:30) and in a more discursive manner (Rom 3:24; 8:23). The term recurs in later letters which likely were not written by Paul (Col 1:14; Eph 1:7, 14; 4:30), as well as in the Lukan redaction of the final eschatological speech of Jesus (Luke 21:28).
In another later letter attributed to Paul, most likely written by one of his students, we read of “one mediator between God and humans, the man Christ Jesus, who gave himself as a ransom for all” (1 Tim 2:6), using the term lutron. In another later work providing guidance an account of Paul by an author at some remove from him, the book of Acts, Paul was said to have declared of the church that God “obtained [it] with the blood of his own Son” (Acts 20:28).
It was the combination of such passages that led the third century scholar, Origen of Alexandria to develop an idiosyncratic theory of the atonement (the way that Jesus enables God to deal with human sinfulness). Origen’s ransom theory of atonement reads Genesis 3 as an account of Adam and Eve being taken captive by Satan; this state was then inherited by all human beings. The death of Jesus is what enables all humans to be saved; the means for this was that the blood shed by Jesus was the price paid to Satan to ransom humanity (or, in a variant form, a ransom paid by Jesus to God to secure our release).
However, none of these texts—and particularly not Mark 10:45—require this overarching theological superstructure to make sense of what they say. Origen’s ransom theory held sway for some centuries, but was definitively rejected by the medieval scholar Anselm of Canterbury. It is not a favoured theory of atonement in much of the contemporary church (though it is still advocated in various fundamentalist backwaters). Certainly, none of this should be attributed to the saying of Jesus in Mark 10:45. It is far more likely that he is drawing on the Jewish tradition of the righteous sufferer in his words.
Jesus himself draws on various psalms of the righteous sufferer; psalms 22, 27, 31, 69, and 109 would each seem to express the despair and anguish being felt by Jesus in his passion. However, it is the fourth of the four Servant Songs (Isa 42:1–9; 49:1–7; 50:4–11; 52:13–53:12) to which this statement in Mark 10:45 might best be correlated.
The passion narratives that we have in scripture, recounting events leading to the death of Jesus, offer many connections with details of this fourth song (Isa 52:13–53:12). The prophet describes the marred appearance of the Servant (52:14); he is despised, rejected, and suffering (53:3), bearing our infirmities (53:4), and wounded for our transgressions (53:5).
The Servant is led like a lamb to the slaughter (53:7), suffering “a perversion of justice” (53:8), not practising violence or speaking deceit (53:9), and is buried with the rich (53:9). The Servant gives his life as “an offering for sin” (53:10), carrying the iniquities of many (53:11), making them righteous (53:11), bearing the sin of many (53:12), making “intercession for the transgressors” (53:12).
The role that the Servant plays in relation to sin, for the sake of the many, shapes the important saying of Jesus, that “the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many” (Mark 10:45). Jesus, according to Mark, foresees his role as that chosen one, destined to suffer for the sake of many. As we look to the cross, we can see that this was an ominous foreboding.
“The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many” (Mark 10:35-45). So Jesus instructs his followers, after a bruising encounter with James and John, two of the leading followers of Jesus (10:35-40) which enraged the rest of the disciples (10:42).
The dispute was over status; James and John wanted to claim the places next to Jesus: “one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory” (10:37). This was not unusual in the world of that time (indeed, this is still the case in our own times). Public debate that was intended to best the other person was common in ancient Mediterranean societies. Seeking greater honour (higher status) by getting the upper hand, or the last word, in public debate, was common.
In an honour—shame society, such as that in which Jesus, James, and John lived, the culture was characterised by a constant and ongoing “challenge—riposte,” enacted in the public arena. Jesus engaged in such challenges on a regular basis; see the disputations of 2:1-3:6, when Jesus was travelling around Galilee, and later during his time in Jerusalem, in 11:27-12:34.
Such challenge—riposte encounters typically involved the challenger setting forth a claim, through either words or actions; a response to the challenge by the persons who was challenged; then, after further back-and-forth amongst the participants, once the challenge and riposte has run its course, the verdict is declared by the public who was watching the encounter.
At this moment, Jesus critiques the common process of public disputation; he distances himself from the common cultural practice of seeking honour and working for a higher status. Those who lord it over others, who act as tyrants, are not to be the role models for his followers; “it is not so among you; but whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all” (10:43–44).
Indeed, Jesus rubs salt into the wound by inferring that James and John were acting like Gentiles (10:52). That was an insult, to be sure, for good Jews (see the sayings attributed the Jesus at Matt 5:47; 6:7, 32).
This was the third time, after demonstrating their misunderstanding of what Jesus was teaching, that his disciples were directly rebuked for their attitude. First, Peter represents the disciples’ lack of clarity about Jesus (8:27–38); then a number of the disciples arguing about being great, and John fails to welcome the activity of a person casting out demons (9:33–48); and now, James and John demonstrate their continued inability to understand the attitude of Jesus towards status (10:35–40).
At least in this last scene, the other ten disciples are angry about what James and John have asked for (10:41). Far too often, on earlier occasions, Jesus has lamented that the disciples failed to understand (4:22, 13; 6:52; 7:18: 8:17, 21; 9:32). It seems that finally, at this moment, things had fallen into place for the disciples. (Or were they simply annoyed at the way the brothers promoted their own interests over the hopes of the other disciples?)
On each of those three occasions of misunderstanding, Jesus responds by correcting the inadequacies displayed by his followers: he refers to the fate that is in store for him in Jerusalem (8:31; 9:31: 10:32–34), and then he indicates that his followers must tread that same pathway of humility and submission (8:34–38; 9:35–37; 10:38–44). See
On this occasion, Jesus goes one step further. His own life—or, more precisely, the laying-down of his own life—is to be seen, not just as the model for his followers to emulate, but as “a ransom for many” (10:45). This will be the focus of a subsequent blog post. See
It’s the beginning of Lent, a 40-day season in the Christian calendar. In Ash Wednesday services around the world, believers have lined up for the “imposition of ashes” after they joined in prayers confessing their sin and seeking divine forgiveness.
The words of Jesus about “true righteousness” have been read and imbibed: “whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you … whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray … when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face” (Matt 6:1–6, 16–21).
These worshippers may well have listened to the strident call of the prophet Joel, conveying his message from the Lord: “return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing” (Joel 2:1–2, 12–17), as this is the Hebrew Scriptures passage proposed by the lectionary.
And they have joined with fervent intensity, on this Ash Wednesday, as on every Ash Wednesday, in the words attributed to the shepherd-king, David, after his infamous episode of the murder (of Uriah) and adultery (with Bathsheba), “have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions, wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin” (Ps 51:1–17). The day begins a period of intense self-reflection and, for many, a time of abstinence from designated items of food or drink.
Perhaps they also heard the exhortation of the apostle Paul: “we urge you also not to accept the grace of God in vain … see, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation!” (2 Cor 5:20—6:10). It is the grace of God which undergirds this day, and the Lenten season that follows.
After this intense time of self-reflection, of opening up a life to the forgiveness and grace of God, and of being sent forth with a blessing for the days that lie ahead, one would think that there would be a marked change in the practices of many people of faith, cleansed and renewed, forgiven and restored, in the days of Lent which lie ahead.
And Lent, after all, is a discipline offered by the church to continue that process of self-reflection and of clarifying what is most important: what is “is true, honourable, just, pure, pleasing, commendable”, as Paul elsewhere writes (Phil 4:4). Lent is the season of forty days of personal, and perhaps also social, negation of the desires that impede and damage the inner goodness of who we are as human beings.
Yet I wonder how many of those who have had ashes imposed and prayers heard, have left those Ash Wednesday services and are walking through the season of Lent without really seeking to abandon what is harmful, transform what is questionable, and adopt what is commendable, in their lives? Only they will know, each person, one by one, whether they are doing good this, and how they are doing this.
And I wonder how many of those Ash Wednesday worshippers turn their thoughts during Lent to the great festival which comes at the end of Lent: the celebration of Easter, Christ risen, joyful songs, hallelujahs! And how many start the process of buying the goods that are needed for that celebration, even during the period of self-reflection during Lent? And how many start to scour the shops for bargain chocolate eggs for their children or grandchildren (or great-grandchildren) for Easter Sunday?
Chocolate is one of the (many) places where deep injustice continues to be felt. It is one of the (relatively few) places where decisions made by individuals can have a positive effect. We know that there are great imbalances in the world, with poverty widespread across all countries, with a concentration in Africa (19 of the 20 poorest countries are all located in Africa) and with some of the island nations who are near neighbours of Australia also high on the list.
And, indeed, even in many of the wealthiest of countries (the USA, China, Japan, Germany, the UK, Singapore, even Australia) there are noteable pockets of poverty and disadvantage. And although collectively we might well have the economic capacity to rectify this situation, emotionally there is little if any movement towards such a resolution of the gross inequities that exist.
So chocolate is one of the places we can start, personally, individually, to act with justice. Every small step taken to ameliorate the problems of one small group of people is a step in the right direction, and helps to move us all towards global equity. Knowing where the chocolate we buy comes from, what wages are paid to those who harvest, transport, and process it, is something that we all can do.
Fairtrade is a way to support those who are most vulnerable, those who are most exposed to the impacts of climate change. There are more than 1.9 million farmers and workers in Fairtrade certified producer organisations, in 71 countries in Asia, South America, and Africa—some of the countries that are most at risk because of rising sea levels, the spread of drier desert climates, the increasing number of catastrophic weather events such as floods or bushfires, and other effects of climate change.
47% of all Fairtrade farmers produce coffee, and 41% of all Fairtrade workers produce flowers. But many other products are produced in ways that ensure they are fairly produced and fairly traded: tea, chocolate, sugar, bananas, rice, honey, nuts, vanilla wine—but also textiles and cotton, used in our clothing. There is even, now, a Fairtrade Carbon Credit scheme operating under the auspices of Fairtrade International.
An easily-recognised symbol on products marks them as Fairtrade. This symbol that designates products certified in accordance with Fairtrade Standards.
These Fairtrade Standards require producers to meet minimum social, economic and environmental requirements. In addition, participating organisations are encouraged to provide an ongoing improvement of farmers’ employment conditions or the situation of estate workers.
In the Fair Trade Lent 2024 resources, we read:
“In a Fair Trade Lent we ask ourselves about an aspect of how we spend our money. We all purchase goods: food, clothes, household products, motorcars etc. Mostly we look for a bargain, pleased with ourselves when we save a dollar or two.
“Fair Trade Lent encourages us to think, not only of our selves when we buy things, but those who produced the goods: miners, farmers, artisans, and factory workers. Were they paid a living wage? Did they work in healthy conditions? Was the means of production environmentally sustainable?”
Next Sunday, the first Sunday in Lent, we will hear a Gospel passage in which Jesus sadly informs a man of means who prides himself on keeping all the commandments, that still “you lack one thing: go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me” (Mark 10:21).
The man left, shocked and grieving; he could not do what Jesus instructed. Jesus here draws the line of belonging or being alienated from him on the basis of whether a person is able to implement radical actions of obedience. It’s not just a matter of believing—it’s a matter of doing, of implementing radical, practical changes.
Quite some time earlier, Jesus had instructed his followers of that they were to be characterised by an ascetic way of life (6:8–9) as they undertook their public proclamation “that all should repent” (6:12). As Jesus sent them out on mission, “he charged them to take nothing for their journey except a staff—no bread, no bag, no money in their belts— but to wear sandals and not put on two tunics” (6:8–9).
The description given here is often compared with the form of dress of a wandering philosopher, particularly of a Cynic philosopher, renowned for their poverty and dependence on others for food and shelter. The fact that Jesus also instructs his followers to accept hospitality when offered (6:10) but not to stay on if there is no welcome offered (6:11) reinforces the similarities.
The teachings of Jesus contain many indications that this way of life is what is expected of those who follow Jesus. He tells them, “if any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (8:34). He then reinforces this after his encounter with the rich man by noting, “how hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!” (10:23). Later, in Jerusalem, Jesus concludes a debate with some Pharisees and Herodians with the instruction, “give to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s” (12:17).
Beyond Mark’s narrative, Jesus was remembered for sayings in which he taught his followers to “love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return” (Luke 6:35) and “sell your possessions, and give alms” (Luke 12:33; Matt 19:21). “When you give a banquet”, he advised, “invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind” (Luke 14:13). “You cannot serve God and wealth”, he asserts (Luke 16:13; Matt 6:24). Accumulating possessions is not part of the agenda that Jesus set forth!
David Bentley Hart has written about the encounter between Jesus and the rich man: “Whatever else capitalism may be, it is first and foremost a system for producing as much private wealth as possible by squandering as much as possible of humanity’s common inheritance of the goods of creation. But Christ condemned not only an unhealthy preoccupation with riches, but the getting and keeping of riches as such. The most obvious example of this, found in all three synoptic Gospels, is the story of the rich young ruler, and of Christ’s remark about the camel and the needle’s eye.”
