Hebrew Scripture – An Informed Faith

Justice rolling down like waters, righteousness like an ever-flowing stream (Amos 1, 5; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 22)

Discussion of the Narrative Lectionary passage from Amos

The prophet Amos lived in the northern kingdom of Israel during the reign of Jeroboam II, the thirteenth king of Israel, who reigned for four decades (786–746 BCE; see Amos 7:10). It was a time of prosperity, built on the trading of olive oil and wine with the neighbouring nations of Assyria to the north and Egypt to the south. Jeroboam, however, is remembered as a king who oversaw multiple acts of sinfulness during his years on the throne.

Most infamously, he replicated the sin of Aaron, who oversaw the creation of a golden calf during the time that the people of Israel were awaiting the return of Moses from his time on the top of Mount Sinai (Exod 32). Jeroboam had the city of Shechem built, as a direct challenge to the centrality of Jerusalem; and he had two golden claves built and installed, one at Bethel, the other at Dan (1 Ki 12:25–30).

For these and other persistent sins during his 22 years as king, reported at 1 Ki 12:31–33 and 13:33–34, Jerobaom incurred the divine wrath, such that God determined that “ the house of Jeroboam [was to be] cut it off and destroyed from the face of the