As we listen to this story, from long ago, in our present context, we can sense how it remains pertinent for us. It remains a challenging word to disciples, caught in the swirl of constant consumption and encouragement to get more, more, more, in our contemporary capitalist society. “Go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.”
“Good and upright is the Lord; therefore he instructs sinners in the way. He leads the humble in what is right, and teaches the humble his way. All the paths of the Lord are steadfast love and faithfulness, for those who keep his covenant and his decrees.” (Ps 25:8–10) So the psalmist sings, in the psalm that is set for the First Sunday in Lent.
Of course, this short phrase, “The Way”, has a significant place in Christian understanding. When he recounts a key incident in the second volume of his orderly account—namely, the conversion and call of Saul—Luke describes the followers of Jesus as being of “The Way” (9:2). This is a term which he likes; it recurs in four subsequent chapters of Luke’s narrative (18:25; 19:9,23; 22:4; 24:14,22).
Using this term to describe the followers of Jesus makes sense when we consider the thoroughly Jewish character of the early Jesus movement. Luke takes pains to document this thoroughly Jewish ethos, from the opening stories of pregnant women (Luke 1–2), told firmly in the style of Hebrew scripture narrative, through the various occasions where he notes that Jesus was in the synagogue on the sabbath (Luke 4:16; 6:6; 13:10), the many instances where he relates the story of Jesus to scripture passages (Luke 4:21; 7:27; 9:30; 12:52–53; 13:33–35; 19:37–38; 20:9–19; 21:20–24; 22:37) and the way that his second volume traces the way that the followers of Jesus take their message of good news “to the ends of the earth” (Acts 1:8, quoting Isa 42:6; 49:6).
I think that it is most likely that “The Way” as the name of the movement owes its origins to scriptural usage in association with God’s activity. “Lead me, O Lord, in your righteousness because of my enemies”, the psalmist prays; “make your way straight before me” (Ps 5:8). In a song praising God for delivering victory to the King, we read, “This God—his way is perfect; the promise of the Lord proves true; he is a shield for all who take refuge in him” (Ps 18:30). By extension, Luke sees that God is at work in the movement initiated by Jesus and his followers.
This scriptural usage is widespread. The Way figures in a number of psalms. “Good and upright is the Lord; therefore he instructs sinners in the way”, says the psalm proposed for this coming Sunday. “He leads the humble in what is right, and teaches the humble his way” (Ps 25:8–9). The psalmist goes on to explain, “all the paths of the Lord are steadfast love and faithfulness, for those who keep his covenant and his decrees” (Ps 25:8–10).
Other psalmists pray, “Teach me your way, O Lord, and lead me on a level path because of my enemies”(Ps 27:11), and sing, “Wait for the Lord, and keep to his way, and he will exalt you to inherit the land; you will look on the destruction of the wicked” (Ps 37:34). There are many other other psalms which invoke the image of the way of the Lord.
The term is also appropriated in the Dead Sea Scrolls as a means of defining the Qumran community (1QS 9.17-18,21; 10:21; CD 1:13; 2:6). This most likely reflects competing claims for being the authentic keepers of Torah amongst Jewish sects in the latter period of Second Temple Judaism. Members of the community who followed the instruction of The Teacher of Righteous believed that they were keeping faithfully to The Way of the Lord.
A particularly important passage to note is the declaration that opens the second main section of the book of Isaiah—the section which scholars call Deutero-Isaiah. In the opening verses of chapter 40, the prophet addresses the Israelites, in exile in Babylon. Life in the exile was not a happy time for many of the people of Israel. (Psalm 137 is the classic expression of this; note especially the anger expressed in verses 8–9.) The prophet offers them words of comfort and hope.
The people of Israel yearned to return home (Jer 29:10–14; 30:1–31:26). They looked back on the past with longing eyes. They remembered their years in the land which God had given to them. Now, they were living among Babylonians—foreigners, conquerors. Soon, the prophet declares, they would leave behind these memories, and grasp hold of the future that God has for them. In a later statement, he declares that God would “send to Babylon and break down all the bars” (Isa 43:14). God, the prophet declares, is doing a new thing! (43:19).
So in the opening chapter of this section of the book, the return from exile to the land of Israel is announced with a declaration of comfort. “Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid, that she has received from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins” (Isa 40:1–2).
Immediately after this, the prophet declares, “A voice cries out: ‘In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God.’” (Isa 40:3). The way of the Lord, granted to the people who have been faithful throughout the decades in exile, is that they will return to their homeland. The Lord makes a way in the wilderness (43:19), just as in the past God had “dried up the sea, the waters of the great deep; who made the depths of the sea a way for the redeemed to cross over” (51:10)— and so, “the ransomed of the LORD shall return, and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away” (51:11).
This is, indeed, a powerful promise declared by the prophet. The pathway of justice, the way of understanding (40:14) is not hidden (40:27); indeed, the one chosen to be the servant of the Lord will make known this way, by declaring justice, by persisting with his mission to declare this way, “until he has established justice in the earth” (42:1–4).
It is by speaking through this servant (48:15) that the Lord “teaches you for your own good … leads you in the way you should go” (48:17). The servant’s mission is “to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the survivors of Israel”; as a result, God declares, “I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth” (49:6). This is the way of the Lord for those ancient Israelite people.
Indeed, through the person of the servant, all those who have “turned to [their] own way” will know that “the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all” (53:6); “the righteous one, my servant, shall make many righteous, and he shall bear their iniquities” (53:11).
This Way of the Lord, first declared in the late sixth century before the Common Era, is later proclaimed, in that same desert, by the wild desert prophet, John, as he invites people to “prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight” in anticipation of the imminent coming of the one chosen by God, Jesus of Nazareth (Mark 1:1–3; Matt 3:1–3; Luke 3:1–6). And the psalm we will hear this coming Sunday also offers a focus on this same Way: for God will teach “those who fear the Lord … the way that they should choose” (Ps 25:12).
On Ash Wednesday each year, Christians around the world begin forty days (plus six Sundays) of the season of Lent. This is the focus for the first half of issue 17/6 of With Love to the World.
So often, when the season of Lent comes around each year, preachers inevitably start to talk about our “journey”, and seek to relate our “walk of faith” to the pathway that Jesus trod as he led his disciples, with firm and steadfast resolve, towards Jerusalem—the city where he knew what his fate would be.
Yet we are not tramping determinedly to our death at the end of Lent—at least, I hope we are not! And, in a sense, nor was Jesus. Yes, he would die in Jerusalem; he dies there because of the intersection of the plotting of Jewish leaders (always anxious about prophetic pretenders, as they probably saw him) and the co-operation of Roman authorities (always willing to act harshly to squash potential problems). But each Gospel attests, in its own way, to a life beyond the life that Jesus lived in Galilee and Judea.
Jesus has an ‘afterlife’ that leads him to appear to his followers, charge them with a global mission, and send the Spirit to renew and energise them in that mission. That’s how Matthew, Luke, and John portray what transpired around the time we mark as Easter—each in their own idiosyncratic way.
But this year (2024), we are following the story that the Gospel of Mark tells about Jesus; and we know that this account comes to an abrupt ending, right at the point where the news about Jesus, raised from the dead, is about to be broadcast (Mark 16:7–8). “They said nothing to nobody, for …” [my translation] is one way to render the awkward ending of this earliest Gospel. It is a peculiar way to end the story; many suggest that we may have lost Mark’s intended ending, as this sentence seems to trail off into nothing …
So here we face the question: how do we proclaim the good news that God raised Jesus from the dead, when our primary text (at least for this year) doesn’t report that? Yes, we can find hints in the words of Jesus (Mark 14:28) that are repeated by the young man in the empty tomb (Mark 16:7)—but the Gospel itself does not give us much more than this.
It is as if the author of this earliest written account of Jesus wants to hand the responsibility over to us—invite us to run with the story, to shape for ourselves the words and the actions which bear witness to the reality that Jesus has, indeed, “gone to Galilee”, and that we ourselves have seen him. What is the way that we, having traced the story of Jesus to this point, pick up the story and offer our own testimony to the living one who is in our midst?
In Mark’s Gospel, Jesus asks many questions; so do his followers, and his opponents. (I once counted them: this Gospel has 118 questions, in 668 verses!) I see the ending to Mark as another question—a big question, for us. He is not here. Jesus is risen.How do we proclaim that? How do we share this news? That is the big question addressed to us by this Gospel.
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During Lent, you are invited to join an online Bible Study sponsored by With Love to the World, each Thursday, at either 10:00am or 7:00pm.
This week we once more read and hear the beginning of the story that Mark tells, about the very early stages of the public activity of Jesus. We have already read about John the baptiser during Advent (Advent 2), and heard Mark’s account of the baptism of Jesus (Epiphany 1).
Now, in this week’s Gospel reading (Lent 1), Jesus is baptised, plunged deep into the water, from which he emerges changed (1:9–11), driven into the wilderness, with wild beasts and angels, to be tested (1:12–13), and then announces what his message and mission will be (1:15–15).
This baptism is sometimes regarded as Jesus attesting to a deeply personal religious experience that he had in his encounter with John, who had been preaching his message of repentance with some vigour (1:4-11). His encounter with John deepens his faith and sharpens his commitment.
The relationship between Jesus and John is interesting. In the orderly account of things being fulfilled, which we attribute to Luke, it is clear from the start that John is related to Jesus (Luke 1:36). By tradition, they are considered to be cousins–although the biblical text does not anywhere expressly state this.
It seems also that some of the early followers of Jesus had previously been followers of John himself. This is evidenced in the book of signs, which we attribute to the evangelist John. Andrew, later to be listed among the earliest group of followers of Jesus, appears initially as one of two followers of John (John 1:35-40). They express interest in what John is teaching (John 1:39).
Andrew is the brother of Simon Peter, later acknowledged as the leader of the disciples of Jesus. He tells his brother about Jesus. It is Peter who comes to a clear and definitive understanding of the significance of Jesus, even at this very early stage: “we have found the Messiah” (John 1:41). Andrew and John are thenceforth committed disciples of Jesus.
Was Jesus engaging in “sheep-stealing”? Certainly, the dynamic in the narrative is of a movement shifting away from John the baptiser towards Jesus the Messiah; the juxtaposition of these two religious figures can be seen at a number of points (John 1:20, 29-34, 35-36; see also 3:22-30).
See further thoughts on John the baptiser in John’s Gospel at
(And I am looking forward to reading more about John in the most recent book by James McGrath, Christmaker: a life of John the Baptist, published by Eerdmans.)
None of this story relating to John is in view in the account we read in this Sunday’s Gospel. The rapid-fire movement in this opening chapter simply takes us from John, baptising in the Jordan, to Jesus at the Jordan and then in the wilderness, and on into Galilee, beside the lake and in Capernaum (Mark 1:1–45).
Mark has no concern with exploring the relationship between Jesus and John. He wishes only to indicate that, at the critical moment of the beginning of the public activity of Jesus, it was through contact with John, his message and his actions, that Jesus was impelled into his mission.
The Gospel account moves quickly on from the baptism, to a very different scene, set in the wilderness, where Jesus is tested, challenged about his call (1:12-15). The wilderness was the location of testing for Israel (Exod 17:1-7; Num 11:1-15; Deut 8:2). By the same token, the wilderness was also the place where “Israel tested God” (Num 14:20-23), when Israel grumbled and complained to God (see Exod 14-17, Num 11 and 14). Wilderness and testing go hand-in-hand.
The reference to Jesus being “forty days” in the wilderness evokes both the “forty years” of wilderness wandering for the people of Israel (Exod 16:35; Deut 2:7, 8:2, 29:5; Neh 9:21; Amos 2:10, 5:25), as well as the “forty days” that Moses spent fasting on Mount Sinai (Exod 34:28; Deut 9:9-11,18,25; 10:10).
Forty, however, should be regarded not as a strict chronological accounting, but as an expression indicating “an extended period of time”, whether that be in days or in years. It points to the symbolic nature of the account.
We see this usage of forty, for instance, in the comment in Judges, that “the land had rest forty years” (Judges 5:31, 8:28)–a statement that really means “for quite a long time”. Likewise, Israel was “given into the hands of the Philistines forty years” (Judges 13:1) and Eli the priest served for 40 years (1 Sam 4:18).
David the king reigned for 40 years (2 Sam 5:4, 1 Kings 2:11; 1 Chron 29:27), his son Solomon then reigned for another 40 years (1 Kings 11:42; 2 Chron 9:30), as also did Jehoash (2 Kings 12:1) and his son Jeroboam (2 Kings 14:23). If we take these as precise chronological periods, it is all very neat and tidy and orderly–and rather unbelievable!
Other instances of forty point to the same generalised sense of an extended time. Elijah journeyed from Mount Carmel to Mount Horeb “forty days and forty nights” (1 Kings 19:8), whilst the prophet Ezekiel’s announcement of punishments lasting forty years (Ezekiel 29:10-13) is intended to indicate “for a long time”, not for a precise chronological period. Jonah’s prophecy that there will be forty days until Nineveh is overthrown (Jonah 3:4) has the same force.
So the story of the testing of Jesus for “forty days in the wilderness” is not a precise accounting of exact days, but draws on a scriptural symbol for an extended, challenging period of time.
Details about the conversation that took place whilst Jesus was being tested in the wilderness are provided in the accounts in the Gospels attributed to Matthew (4:1-11) and Luke (4:1-13). This is not the case in Mark, where the much shorter account (1:12-13) focusses attention on the key elements of this experience: the wilderness, testing, wild beasts, angels–and the activity of the Spirit.
The Markan account of this period of testing is typically concise and focussed. The constituent elements in the story continue the symbolic character of the narrative.
The note that “he was with the wild beasts” sounds like the wilderness experience was a rugged time of conflict and tension for Jesus. However, commentators note that the particular Greek construction employed here is found elsewhere in this Gospel to describe companionship and friendly association: Jesus appointed twelve apostles “to be with him” (3:14); the disciples “took him [Jesus] with them onto the boat” (4:36); the man previously possessed by demons begged Jesus “that he might be with him” (5:14); and a servant girl declares to Peter that she saw “you also were with Jesus” (14:67).
If this Greek construction bears any weight, then it is pointing to the companionable, friendly association of the wild beasts with Jesus—a prefiguring of the eschatological harmony envisaged at the end of time, when animals and humans all live in harmony (Isaiah 11:6-9; Hosea 2:18). The wilderness scene has a symbolic resonance, then, with this vision.
Alongside the wild beasts, angels are present—and their function is quite specifically identified as “waiting on him” (1:13). The Greek word used here is most certainly significant. The word diakonein has the basic level of “waiting at table”, but in Markan usage it is connected with service, as we see in the descriptions of Peter’s healed mother-in-law (1:31), the women who followed Jesus as disciples from Galilee to the cross (15:41), and most clearly in the saying of Jesus that he came “not to be served, but to serve” (10:45). The service of the angels symbolises the ultimate role that Jesus will undertake.
Finally, we note that the whole scene of the testing of Jesus takes place under the impetus of the Spirit, which “drove him out into the wilderness” (1:12). This was the place that Jesus just had to be; the action of the Spirit, so soon after descending on him like a dove (1:11), reinforces the importance and essential nature of the testing that was to take place in the wilderness.
And the action of “driving out” is expressed in a word, ekballō, which contains strong elements of force—the word is used to describe the confrontational moment of exorcism (1:34, 39; 3:15, 22-23; 6:13; 9:18, 28, 38). The testing in the wilderness becomes a moment when Jesus comes face to face with his adversary, Satan—and casts his power aside. The more developed dialogues in Matthew and Luke expand on this understanding of the encounter.
Both of the key elements in this reading (baptism and testing) serve a key theological purpose in Mark’s narrative. They shape Jesus for what lies ahead. They signal that Jesus was dramatically commissioned by God, then rigorously equipped for the task he was then to undertake amongst his people. The two elements open the door to the activities of Jesus that follow in the ensuing 13 chapters, right up to the time when the long-planned plot against Jesus, initiated at 3:6, is put into action (14:1-2).
Of course, this story is offered in the lectionary each year on the first Sunday in the season of Lent. It serves as an introduction to the whole season. Jesus being tested in the wilderness points forward, to the series of events taking place in Jerusalem, that culminate in his crucifixion, death, and burial.
The narrative arc of Mark’s Gospel runs from the baptism and wilderness testing, through to death at Golgotha and burial in a tomb. The weekly pattern of Gospel readings during Lent follows a parallel path, from the wilderness testing of Lent 1, to the entry into Jerusalem on Lent 6, the farewell meal on Maundy Thursday, and the death and burial on Good Friday.
That is the path that Jesus trod. That is the way that he calls us to walk.
The story that is told in the Gospel for this coming Sunday (included in the longer reading of Mark 8:27—9:8) is a story about being changed; about being transformed. It’s a story that shows that being transformed means you are able to stand and challenge others to be transformed.
It’s the story of when Jesus took his three closest friends to a mountain, and they had a shared experience of seeing Jesus standing between two of the greats of their people: Moses, to whom God had given the Law to govern the people of Israel, and Elijah, through whom God had established a long line of prophets in Israel (Mark 9:2–8). It’s a story that in Christian tradition is called The Transfiguration.
The word Transfiguration is a strange word. It is not often found in common English usage. It’s one of those peculiar church words, that seems to be used only in church circles. Like thee and thy, holy and righteous, sanctification and atonement … and trinity. These words don’t usually pop up in regular usage!
I looked for some helpful synonyms for the word transfiguration, and found these: change, alter, modify, vary, redo, reshape, remodel, transform, convert, renew … and transmogrify. I am not sure whether that last one gets us anywhere nearer to a better understanding, but some of the others are helpful. Transfiguration is about change, adaptation, and taking on a new shape or size or appearance.
One of the other words offered as a synonym was metamorphose; and that caught my eye, because that word comes directly from the Greek word, metamorphidzo, which is used by Mark in his Gospel, when he tells his account of this incident. “After six days, Jesus took Peter, James and John with him and led them up a high mountain, where they were all alone; and he was metamorphosed before them” (Mark 9:2). Mark then explains that this metamorphosis was evident in that “his clothes became dazzling white”.
The story of the Transfiguration tells of the moment that Peter, James, and John perceived Jesus in a new way. No longer did they see him as the man from Nazareth. In this moment, they see him as filled to overflowing with divine glory. He was not simply the son of Joseph; he was now the divinely-chosen, God-anointed, Beloved Son (9:7).
Jesus brings the heavenly realm right to the earthly disciples. It is what is known, in Celtic Christianity, as a “thin place”: the place where heaven breaks into earthly life.
The disciples had the possibility, in a moment of time, to feel intensely close to the heavenly realm, to stand in the presence of God. They symbolise the desire of human beings, to reach out into the beyond, to grasp hold of what is transcendent—to get to heaven, as that is where God is (see Gen 28:10-12 and Deut 30:12; Pss 11:4, 14:2, 33:13, 53:2, 80:14, 102:19; although compare the sense of God being everywhere in Ps 139:8-12).
This key mountaintop moment contains the words from the heavens about Jesus, “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” (9:7). These words link back to the initial baptism of Jesus, when the same words were heard (1:11) and forward to the final scene of crucifixion, when a centurion and those with him at the foot of the cross witnesses Jesus’ death, and declares, “Truly this man was God’s Son!” (15:39).
All three scenes contain the foundational statement, recognising Jesus as Son of God, reiterating the words of the unclean spirits in Galilee (3:11) and the man possessed by demons in the country of the Gerasenes (5:7). For, as Simon Peter declares in the pivotal scene at Caesarea Philippi that is also included in this Sunday’s reading, Jesus is “the Messiah” (8:29).
The voice, booming forth from the clouds, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” (9:7) seems, at first hearing, to be quoting Hebrew scripture: perhaps the second Psalm, which praises the King of ancient Israel as the one whom God has begotten; or perhaps the song in Isaiah 42, which extols the servant as the one whom God has chosen, or anointed; or perhaps even the oracle in Deuteronomy 18, which instructs the people to listen carefully to the words of the prophet.
Whatever scripture, or scriptures, are here spoken by the divine voice, making this bold declaration from the cloud, it is clear that God has a special task, a special role, and a special place for Jesus. The words of this heavenly voice link this story back to the opening scenes of the story of the adult period in the life of Jesus, and also to a moment towards the end of that adult life.
As this voice is heard, Jesus is on a mountain, with three of his closest followers—and also with two key figures from the past of Israel: Moses, who led the people out of slavery, who then was the instrument for delivering the Torah to Israel; and Elijah, who stood firm in the face of great opposition, whose deep faith bequeathed him the mantle of prophet, as he ascended into heaven.
Mark says that “there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus” (9:4). Matthew reverses the order, placing Moses before Elijah: “suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him” (Matt 17:3). Priority, in Matthew’s narrative, goes to Moses. Indeed, Matthew’s concern has been to make as many parallels as possible between the story of Jesus and the story of Moses. The regular reminder that “this took place to fulfil what the Lord has said through the prophets” (Matt 1:22; 2:4, 15, 17, 23) underlines this Mosaic typology.
The covenant given to Moses on Mount Sinai (Exod 19:1–6) is accompanied by the giving of the law (Exod 20:1–23:33), and is later sealed in a ceremony by “the blood of the covenant” (Exod 24:1–8). The scene on the mountaintop, with Jesus and his three disciples, evokes the mystery of the mountaintop scene in Exodus. This story is but one part of the story of Jesus which draws connections with the story of Moses.
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The Gospel writers say that Jesus was transformed at that moment. But in this story, also, there is the indication that the friends of Jesus were transformed. That moment on the mountain was a challenge to each of them; the response that Peter wanted to make was seen to be inadequate. Jesus challenged him to respond differently. It was another moment when metanoia, complete transformation, took place. And these disciples did change; yes, it took some time, but these friends of Jesus ultimately became leaders amongst the followers of Jesus, and spearheaded the movement that became the church.
The change, the metanoia, that occurred within Peter, James, and John, spread widely. They faced the challenge head on, and responses, in metanoia. That is mirrored, today, in changes that are taking place in society. Especially, that has been the experience of people over the last few years. We have met the challenge of a global viral pandemic; patterns of behaviour have been modified, as we prioritise safety and care for the vulnerable, and wear masks, sanitise, and socially distance. We have changed as a society.
In the church generally, through the pandemic that hit with such force in 2020, we have changed how we gather, how we worship, how we meet for Bible studies and fellowship groups, how we meet as councils and committees, how we attract people to our gatherings. Transformation has been widespread.
In my own church of these past few years, we worked hard to meet the challenge of reworking our understanding of mission; for across the church, we now see the importance of people from each Congregation engaging with the mission of God in their community as the priority in the life of the church. See
So in each place where people gather as church, there is a pressing need to consider how we might grow fresh expressions of faith, nurture new communities of interest, foster faith amongst people “outside of the building” and outside the inner circle of committed people. It is an ongoing process.
Change is taking place. Change is all around us. Change is the one thing that is constant about life: we are always changing. Sometimes we think that the church doesn’t change, isn’t changing, even resists changing. But that is not the case. Our church is changing. Our society is changing. And the story of the Transfiguration of Jesus encourages us throughout this change.
The latest issue of the daily Bible reading resource, With Love to the World, is currently being distributed tcsubscribers. It features a stunning wraparound cover photograph of “Reflection at Circular Pool”, taken at Walpole, WA, by Steph Waters of Perth.
Steph offers her own reflection on the significance of the seasons of Lent and Easter, which are the focus of this particular issue. I’ve included an introduction to each season in the opening pages of this issue, and the issue concludes with a wonderful poem on resurrection, “Seasons gone south”, by Alison Bleyerveen of Sydney.
With Love to the World has always sought to provide a resource which assists worshippers to come to Sunday worship with an awareness of the Bible passages they will hear read and proclaimed. So each day has not only a succinct commentary on a biblical passage, but also a prayer, a song, and a question for discussion, all related to the day’s passage. This means that Sunday worshippers will hear more acutely and respond more directly to the scripture in focus.
The writers of these commentaries in this issue are all experienced in pastoral ministry, and so as they reflect on the daily passage, they bring their theological training as well as their engagement in pastoral ministry to bear on what the passage is saying. In keeping with the commitment of With Love to the World, the writers are drawn from Asian, Pasifika, Maori, South African, and Anglo-Australian heritages.
Yvonne, Peter, Radhika, Simon, Jason, Alimoni, and Rob (and yours truly) each write with the intention of drawing from scripture ideas and provocations that are expressed in an accessible way. They write so that the the faith of their readers is deepened and their discipleship is strengthened.
As always, as Editor, I have a number of complimentary copies to distribute to encourage new subscribers. Please send me a direct message if you (a) would like to sample With Love to the World for yourself, or (b) know of a friend or someone in your congregation who might be interested in sampling an issue. I can mail them direct to you or to the person you nominate. (Please include your mailing address in your message to me.)
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After the scene in the synagogue, which we heard last Sunday, the lectionary offers us a collection of scenes (Mark 1:29–39) for the fifth Sunday after the Epiphany. These scenes are part of the rapid sequence of events that Mark tells, to introduce Jesus, the main character of his narrative over the ensuing chapters.
We have already had the announcement from John about “one more powerful than I” (1:2–8) and the striking moment when Jesus of Nazareth was declared to be the beloved Son, anointed by the Spirit, equipped for his role of proclaiming the kingdom of God (1:9–11).
This summary is followed by two compressed accounts, told in formulaic exactitude, in which Jesus calls four of his key followers, brothers Simon and Andrew (“follow me; they left their nets, and followed him”), and then brothers James and John (“he called them; they left their father, and followed him” (1:16-20). See https://johntsquires.com/2024/01/16/fishing-for-people-not-quite-what-you-think-mark-1-epiphany-3b/
These two call narratives establish the nature of the movement that Jesus was initiating. He sets out a call to all four brothers; an exclamation, to which they must respond: “follow me!” The call invites a specific, tangible, and radical response: “leave everything”. And both encounters result in a new, binding commitment to Jesus: they “followed him”. The same pattern repeats with Levi in 2:14, and then with others (2:15; 8:34-36; 15:41). A rich young man comes to the brink, but then pulls away at the last moment (10:21).
Myers parallels this call scene with a later scene (8:22-9:13) in the following way: “Each prologue introduces the essential symbols, characters, and plot complications of the respective ‘books’. Each takes place in the context of ‘the Way’ (1:2f; 8:27), and discusses the relationship between Jesus and John-as-Elijah (1:6; 8:28). In both prologues, Jesus is confirmed as the anointed one by the divine voice (1:11; 9:7) in conjunction with symbolism drawn from the Exodus tradition (wilderness, 1:2,13; mountain, 9:2).
“Each articulates a call to discipleship (1:16-20; 8:34-36) specifically in regard to Peter, James, and John (1: 16,19; 9:2). In Book I Jesus calls disciples to follow him in overturning the structures of the present social order. But because these disciples’ understanding is suspect, Jesus must in the prologue of Book Il extend a ‘second’ call to follow, in which he introduces the central symbol for the rest of the narrative: the cross.”
After these stories of announcement and call to follow, there comes a scene in a synagogue, revealing the authority that Jesus had, in calling people, to command “the unclean spirit, convulsing him and crying with a loud voice, [to] come out of him” (1:21–28). See
The section of this chapter offered for this coming Sunday (1:29–39) begins with a pair of complementary scenes—the first set in the hustle and bustle of the village, where Jesus heals the sick and casts out more demons (1:29–34); the second an early morning start, where Jesus prays “in a deserted place” (1:35–37). This contrast is deliberate, and instructive. Both settings are vital for his project of radical discipleship.
This latter scene evokes the earlier scene, immediately after the public dunking of Jesus in the Jordan river (1:9–11), when Jesus spends a highly symbolic forty days “in the wilderness” (1:12–13). Although it was the Spirit which drove him into wilderness (1:12), it was Satan who tested Jesus during this period (1:13). And that seminal encounter sits alongside the first public declaration of Jesus as “beloved Son”, made over the waters of the Jordan (1:11). See Forty days, led by the Spirit: Jesus in the wilderness (Mark 1; Lent 1B)
The author then provides a characteristic summation of the activity that Jesus was called to do: “he went throughout Galilee, proclaiming the message in their synagogues and casting out demons” (1:38–39). Subsequent summaries in this vein appear a number of times in the ensuing narrative (3:7–8, 4:33–34, 6:12–13, 6:56, 10:1). The opening chapter thus sets the pattern of behaviour by Jesus.
A final, intensely emotional scene brings this substantial opening sequence to a close. In this final scene of chapter 1, Jesus is approached by a leper, seeking to be “made clean” (1:40–42). The way Jesus responds to this need is striking: what the NRSV translates as “moved with pity” is actually better rendered as “being totally consumed by deep-seated compassion” (1:41). An alternative textual variation renders the emotions of Jesus more sparsely: “and being indignant”.
The command to adhere to the law by bringing a sacrificial offering to the priests for his cleaning (as any teacher of Jewish Torah would advocate—Lev 14) is, strikingly, expressed in the typical manner of a wild magic healer; the NRSV translation, “sternly warning him”, is better expressed as “snorting like a horse”—the use of striking, dramatic language being a characteristic feature of ancient healers (1:43–44).
The final scene collects all the activity of the opening chapter into the bustling energy of the swarming public square. Jesus can no longer remain isolated or removed; “people came to him from every quarter” (1:45). However, this passage, along with other sections of chapter 2, appears in the lectionary only in a year when Easter is later and thus the season of Epiphany is extended by further weeks. Because of the early date of Easter this year (2024), we will not be reading and reflecting on it this year.
Perhaps the key takeaway for us, today, from this collection of scenes, is in verse 38: “let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do.” The Jesus of Mark is an energetic, passionately committed person, travelling relentlessly, proclaiming his message of the coming kingdom with an intensity, engaging with people with compassion, focussed on achieving his goal. That’s the invitation that stands before us this Sunday: how do we respond?
The passage proposed for this coming Sunday, the Fifth Sunday after Epiohany (Isa 40:21–31) is from a section of the book of Isaiah which is very well known. It reaches it climax with the well-known acclamation that “those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint” (Isa 40:31).
Words earlier in this oracle tell of the voice which cries out “in the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord” (Isa 40:3). We know these words as they are applied directly to John the baptiser early in the Gospels (Mark 1:2–4 and parallels; John 1:19–23). In that context, these words of the prophet invite us to look forward, in anticipation to the story of Jesus, which will follow.
These words, however, have a different reference in their original context. The words of the exilic prophet whose work forms the second section of Isaiah (chs. 40—55) are oriented towards the appearance of God to the people of Israel as they wait and hope for the end of their exile in Babylon. The prophet says that God will comfort the people (v.1), speaking tenderly to Jerusalem, declaring that “her penalty is paid” (v.2)—and then, that “the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together” (v.5).
The promise of God is clear; the prophet states that God declares, “I will send to Babylon and break down all the bars, and the shouting of the Chaldeans will be turned to lamentation” (43:14; 48:14; and see the extended oracle of 47:1–15). He specifically nominates Cyrus of Persia as the one chosen (or anointed) by God to bring the exiles home (Isa 44:28—45:1; 45:13). We know from 2 Chron 36:22–23, and the books of Ezra and Nehemiah, that this did indeed take place.
The prophet describes the way out of exile and back to the land once promised, ages before, to the ancestors of Israel, in terms which evoke the miraculous liberation from slavery in Egypt—at least in terms of the story that is told in Exodus. Whilst evidence to support the Exodus narrative as “historical” is strikingly missing, the story developed in the Exodus narrative is powerful.
So as the prophet describes the journey leaving Babylon and returning to Jerusalem he evokes that narrative escape from Egypt, indicating that the Lord God “will open rivers on the bare heights, and fountains in the midst of the valleys … [he] will make the wilderness a pool of water, and the dry land springs of water” (41:17–20; see also 43:16–17; 49:9–10; 50:2).
Because it was the Lord who “dried up the sea, the waters of the great deep [and] made the depths of the sea a way for the redeemed to cross over” (cf. Exod 14:19–22, 30–31), the prophet declares exultantly, “the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with singing” (Isa 51:10–11). In order to facilitate this return, in the opening oracle of this section, the prophet declares that “every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain” (40:4).
The particular part of this opening oracle that the lectionary offers for this Sunday (Isa 40:21–31) is a song of praise to God, for the power that “the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth” exercises in the world. In the foundational saga of Israel, “Everlasting God” is the name given to the Lord by Abraham at Beersheba (Gen 21:33).
In contrast to the eternally-enduring deity, whose word will “stand forever” (40:8), the prophet observes that humans are like grass; “the grass withers, the flower fades”, he twice states (40:7, 8). In this, the prophet echoes other passages where the same observation is made. One psalmist laments that “my days are like an evening shadow; I wither away like grass” (Ps 102:11), in contrast to the Lord, who is “enthroned forever; your name endures to all generations” (Ps 102:12).
Job, similarly, bemoans the reality that “a mortal, born of woman, few of days and full of trouble, comes up like a flower and withers, flees like a shadow and does not last” (Job 14:1–2). This fleeting character is linked with evildoers in another psalm; they “will soon fade like the grass, and wither like the green herb” (Ps 37:2).
Yet another psalm includes a prayer that the wicked will “vanish like water that runs away; like grass let them be trodden down and wither; let them be like the snail that dissolves into slime; like the untimely birth that never sees the sun” (Ps 58:7–8). The prophet Jeremiah links the withering of grass to the wickedness of those in the land (Jer 12:1–4), while the prophet Isaiah had noted that the withering of the whole world was a curse that signalled the impending judgement on the world (Isa 24; see v.4).
In the context of this understanding of God, the eternal one, and human beings, whose lives are fleeting, the prophet has announced good tidings (40:9), that the Lord God “comes with might, and his arm rules for him; his reward is with him, and his recompense before him” (40:10). God will not leave people bereft. God comes to “feed his flock like a shepherd … gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep” (40:11). The eternal God is a caring, compassionate being.
Alongside this comforting image of the deity, the prophet shares a vision of the God who “sits above the circle of the earth … stretches out the heavens like a curtain, and spreads them like a tent to live in” (40:22). God is described as residing “above” in narrative texts (Josh 2:11; 1 Ki 8:23; 2 Ki 19:15) and prophets (Isa 37:16; Ezek 10:19; 11:22). Job recognises “God above” (Job 3:4; 31:2, 28); psalmists praise “God above the heavens” (Ps 57:5, 11; 108:5).
God above is not remote; God above descends to intervene—as the prophet says, the Lord God “brings princes to naught, and makes the rulers of the earth as nothing” (Isa 40:23). This resonates with the words that Hannah sings, that the Lord “kills and brings to life; he brings down to Sheol and raises up … [he] makes poor and makes rich; he brings low, he also exalts; he raises up the poor from the dust; he lifts the needy from the ash heap, to make them sit with princes and inherit a seat of honour” (1 Sam 2:6–8).
This also correlates with words of the psalmist, singing that when the hungry “are diminished and brought low through oppression, trouble, and sorrow, he pours contempt on princes and makes them wander in trackless wastes; but he raises up the needy out of distress, and makes their families like flocks” (Ps 107:39–41), and that “the Lord upholds all who are falling, and raises up all who are bowed down” (Ps 145:14). Similar thoughts, of course, are also,expressed in the pregnant Mary’s song of praise (Luke 1:51–53).
Extolling this God as above all and eternal means that the existence of other entities with a claim to divinity need to be explained. “To whom then will you compare me, or who is my equal?”, the prophet enquires (40:25). Only the Lord God is creator (40:26, 28). Surely, in the mind of the prophet, this places this God in a distinct and unique place.
So it is within these oracles of promise and hope that the theological understanding of monotheism is clearly articulated for the first time in the history of Israel. “Is there any god besides me? There is no other rock; I know not one” (44:8). The phrase, “there is no other (god)”, recurs a number of times in this section (42:8; 45:5, 14, 21, 22; 46:9). This echoes the refrain in Deuteronomy, that “the Lord is God; there is no other besides him” (Deut 4:35, 39; 5:7; 6:14; 7:4; 8:19; 11:16, 28; 13:6–7, 13; 17:3; 18:20; 28:14, 36, 64; 29:26; 30:17–20). Deuteronomy in the form that we know it is to be dated to the exile or return—the same time as the unnamed prophet in Second Isaiah is active.
This claim that the Lord God is the only god is in contrast to the way that the God of Israel had previously been portrayed, as “among the gods” (Exod 15:11; Judg 2:12; Ps 86:8), with the commandment to have “no other gods before me” (Exod 20:3; Deut 5:7) distinguishing this God from those other gods whom Israel was clearly forbidden to worship (Deut 6:14; 7:4; 8:19; 11:16; 13:1–18; 17:2–5; 18:20).
Before the Exile, the possibility of other gods had been entertained. After the experience of exile, the singularity of the Lord God becomes a central claim. And this, in turn, leads into the monotheistic strand that shapes the movement that Jesus initiated.
The prophet concludes this particular oracle with words of inspiration (40:28–31). Two rhetorical questions set the scene: “Have you not known? Have you not heard?” (40:28a). A foundational theological affirmation in the prophet’s worldview follows: “The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth” (40:28b).
Elsewhere in Hebrew Scripture, we find statements that God “looks to the ends of the earth and sees everything under the heavens” (Job 28:24), that God’s name “reaches to the ends of the earth” (Ps 48:10), that God is “the hope of all the ends of the earth and of the farthest seas” (Ps 65:5), and that “all the ends of the earth have seen the victory of our God” (Ps 98:3).
Prophets also affirm that “from the ends of the earth we hear songs of praise, of glory to the Righteous One” (Isa 24:16), that “all the ends of the earth shall see the salvation of our God” (Isa 52:10), and that to the Lord “shall the nations come from the ends of the earth and say: Can mortals make for themselves gods? Such are no gods!” (Jer 16:19).
And so the rhetoric of the prophet rises up into a grand poetic affirmation about this world-encompassing God, who “does not faint or grow weary” (40:28c), as the prophet repeats the earlier affirmation (40:23) that God “gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless” (40:29). This picks up the earlier affirmation that God “brings princes to naught and makes the rulers of the earth as nothing” (40:23), folded into the declaration that this same God “gives power to the faint and strengthens the powerless” (40:29).
Springboarding off the imagery of fainting/strengthening, the prophet then contrasts “youths [who] will faint and be weary and young [who] will fall exhausted” (40:30) with “those who wait for the Lord [who] shall renew their strength” (40:31a). This imagery, which closes the oracle, is used to portray this renewal of strength—that of an eagle rising up into the sky. It has caught the imagination of people of faith over many centuries. The rising eagle depicts the way that believers “shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint” (40:31b).
The eagle is known in Christian symbolism as the symbol of the evangelist John, because of the “high Christology” his Gospel contains, reflecting the divinity of Jesus in traditional interpretation. The four symbols (man, lion, ox, and eagle) are in turn derived from the striking vision that opens the book of Ezekiel, who saw “fire flashing forth continually, and in the middle of the fire, something like gleaming amber; in the middle of it was something like four living creatures … the four had the face of a human being, the face of a lion on the right side, the face of an ox on the left side, and the face of an eagle” (Ezek 1:4–10).
“The way of an eagle in the sky” is included amongst the “three things too wonderful for me” that the sage ponders (Prov 30:18–19), while the prophet Obadiah warns Moab, “though you soar aloft like the eagle, though your nest is set among the stars, from there I will bring you down, says the Lord” (Obad 1:4).
The power of the eagle, soaring high into the sky and spreading wide its wings, features in oracles by Jeremiah (Jer 48:40; 49:22) and Ezekiel (Ezek 17:3), and is used to describe how the Lord God guided “his people Jacob”: “as an eagle stirs up its nest and hovers over its young; as it spreads its wings, takes them up, and bears them aloft on its pinions, the Lord alone guided him” (Deut 32:11–12). It’s a powerful and inspiring image to conclude this opening oracle of the prophet as he looks for the exile of his people to end.
The offering from the narrative lectionary this coming Sunday (Mark 6:1–29) begins with the scene where Jesus goes to the synagogue in his hometown, Nazareth (6:1–6) and is rejected by those who “took offence at him” (6:3). Although he spoke with wisdom and performed acts of power (6:2), he is scorned as merely “the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon … and his sisters, here with us” (6:3).
You can imagine the murmurs amongst the people of the town. “He was not the eloquent preacher. Not the erudite teacher. Not the compassionate healer. Not the dazzling miracle-worker. Just plain old Jesus, the carpenter, from a local family. Nothing to look at here. Nothing of importance. A nobody, really. But he has pretensions. And we can’t stand for that, can we?”
Perhaps I’m being a little harsh on the townsfolk? Perhaps there is more to Jesus than they recognised, and perhaps Mark’s narrative might indicate that it is not wise to stereotype Jesus, as they were doing?
Earlier in his narrative, Mark has told of an encounter that Jesus had with his family when he came out of a house in Capernaum (3:20). Some onlookers in Capernaum describe him as being “out of his mind” (ἐξέστη, 3:21). This is a term that literally means that he was “standing outside of himself”, as if in a kind of dissociative state. It may be that this was the reason that Jesus was returning to his family?
The encounter doesn’t go well, however. Scribes have come from Jerusalem. They have already been antagonistic towards Jesus, questioning whether Jesus was blaspheming (2:6–7), and casting doubts on his choice of dinner guests (“why does he eat with tax collectors and sinners.”, 2:16). There will be further disputation with scribes (7:1–5; 9:14; 12:28, 38–41) and they will be implicated in the plot to arrest Jesus (11:18, 27; 14:1, 43, 53; 15:1) and in his death (8:31; 10:33).
These scribes—hardly friends—articulate what others present may well have been thinking: “he has Beelzebul” (3:22). The charge of demon possession correlates with the accusation levelled at John 10:20. It appears to have been one way that Jesus was stereotyped by others.
Beelzebul (Βεελζεβοὺλ), “the ruler of the demons”, is known from earlier scriptural references to Baal-zebub in 1 Kings 1:2–6, 16, where he is described as “the god of Ekron”, a Philistine deity. There is scholarly speculation that Beelzebul may have meant “lord of the temple” or “lord of the dwelling”, from the Hebrew term for dwelling or temple (as found at Isa 63.15 and 1 Kings 8.13); or perhaps it was connected with the Ugaritic word zbl, meaning prince, ruler.
Jesus refutes the charge in typical form, by telling a parable (3:23–27) that ends with the punchline about “binding the strong man” (τὸν ἰσχυρὸν δήσῃ). This potent phrase encapsulates something that sits right at the heart of the activities of Jesus in Galilee—when he encounters people who are possessed by demons, and when he casts out those demons, he is, in effect “binding the strong man”.
The accusation that refers to “blasphemy against the Holy Spirit” (3:29) may well reflect the stereotype that Jesus was demon-possessed (3:30). That stereotyped view of Jesus cannot be allowed to stand, for it cannot be justified in any way—at least, in Mark’s view.
So we see that there was dispute about Jesus, even beyond his hometown of Nazareth. There were those who sought to stereotype him in a negative way.
So Jesus goes to his hometown, with his disciples, and participates in the local synagogue on the sabbath. What do we know of his status in his hometown?
“In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan” (Mark 1:9) is how Jesus is introduced in this Gospel. Mark takes us straight to the adult Jesus, bypassing the newborn infant who appears in other narratives. There is no explanation of his background; no stories from his childhood, to show the nature,of his character (such as were common in biographies written by educated folks in the Hellenistic world).
There is certainly no mention of Bethlehem, nor the rampage of Herod; nor any reference to magi travelling from the east, bearing gifts; nor to a census ordered under Quirinius, necessitating short-term accommodation. There is no story of the infant Jesus at all—and most strikingly, no mention of Mary and Joseph as the parents of Jesus in the opening scenes of this earliest Gospel.
Rather, in Mark’s narrative reporting the beginning of the good news about Jesus, the chosen one, Jesus explicitly distances himself from his family. “Who are my mother and my brothers?”, he asks, when confronted by scribes from Jerusalem and labelled as “out of his mind” by his own family (Mark 3:21, 33).
In this week’s passage, the people of his hometown (Nazareth) do not identify as “son of Joseph”—only in John’s book of signs do his fellow-Jews identify him as “son of Joseph” (John 6:42). So it is up to Luke and Matthew, each in their own way, to link Jesus, as a newborn, to these parents.
In Mark’s account of the scene when the adult Jesus returns to his hometown, he is “the carpenter, the son of Mary” (6:3). This is the only time that the name of his mother appears in this earliest account of Jesus; and there is simply no mention, by name, or by relationship, of his putative father. (Some scribes later modified this verse (Mark 6:3) to refer to him as “son of the carpenter and of Mary”, to align Mark’s account with how Matthew later reports it at Matt 13:55.)
Other than this one reference, Mark makes no reference to Jesus’s parents. He is simply, and consistently identified as “the son of God” (Mark 1:1; 3:11; 5:7; 9:7; 15:39). On one occasion, he is addressed as “son of David” (10:47–48; although this description is the subject of debate at 12:35–37).
More often, in this earliest of Gospels, using a term taken from Hebrew Scripture, Jesus refers to himself, or others refer to him, as “the son of humanity” (more traditionally translated as “the son of man”) (2:10, 28; 8:31, 38; 9:9, 12, 31; 10:33, 45; 13:26; 14:21, 41, 62; see Ezek 2:1, 8; 3:1, 4, 16; etc; and Dan 7:13). The origins and identity of Jesus, in Mark’s eyes, relate more to the larger picture—of his Jewish heritage, in his relationship to the divine, and with his role for all humanity—than to the immediacy of parental identification.
Mark ensures that we grasp this larger picture of Jesus in the way he presents Jesus. He also indicates that it is not proper to stereotype Jesus, describing him in demeaning terms, objectifying him as problematic or as “other”. It is a practice that we would do well to emulate in our relationships with others. And in considering Jesus, we should push beyond the stereotypes to discover the person who Jesus really is.
This year, on 26 January, no doubt many people around Australia will gather to cook at the BBQ and swim in the surf. Families and friends will enjoy a relaxing time on a public holiday. Somewhere in the background, perhaps, there will hover a sense of satisfaction that we are “the lucky country” full of “mates and cobbers”, where there is “a fair go” for everyone, a country in which we can wave our flags, have our BBQs, kick back and relax.
Indeed, around the world, people who call Australia home will most likely be gathering, perhaps with fellow-Aussies, to celebrate the day. I know that when I was living in a foreign country, 40 years ago, I did just that—finding some other Australians in the university’s Graduate Student Housing to share in a meal as we celebrated “being Australian” in a foreign land.
That was all almost half-a-lifetime ago, now; and my perspective on this has changed somewhat, I confess. I am still, as I was then, a fervent republican, believing that Australia needs to be a completely independent nation with no role at all for the inbred imperialist family whose forbears colonised this continent and who still have a formal, legal role in the affairs of this country, from many thousands of kilometres away.
And I am still resolutely opposed to the primitive tribal tendencies inherent in nationalism, and its ugly cousin jingoism, because of the emotional damage that this does to impressionable minds, and the consequent savagery that it has unleashed in warfare across the years.
The cost of war is immense and long-enduring; the “victory” won by a nation in prosecuting war is fleeting by comparison. War means injury and death, to our own troops, and to the troops of those we are fighting against. Every death means a family and a local community that is grieving. There is great emotional cost just in one death, let alone the thousands and thousands that wars incur. To say nothing of the damage done to civilians, particularly women and children, as “collateral damage” in these nationalistic enterprises. Jingoistic nationalism fuels the appetite for warfare.
So it is with some small degree of satisfaction that I note that the many congregations of the Uniting Church of have held a Day of Mourning to reflect on the dispossession of Australia’s First Peoples and the ongoing injustices faced by First Nations people in this land. This resets and reorients the focus of the time around the “national day” of Australia.
For those of us who are Second Peoples from many lands, this focus offers an opportunity to lament that we were and remain complicit in the ongoing consequences of this dispossession. It also invites us to consider what we might do to move away from that negative trajectory.
The observance of a Day of Mourning on the Sunday before 26 January arises from a request from the Uniting Aboriginal and Islander Christian Congress (UAICC) which was endorsed by the 15th Assembly in 2018. Since then, many Congregations have held worship services that reflect on the effects of invasion, colonisation and racism on First Peoples. (This year it took place on Sunday 21 January.)
The first Day of Mourning took place in 1938, after years of work by the Australian Aborigines League (AAL) and the Aborigines Progressive Association (APA). In a pamphlet published for the occasion, it was stated that “the 26th of January, 1938, is not a day of rejoicing for Australia’s Aborigines; it is a day of mourning. This festival of 150 years’ so-called “progress” in Australia commemorates also 150 years of misery and degradation imposed upon the original native inhabitants by the white invaders of this country.”
The Uniting Church has acknowledged that our predecessors in the denominations which joined in 1977 to form the Uniting Church have been “complicit in the injustice that resulted in many of the First Peoples being dispossessed from their land, their language, their culture and spirituality, becoming strangers in their own land”. That itself is a cause for lament and mourning.
The Uniting Church has also recognised that people in these churches “were largely silent as the dominant culture of Australia constructed and propagated a distorted version of history that denied this land was occupied, utilised, cultivated and harvested by these First Peoples who also had complex systems of trade and inter-relationships”.
[The quotations above come from the Revised Preamble to the Constitution of the Uniting Church in Australia, adopted in 2009]
In worship resources prepared in relation to this Revised Preamble, people are invited to affirm the general belief that “the Spirit has been alive and active in every race and culture, getting hearts and minds ready for the good news: the good news of God’s love and grace that Jesus Christ revealed”, as well as the specific statement four our context, that “from the beginning the Spirit was alive and active, revealing God through the law, custom and ceremony of the First Peoples of this ancient land”.
People are also invited to confess “with sorrow the way in which their land was taken from them and their language, culture and spirituality despised and suppressed”, as well as the reality that “in our own time the injustice and abuse has continued; we have been indifferent when we should have been outraged, we have been apathetic when we should have been active, we have been silent when we should have spoken out.”
So on 26 January this year, as a nation of multicultural complexity, with diverse narratives of origins and developments over the years, we would do well to follow this lead, and ensure that what happens on this day might include realistic mourning for what has been done in past years, and for what this means in our own time for First Peoples of this country; and perhaps some indications as to how we are planning and working to rectify injustice and overturn oppression.
Alongside the celebration of the ways that Australia has become a vibrant, strengthened “modern nation”, we would do well to include this note of reality and expression of hope for those who have, unfairly and in a disproportionate way, shouldered the burden of inequity over the decades.
It would be good for the trite, simplistic, jingoistic approach to our national day to incorporate some maturity in how we think about, reflect upon, and commit to act in relation to First Peoples. The sorry saga of last year’s referendum should at least prod us in this direction, surely?
“I will raise up for them a prophet like you from among their own people; I will put my words in the mouth of the prophet, who shall speak to them everything that I command” (Deut 18:18). These words are the heart of the Hebrew Scripture passage which the Revised Common Lectionary proposes for this coming Sunday, the Fourth Sunday after Epiphany.
Here, Moses informs the people that, just as he spoke words placed into his mouth by God, so there will be later individuals who also will speak words given to them by God. And so, Israel is assured of the presence of a prophet in their midst throughout the centuries.
Indeed, a number of the prophets of Israel remind us that they speak forth “the voice of the Lord” (Isa 66:6; Jer 42:5–6; Dan 9:9–10; Mic 6:9; Hag 1:12; Zech 6:15). Jesus stands in this tradition, offering words of guidance, challenge, and judgement. In traditional Christian understanding, he is the way by which, “in these last days, God … has spoken to us” (Heb 1:1–2).
What will the prophet speak? In so many reports of prophetic activity, it is justice which is the heart of their message—God’s justice; the justice which God desires for the people of God; the justice which God speaks through the voice of the prophets; the justice that God calls for in Israel; the justice that provides the measure against which Israel will be judged, and saved, or condemned.
Moses himself was charged with ensuring that justice was in place in Israelite society. One story told of the time after the Israelites had escaped from Egypt places Moses as a judge. Whilst in the wilderness of Sin, being visited by his father-in-law Jethro, we learn that “Moses sat as judge for the people, while the people stood around him from morning until evening” (Exod 18:13).
Noticing that Moses was overwhelmed by the volume of matters requiring adjudgment, Jethro suggested—and Moses adopted—a system whereby appointed men who “judged the people at all times; hard cases they brought to Moses, but any minor case they decided themselves” (Exod 18:14–16). The charge given to these men is clear: they are to give a fair hearing to every member of the community, and they “must not be partial in judging: hear out the small and the great alike; [do] not be intimidated by anyone, for the judgment is God’s” (Deut 1:16–17).
Prophets coming after Moses thus inherited this responsibility to ensure that justice was upheld within society. Amos calls for “justice and righteousness” (Amos 5:22). Micah asks the question, “what does the Lord require of you but to do justice?” (Mic 6:8), while through the prophet Hosea, the Lord God promises to Israel, “I will take you for my wife in righteousness and in justice, in steadfast love, and in mercy” (Hos 2:19).
Isaiah ends his famous love-song of of the vineyard by declaring that God “expected justice” (Isa 5:7); Jeremiah notes the need to “not oppress the sojourner, the fatherless, or the widow” (Jer 7:5–7). Second Isaiah foresees that the coming Servant “will bring forth justice to the nations” (Isa 42:1) while Third Isaiah begins his words with a direct declaration, “maintain justice, and do what is right” (Isa 56:1), for “I the Lord love justice” (Isa 62:8).
This commitment resonates with the psalmist, who praises “the God of Jacob … who executes justice for the oppressed; who gives food to the hungry … [who] sets the prisoners free, [who] opens the eyes of the blind, [who] lifts up those who are bowed down [and] loves the righteous, [who] watches over the strangers [and] upholds the orphan and the widow” (Ps 146:5, 7–9). See
It may be significant that, in this year when Mark’s Gospel is featured in the lectionary, the Hebrew Scripture passages offered during the short season of Epiphany are drawn from the books of the prophets: 1 Samuel, Jonah, this passage from Deuteronomy, Isaiah, and then the story of Elijah and Elisha in 2 Kings. These passages help us to see in clear focus the way that Jesus operates like a prophet in Mark’s narrative. See
So the offering of the Deuteronomy passage this week particularly pushes us to consider how Jesus might be seen as a prophet, one whom God raised up to be like Moses (Deut 18:15-18). There are three key features of Mark’s portrayal of Jesus which depict him in a prophetic vein: words and deeds, a kingdom focus, and the importance of repentance.
I Words and deeds
Words, of course, are important, both for the prophets, and for Jesus. “Thus says the Lord”, a commonplace of prophetic rhetoric, is reflected in the comments of the Markan narrator that Jesus “went about all the villages teaching” (Mark 6:6), proclaiming his message (1:14–15, 38) and speaking of the kingdom of God in parables (4:11, 26–32; 12:1–12), in sayings (9:1, 47; 10:14–15, 23–25; 12:34), and in an extended apocalyptic discourse (13:3-37). Words were central to his public and private activity.
Jesus is remembered, however, as “a prophet mighty in deed and word” (Luke 24:19), so the deeds he performed are equally as important as the words he spoke. Indeed, this was always the case for prophets; God gave Moses words to speak and signs to perform (Exod 4:28–30), and the prophets that followed him accompany their message with acts that manifest the truth of what is proclaimed: Ahijah tearing his garment into twelve pieces (1 Ki 11), Isaiah walking naked for three years (Isa 20), Jeremiah buying and then breaking an earthenware jug (Jer 19), Ezekiel eating a scroll (Ezek 3), Ezekiel shaving his head and slashing the hair with a sword (Ezek 5), and many more.
In like manner, Jesus sent out his followers to proclaim his message, but also to “cast out many demons and anoint with oil many who were sick and cure them” (Mark 6:12–13). Word and deed belong together. So Mark reports, alongside the parables and sayings of Jesus, numerous instances when Jesus healed people (2:1–12; 3:1–6; 3:22; 5:21–43; 6:5, 53–56; 7:31–37: 8:22–26; 10:46–52), cast out demons and unclean spirits (1:21–28, 32–34, 39; 3:11; 5:1–20; 7:24–30; 9:14–29), as well as miraculously fed multitudes (6:30–44; 8:1–10), cleansed a leper (1:40–45), stilled a storm (4:35–41), and walked on water (6:45–52).
II The coming kingdom
Another way in which Jesus reflects his prophetic calling was through the kingdom focus in his teaching. That the imminence of the kingdom is a key note for Jesus is reflected both in his opening words in Mark (“the time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near”, 1:15a) and in some of his final words to his closest followers (“I will never again drink of the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God”, 14:25).
Jesus has so shaped the expectations of his followers that they anticipate this coming with intensity. “There are some standing here who will not taste death until they see that the kingdom of God has come with power”, he told them (9:1); to one enquirer, he affirmed, “you are not far from the kingdom of God” (12:34), and after his death, another follower who was “waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God ensured that the body of Jesus was cared for (15:43).
When some of his disciples hindered children wanting to come to him, Jesus chided them, saying, “whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it” (10:15); a little later, to his disciples, he warned, “how hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!” (10:23).
The final extended discourse of Jesus that Mark reports (13:4–37) provides reassurance of the sovereignty of God in the midst of crises and calamities. These events are but “the beginning of the birth pangs” (13:8). Jesus affirms that those enduring will be saved by divine action (13:13, 20), culminating in the appearance of “‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory” (13:26) and the gathering of the elect by the angels of God (13:27).
The kingdom is the realm in which God will act decisively. In the words of the prophets, the kingdom of David and his successors was the realm in which God was seen to be active; after that kingdom was conquered and its people taken captive, the prophetic voices of Israel began to develop a notion that, at some time in the future, there would indeed be a kingdom which would be the realm in which God would be active. The prophetic hope in The Day when God would act came to full, dramatic expression in the apocalyptic portrayals of The End that was anticipated.
Proclaiming that repentance, metanoia, is the essential prerequisite for entry into that kingdom in order to fulfil God’s justice is a third feature of Mark’s portrayal of Jesus in the manner of a prophet. The first word of Jesus in Mark’s early account is clear: “the time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent (metanoeite) and believe (pisteuete) in the good news” (1:15).
In this programmatic Markan announcement, the two statements (in the indicative mood) about “the time” and “the kingdom” are followed by two commands (in the imperative mood) to “repent” and “believe”. The imminence of the kingdom is the motivation for the call to repent and believe.
This call to repent is evident in the activity of the followers of Jesus who are sent out in pairs with “authority over the unclean spirits”; as they cast out demons and cured the sick, so they also “they proclaimed that all should repent” (6:7–13). Beyond that, the explicit call to repent is not repeated by Jesus, but its presence is evident throughout the narrative.
Jesus calls people to follow him; fishermen Peter and Andrew “left their nets and followed him” (1:18), fishermen James and John “left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men, and followed him” (1:20), and tax collector Levi son of Alphaeus, “got up and followed him” (2:14). Leaving behind signals the complete transformation undertaken by following Jesus.
Following Jesus is akin to taking up the cross, a sign of social rejection and alienation as well as personal denial (8:34). Jesus delivers a sequence of three sayings that reflect the complete turnaround that is required to effect metanoia. First, “those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it” (8:35). Next, “whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all” (9:35).
And then, “whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all” (10:43–44). Jesus himself provides the foundational model for this way of living; as the Son of Man, he came “to give his life a ransom for many” (10:45).
This persistent demand for complete life transformation—metanoia—resonates with Isaiah’s signal declaration that “Zion shall be redeemed by justice, and those in her who repent, by righteousness” (Isa 1:27), and regular prophetic calls to “return to me, says the Lord of hosts … return from your evil ways and from your evil deeds” (Zech 1:3–4); “repent and turn away from your idols; and turn away your faces from all your abominations” (Ezek 14:6; also 18:30), “return to me … remove your abominations from my presence and do not waver” (Jer 4:1); “return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning” (Joel 2:12).
The recurring refrain of Amos, lamenting, “yet you did not return to me, says the Lord” (Amos 4:6,8,9,10,11), leads the prophet to assure Israel that “I will do this to you; prepare to meet your God, O Israel!” (Amos 4:12)—words akin to what the psalmist says, “if one does not repent, God will whet his sword; he has bent and strung his bow; he has prepared his deadly weapons, making his arrows fiery shafts” (Ps 7:12–13).
“I will raise up for them a prophet like you from among their own people; I will put my words in the mouth of the prophet, who shall speak to them everything that I command” (Deut 18:18). In the way that Mark presents Jesus in his narrative, we can see how Jesus speaks and acts in the manner of a prophet like Moses, the archetype of prophetic leadership.
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Please Note: in the above comments, I am not seeking to “ prove” that Jesus “fulfils prophecy”. Rather, I am interested to explore the ways that an understanding of Hebrew Scripture can inform the way we read and understand the Gospel narratives about Jesus. For further thoughts on how we read prophetic texts in a Christian context, see
In earlier posts on the Gospel of Mark, on passages that are proposed by the lectionary during the season of Epiphany, we have seen that Mark tells of the beginning of the good news of Jesus, chosen one, with stories in which Jesus is commissioned for his role (1:12–13), announces his message (1:14–15), and calls people to follow him (1:16–20). It is a strikingly energetic start to his narrative.
After these scenes Mark takes us to a scene in a synagogue, where he reveals the authority that Jesus had, in calling people, to command “the unclean spirit, convulsing him and crying with a loud voice, [to] come out of him” (Mark 1:21–28). This is offered by the lectionary as the Gospel for the fourth Sunday after Epiphany.
The initial impression of the people in the synagogue regarding Jesus is positive; they were “astounded at his teaching” (1:22). Teaching is one of the key characteristics of the activity of Jesus (4:2; 6:6, 34; 8:31; 9:31; 11:17; 12:14, 35). In Galilee, “he went about among the villages teaching” (6:6); in Jerusalem, “day after day I was with you in the temple teaching”, Jesus tells the crowd in the Garden of Gethsemane (14:49).
However, we have not heard anything of the teaching of Jesus at this early point in Mark’s narrative; detailed teaching will come later, in parables beside the sea (4:1–34), in Genessaret (6:53—7:23), on the road to Jerusalem (8:31–38), in Judea (10:1–16), in the temple forecourt (11:27—12:24), and on the Mount of Olives opposite the temple (13:3–37). This synagogue scene in Capernaum is thus the first glimpse of the power of Jesus’ words.
The polemic that will dog Jesus all the way through his public activities is signalled in this synagogue scene. The people in the synagogue were astounded at his teaching “for he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes” (1:22). Those scribes will be seen in conflict with Jesus in subsequent scenes; in Capernaum (2:1–12), in the house of Levi son of Alphaeus (2:13–17), in Nazareth (3:19–35), in Genessaret (6:53–7:23), in Galilee (9:14), and in Jerusalem (11:18, 27). Eventually they join with the priests (1:1) and then with the earlier conspirators, Pharisees and Herodians (3:6) to implement the plot “to arrest Jesus by stealth and kill him” (14:1).
By the end of the scene, the people have become even more convinced; Mark says that they are amazed, and are asking, “what is this? a new teaching—with authority! he commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him” (1:27). The response of amazement occurs also when Jesus heals a paralyzed man (2:12), when the demoniac from the Gerasene tombs declares “how much Jesus had done for him” (5:20), and when he confounded the Pharisees and Herodians with his clever riposte (12:17).
The disciples, walking on the road to Jerusalem, are amazed with the response that Jesus gives to a comment by Peter (10:28–32); as was Pilate, when he presses Jesus to respond to the charges brought against him, but “Jesus made no further reply, so that Pilate was amazed” (15:5).
This synagogue scene not only places Jesus into conflict with the scribes; it also defines the cosmic dimension in which the story of Jesus is set, as he grapples with unclean spirits (1:23–26; 3:11; 5:1–13; 6:7; 7:14–29), also identified as demons (7:24–30; 1:32–34, 39; 3:14–15, 22; 5:14–18; 6:13; 9:38). Jesus is a human being, situated in first century occupied Palestine—but he is engaged in a contest in a cosmic dimension.
Ched Myers offers a compelling interpretation of the scene in the synagogue: “The synagogue on the Sabbath is scribal turf, where they exercise the authority to teach Torah. This “spirit” personifies scribal power, which holds sway over the hearts and minds of the people. Only after breaking the influence of this spirit is Jesus free to begin his compassionate ministry to the masses (1:29ff).”
We may be tempted, today, to look at the way that Jesus operated in these scenes of conflict with “unclean spirits” or “demons” who had possessed a person, and dismiss them as primitive attempts to explain what we now understand as mental illnesses. The many developments in psychology over the last century have certainly enabled us to have a better appreciation of the way the human mind works, and how it meets challenges and disruptions. People possessed by spirits or demons may simply have been people suffering trauma, epilepsy, or psychosis, for instance. And so, we may be tempted to dismiss these exorcisms as unbelievable miracles.
But the approach that Myers takes invites us to give more sober consideration to the structural and societal factors that were at work in these stories. The activity of Jesus was not simply relating to individuals; he was sending a signal to the leaders of his society, confronting them with some of the unpleasant dysfunctions that were the realities for common people living under foreign oppression.
What has generated this conflict from the authorities, and this amazement from the people? It is what Jesus does in the synagogue, when he meets “a man with an unclean spirit” (1:23), who cries out, “what have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?”, then accuses him, “have you come to destroy us?” (1:24).
Destroy is a very strong word. It is used to describe the conspiracy that is afoot against Jesus from early in the Gospel—after some Pharisees watch Jesus heal a man with a withered hand, and “the Pharisees went out and immediately conspired with the Herodians against him, how to destroy him” (3:6).
And Jesus himself uses this term in a parable, to describe what the owner of the vineyard will do after the tenants kill the slaves, and even the son, sent to them by the owner (12:9). Since the audience of Jerusalem authorities recognise that Jesus “had told this parable against them” (12:12), it is clearly directed at the scribes and other authorities (cf. 11:27).
So, paradoxically, the man with an unclean spirit is aligned with those charged with the responsibility of overseeing the Holiness Code and ensuring that people are “clean”—the scribes and Pharisees, and especially the priests—in articulating this aggressive conflict with Jesus.
And yet, also paradoxically, this unclean man reveals a key matter about Jesus, when he continues, saying, “I know who you are, the Holy One of God” (1:24). It is the spirits and demons in Mark’s narrative who have this insight (see also 3:11; 5:7).
The man calls Jesus “Holy One”. This is a term applied to God in the writings of Hebrew Scripture (Ps 71:22; 78:41; 89:18; Prov 9:10; Job 6:10; Sir 4:14; 23:9; 53:10; 47:8; 48:20) and also by the Prophets (Isa 1:4; 5:19, 24; and a further 24 times; Jer 50:29; Ezek 8:13; Hos 11:9, 12; Hab 1:12; 3:3). It is a central element of who God is, and a key factor in understanding Jesus.
Of course, Holiness was a central element of piety in ancient Israel, exemplified by the Holiness Code of Leviticus (Lev 11:44–45; 19:2; 20:7–8; see also Deut 7:6; 14:2, 21; 28:9). But this man, possessed by an unclean spirit and therefore not in a state of holiness, is able to speak the truth about Jesus as “the Holy One of God”. He was on the edge of society, and yet he was able to perceive a central reality about Jesus and his society. Perhaps it might be our experience, that people on the edge of society are able to see things with a clearer perspective, and illuminate central,realities of society in our time?
Mark indicates that when Jesus instructs the spirit to “be silent, and come out of him!” (1:25), the man is “convulsing him and crying with a loud voice” (1:26). Convulsions caused by a spirit leaving a possessed person are evident also in the scene immediately after the Transfiguration of Jesus, when that spirit “convulsed the boy, and he fell on the ground and rolled about, foaming at the mouth” (9:20).
Such convulsions may perhaps have been associated, in the mind of first century Jews, with King Saul, after he has been defeated by the Philistines (1 Sam 31:1–3). Sensing what this meant for him, Saul took his own life (1 Sam 31:4). One of Saul’s troops escaped the battle; he recounted to David how Saul had implored that man, “come, stand over me and kill me; for convulsions have seized me, and yet my life still lingers” (2 Sam 1:9).
In the modern mind, these convulsions are known to be a part of the medical condition of epilepsy, so we assume that both Saul, the spirit-possessed people in Capernaum, and the spirit- possessed boy in Galilee, were each afflicted with this condition. The healing that Jesus performs appeared impressive to those present; “he commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him” (Mark 1:25–26).
Yet, curiously, the acclamation of the crowd relates, not to the healing powers of Jesus, but to his words of instruction: “what is this? a new teaching—with authority!” (1:27). Neither the details of this teaching, nor the actual process of drawing out the spirit, are recounted in this scene; simply, “Jesus rebuked him” (1:25). It is from this time that “his fame began to spread throughout the surrounding region of Galilee” (1:28).
And so Jesus is followed by crowds in Galilee (2:4, 13; 3:9, 20, 32; 4:1, 36; 5:21–34; 6:34, 45; 7:14, 17; 8:34; 9:14–17, 25), in the Decapolis (7:33; 8:1–9), in Jericho (10:46), and in Jerusalem (11:8, 18, 32; 12:12, 37). The tragedy of the last days of Jesus is acted out in front of crowds of people, when he is arrested (14:43) and brought before Pilate (15:6–15); by implication, numbers of people witness his crucifixion (15:29–32, 40–42).
But the crowds in Capernaum, early in his public ministry, have witnessed him at the height of his powers. And the man in the synagogue, impaired by his condition, has taken us right to the heart of who Jesus is, and what he is doing as he travels around Galilee.
“Follow me and I will make you fish for people”, Jesus tells some fishermen, in the Gospel offered by the lectionary for this coming Sunday (Mark 1:14–20, the Third Sunday after Epiphany). Perhaps because of the fishing theme, the lectionary pairs with it an excerpt from what must be the best-known fish story of Hebrew Scripture—that of Jonah.
Although, curiously, in what the lectionary offers, we don’t get the actual fish scene (Jonah 1:17—2:10). What we have is the “second chance” that Jonah has, to act as a real prophet. Rather than running away to sea (1:3), in the opposite direction from where he had been commanded to go, Jonah this time accepts the call from God, “get up, go to Nineveh, that great city, and proclaim to it the message that I tell you” (3:2).
What we hear in this chapter is the simple report of Jonah’s fiery message—“forty days more, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!”—and the immediate response, “the people of Nineveh believed God; they proclaimed a fast, and everyone, great and small, put on sackcloth” (3:4–5).
The book of Jonah, of course, is one great comic burlesque from beginning to end. In the midst of the accounts of prophets who heard the call of God, hesitated, and then accede to the divine pressure to take up the challenge and declare the judgement of the Lord to a sinful people, we have Jonah.
We have Jonah, who when he is commanded to go northeast to Nineveh, immediately flees in the opposite direction, boarding a ship that was headed west across the Mediterranean Sea, to Tarshish, “away from the presence of the Lord” (Jon 1:3).
We have Jonah, escaping from the command of the Lord, only to find that “the Lord hurled a great wind upon the sea”—so all the cargo on the ship is thrown overboard. We have Jonah, blissfully sleeping, apparently unaware of the great storm (as if!), interrogated by the sailors, eventually offering himself as a sacrifice to save the boat (1:12). A comic hero, indeed.
Jonah, by Albert Pinkham Ryder (1885)
So the sailors try in vain to save the ship; but realising that this is futile, they throw Jonah into the sea—and immediately “the sea ceased from its raging” (1:15). Then, adding further incredulity to the unbelievable narrative, “the Lord provided a large fish to swallow up Jonah” (1:17). The three days and three nights that he spends “in the belly of the fish” before he is vomited onto dry land (2:10) add to the comic exaggeration. You can just imagine the ancient audiences rolling with laughter.
The psalm that Jonah prays from inside the fish (2:1–9) and the successful venture to Nineveh, where even the king “removed his robe, covered himself with sackcloth, and sat in ashes” (3:1–10) apparently demonstrate that Jonah should have obeyed the command of the Lord in the first place. However, Jonah’s response continues the exaggerated response of a burlesque character; “this was displeasing to Jonah, and he became angry” (4:1).
Jonah’s resentment and his plea for God to take his life (4:2–4) and his patient waiting for God to act (4:5) lead to yet another comic-book scene, as a bush grows and then is eaten by a worm and Jonah is assaulted by “a sultry east wind” (4:6–8). The closing words of the book pose a rhetorical question to Jonah (4:9–11) which infers that God has every right to be concerned about the lives of pagans in Nineveh. The last laugh is on Jonah; indeed, he has given his readers many good laughs throughout the whole story!
However, the section offered by the lectionary does provide us with a matter warranting serious thought. In the midst of the comedy, the narrator reports that when God saw the repentance of the people of Nineveh, “God changed his mind about the calamity that he had said he would bring upon them; and he did not do it” (3:10).
God changed God’s mind. That is a striking statement! If we read from the perspective of classic Christian theology, then we read with the expectation that God knows everything (and thus would have known of Jonah’s initial resistance and subsequent obedience); that God is in control of everything (and thus would have engineered the vomiting fish and the sheepishly-repentant prophet); and that God has sovereign power to determine the course of events (and thus would have planned well in advance the repentance of the Ninevites).
So a classic theological approach is somewhat stymied, I would have thought, by the comment that “God changed God’s mind”. By contrast, reading the story as part of Hebrew Scripture (rather than from the lens of systematic theological thinking) means that we can recognise that there is a vigorous “debate” being undertaken amongst the various authors of different parts of scripture on precisely this issue.
On the one hand, some texts make it quite clear that God was understood to have been averse to any change of mind; once God had decided, that was the end of the matter. M
In the historical narrative of the story of Israel, when Samuel informs Saul that David will be anointed as king, he asserts that “the Glory of Israel will not recant or change his mind; for he is not a mortal, that he should change his mind” (1 Sam 15:29). In an earlier book in that extended narrative, Balaam tells Barak that “God is not a human being, that he should lie, or a mortal, that he should change his mind. Has he promised, and will he not do it? Has he spoken, and will he not fulfill it” (Num 23:19).
And in a well-known royal psalm (which Jesus was said to have quoted), the psalmist declares that “the Lord has sworn and will not change his mind, ‘You are a priest forever according to the order of Melchizedek’” (Ps 110:4, quoted at Heb 7:21). This idea of the unchanging deity whose mind remains resolutely fixed is also reflected in the oft-quoted line from Hebrews, “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever” (Heb 13:8).
On the other hand, other biblical authors recount stories in which God is, indeed, capable of changing God’s mind. God has a change of mind in the story of Moses and the Golden Calf, narrated in Exodus 32. Moses is appalled when he discovers that the Israelites, in his absence, have created an idol—a Golden Calf—and have thereby breached one of the Ten Words that are at the heart of the covenant he has made with God. Moses mounts a passionate plea to God, asking for the divine fury to be turned away from the sinful people.
Invoking the covenant made with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Moses implores God to “turn from your fierce wrath; change your mind and do not bring disaster on your people” (Exod 32:12–13). So the Lord repented (v.14), and Moses took revenge on the people (vv.19–20); he burned the idol and ground it into water, and made the people drink it. God clearly has a change of mind in this story.
God also has a change of mind in Genesis. Abraham is instructed to take his son, Isaac, and “offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains that I shall show you” (Gen 22:2). Abraham is obedient, and “reached out his hand and took the knife to kill his son”; but an angel of the Lord called to him from heaven and restrained him (Gen 22:11–12), providing instead “a ram, caught in a thicket by its horns” as the sacrificial victim (Gen 22:13). Clearly, God changed God’s mind.
The prophet Amos speaks two short oracles in which God was planning to judge the people, sending a plague of locusts (Amos 7:1) and then a shower of fire (Amos 7:4). In both instances, after petitions from the prophet, “the Lord relented concerning this; ‘it shall not be,’ said the Lord” (Amos 7:3, 6).
And how many psalms contain petitions to the Lord, from faithful people, imploring God to change God’s mind? “O Lord, do not rebuke me in your anger, or discipline me in your wrath” (Ps 6:1); “rise up, O Lord; O God, lift up your hand; do not forget the oppressed” (Ps 10:12); “do not cast me away from your presence, and do not take your holy spirit from me” (Ps 51:11); “hear a just cause, O Lord; attend to my cry” (Ps 17:1).
One psalm presses the point with intensity: “do not let the flood sweep over me, or the deep swallow me up, or the Pit close its mouth over me; answer me, O Lord … turn to me; do not hide your face from your servant, for I am in distress—make haste to answer me” (Ps 69:15, 17). Another reflects on their situation with pathos, pleading, “do not cast me off in the time of old age; do not forsake me when my strength is spent” (Ps 71:9; see also vv.12, 18).
And in the longest psalm of all, Psalm 119, even though the psalmist notes that they are consistently faithful to Torah, yet the plea comes: “do not utterly forsake me” (v.8), “turn away the disgrace that I dread” (v.39), “I implore your favour with all my heart” (v.58), “how long must your servant endure? when will you judge those who persecute me?” (v.84), “look on my misery and rescue me … plead my cause and redeem me” (vv.153–54). This psalm, like so many psalms, is premised on the understanding that God will hear the passionate prayer of the psalmist and have a change of mind.
The prophet Jeremiah considers the possibility, and then affirms the actuality of God changing God’s mind. “At one moment I may declare concerning a nation or a kingdom, that I will pluck up and break down and destroy it”, he says, in the name of the Lord; “but if that nation, concerning which I have spoken, turns from its evil, I will change my mind about the disaster that I intended to bring on it. And at another moment I may declare concerning a nation or a kingdom that I will build and plant it, but if it does evil in my sight, not listening to my voice, then I will change my mind about the good that I had intended to do to it.” (Jer 17:7–10). The capacity for a change of mind is crystal clear here (and see also Jer 26:3, 13).
Later, Jeremiah tells of the prophet Micah of Moresheth, from the days of King Hezekiah of Judah, who threatened destruction for the city in his oracle. Jeremiah comments, “did he not fear the Lord and entreat the favour of the Lord, and did not the Lord change his mind about the disaster that he had pronounced against them?” (Jer 26:18–19).
So while the systematicians want to locate our knowledge of God and our relationship with God within the constraints of doctrines and structures and systems, those attending carefully to the biblical text will know that the witness of scripture is diverse and varied, and also that there are different points of view put forward within the pages of the Bible, about important matters—including, as we have seen, the capacity of God to have a change of mind. Some authors consider God can do this; others reject the possibility.
Jesus said to them, “Follow me and I will make you fish for people” (Mark 1:17). That’s the famous verse in the Gospel reading that is suggested for this coming Sunday, the third Sunday in the season of Epiphany. They are striking words, coming at the very start of the public activity that Jesus undertook in the region of Galilee (see Mark 1:28, 39; 6:6b, 56; 9:30).
What do you think of when you hear these words? Perhaps you are guided by many sermons you have heard and devotional material you have read, and so you imagine that Jesus is calling his earliest followers to participate in the mission that he has in view for his life and for those who follow him? After all, at a crucial point in his ministry, he sent his earliest followers through the villages of Galilee with a message of proclamation (6:12).
Inspired by this instruction, and despairing at the lack of a satisfactory conclusion to this shortest of Gospels, one scribe later added a “longer ending” that concludes by re-affirming this missionary orientation: “they went out and proclaimed the good news everywhere, while the Lord worked with them and confirmed the message by the signs that accompanied it.” (This appears as Mark 16:20 in many Bibles today.)
In like manner, another scribe provided a much more succinct “shorter ending”, declaring that “Jesus himself sent out through them, from east to west, the sacred and imperishable proclamation of eternal salvation.” (The language is most un-Markan—just one of the clues that this ending was a later addition to the Gospel.)
This line of interpretation is fostered, no doubt, by the fact that other Gospels frame their accounts of the life of Jesus with statements about his missional directives. “As you go, make disciples of all nations, baptizing them … and teaching them …” is how Matthew ends his Gospel (Matt 28:19)—leading multiple interpreters to regard the visit of the Magi from the east (Matt 2:1–12) as a prefiguring of this mission. (I have a different take on the role played by the Magi.)
Luke is more forthright from the start of his “orderly account”. Inspired by the Spirit as he lays eyes on the infant Jesus, the aged Simeon tells his parents, “my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel” (Luke 2:30–32). Decades later, as he reports the activity of John the baptiser, the author includes the affirmation that “all flesh shall see the salvation of God” (Luke 3:6, quoting Isa 40:5).
Luke ends his account with Jesus telling his followers that “repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem” (Luke 24:47). He then begins the second volume of his account with Jesus commissioning these followers, “you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth” (Acts 1:8). The missionary impulse is clear.
These passages play a large role in shaping our understanding of the words and activities of Jesus as being oriented strongly towards mission. Certainly, that was a key impulse as the followers of Jesus grew and the faith gatherings that were established made inroads into their local communities with the message of the good news. But is that what is going on in the excerpt from Mark (1:14–20) that we will hear this Sunday? Let me offer some different thoughts.
(The direction that I have taken in the comments below has been inspired by a short commentary by Chad Bird, in his daily devotional book, Unveiling Mercy, pub. 2020.)
Was Jesus focussed on a world-wide mission from the very start? I want to propose that Mark’s account—the earliest “story of Jesus” that we have—does not suggest this. Not only is there no “mission commission” at the end of his Gospel, if we accept the earliest manuscripts do not include this; there is no call to mission anywhere in his narrative.
It is true that in chapter 6, Mark notes that the disciples are sent out to proclaim repentance; but this does not build through the following chapters into a persistent and expanding mission. In fact, in Mark’s narrative, rather than being empowered for mission, the disciples remain ignorant and unknowing.
“Do you not understand this parable?”, Jesus has asked them as he was teaching, continuing, “Then how will you understand all the parables?” (4:13). A little later, Mark notes that “they did not understand about the loaves, but their hearts were hardened” (6:52). Mark reinforces this view of the disciples as he reports Jesus asking them, “do you also fail to understand?” (7:17), then “do you still not perceive or understand?” (8:17) and “do you not yet understand?” (8:21), before concluding “they did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him” (9:32). The disciples, in Mark’s narrative, remain unrelentingly obdurate. So much for the idea of energetic, enthusiastic missionaries!!
Jesus, according to Mark, is not intent on developing a crack mission team. Rather, he is focussed on calling people to metanoia—to a full, deep, all-pervading change of being that reorients their lives and resets their priorities. The first word of Jesus in Mark’s early account is clear: “the time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent (metanoeite) and believe (pisteuete) in the good news” (1:15).
In this programmatic Markan announcement, the two statements (in the indicative mood) about “the time” and “the kingdom” are followed by two commands (in the imperative mood) to “repent” and “believe”. The imminence of the kingdom is the motivation for the call to repent and believe.
This fourfold declaration sits immediately before the story of the call of the fishermen, who are called to follow and told, “I will make you fish for people” (1:17). It is the imperative of metanoia and pistis that is at the heart of the enterprise that Jesus is engaged in. It is this dual imperative that should most strongly inform the way that we hear and understand the call to “fish for people”.
Fish are referenced in Hebrew Scripture texts on a number of occasions. Along with “every animal of the earth, and every bird of the air, and everything that creeps on the ground”, all the fish of the sea are integral to God’s created world (Gen 1:26, 28; 9:2; Deut 4:17–18; 1 Ki 4:33; Job 12:7–8; Ps 8:7–8; Ezek 38:20; Hos 4:3). But the Markan text is not quite about the fish of the sea; rather, the language of fishing is used as a metaphor for what Jesus is calling his disciples to undertake.
The prophet Jeremiah displays this kind of use of language, with metaphorical references to describe a known process. After he has warned Israel that the Lord God is “weary of relenting” and is now determined to bring punishment on a sinful people (Jer 15:2–9), he envisages that there will come a time when he “will bring them back to their own land that [he] gave to their ancestors” (Jer 16:15).
However, before this occurs, God makes this threatening promise: “I am now sending for many fishermen, says the Lord, and they shall catch them; and afterward I will send for many hunters, and they shall hunt them from every mountain and every hill, and out of the clefts of the rocks … I will doubly repay their iniquity and their sin, because they have polluted my land with the carcasses of their detestable idols, and have filled my inheritance with their abominations” (Jer 16:16–18). The men looking to catch fish, and the hunters looking to catch miscreants, are carrying out the work of the Lord God, bringing judgement on the people.
Is this the task that Jesus is calling his followers to undertake, when he says, “I will make you fish for people”? Centuries earlier than Jeremiah, Amos had warned the “cows of Bashan who are on Mount Samaria” of the punishment in store for them: “the time is surely coming upon you, when they shall take you away with hooks, even the last of you with fishhooks” (Amos 4:1–2).
A little later, Habakkuk uses similar imagery as he complains to God, “you have made people like the fish of the sea, like crawling things that have no ruler; the enemy brings all of them up with a hook; he drags them out with his net, he gathers them in his seine; so he rejoices and exults” (Hab 1:14–15). This is the way that God undertakes his task of “destroying nations without mercy” (Hab 1:17). To fish for people is to execute God’s righteous judgement.
Consistent with this understanding, the prophet-in-exile, Ezekiel, is charged with proclaiming this oracle of judgment against the Pharaoh of Egypt: “I will put hooks in your jaws, and make the fish of your channels stick to your scales. I will draw you up from your channels, with all the fish of your channels sticking to your scales. I will fling you into the wilderness, you and all the fish of your channels; you shall fall in the open field, and not be gathered and buried.” (Ezek 29:4–5). Once again, in the prophetic rhetoric, the metaphor of fishing for a human being indicates the means of carrying out the judgement of God.
Is Jesus, in Mark’s Gospel, engaged in a mission to declare divine judgement and warn of the wrath to come? Most certainly he is! Indeed, the instruction that he gives his disciples as he sends them out on mission (Mark 6:7–11) appears to be that they are to preach judgement; Mark comments that “they went out and proclaimed that all should repent” (6:12). Such repentance is the foundation of the message of Jesus (1:15; cf. 4:12).
Repentance, metanoia, entails a complete and thoroughgoing transformation of the individual, in light of the imminent appearance of God’s realm (1:14; 9:1; 14:25). This apocalyptic orientation (“the kingdom is coming, and coming soon”) governs the distinctive flavour of the preaching of Jesus, which is apocalyptic in that it is oriented towards the message of divine judgement. The coming kingdom of God, and the present need for metanoia, together show this clear orientation.
That Jesus expected God to act, to intervene in history, to redeem the faithful, is evident in his teaching: people will see “‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory” (Mark 13:26, quoting Dan 7:13). Indeed, the expectation is that this will be very soon: “there are some standing here who will not taste death until they see that the kingdom of God has come with power” (Mark 9:1) and “this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place” (13:30). So he warns his followers to “beware … keep alert … keep awake” (13:33, 35, 37).
There is no doubt that the Jesus portrayed in each of the Synoptic Gospels was an apocalyptic preacher with a fervent presentation of an intense message. It required a whole-hearted and equally intense response. “Follow me” is his clarion call (1:17; 2:14). Such following means that they must “deny themselves and take up their cross” (8:34); it is akin to losing their own lives (8:35–37).
No wonder when Jesus called one man in Judea to “sell what you own, and give the money to the poor … then come, follow me”, we are told that “he was shocked and went away grieving” (10:21–22). It is equally unsurprising that people in Galilee were saying of him, “he has gone out of his mind” and “he has an unclean spirit” (3:21, 30). Following Jesus was not for the faint hearted! Mark makes this clear; Matthew and Luke each intensify this in their portrayals of Jesus.
On the apocalyptic preaching of Jesus in Mark, see
So the call to “follow me” and the indication that “I will make you fish for people” (Mark 1:17) is intense. Fishing for people, if we understand it in the light of the Hebrew scriptural usage of this idea, is an apocalyptic enterprise, which means undertaking the daunting task of announcing the imminent judgement of God, calling those who listen to a complete life-transforming metanoia, and letting them know that “life as you once knew it is over”, as Chad Bird says (Unveiling Mercy, 11 Nov).
![I am the good shepherd [who] lays down his life for the sheep (John 10; Easter 4B)](https://johntsquires.files.wordpress.com/2024/04/img_4491-1.jpg?w=1200)
An Informed Faith 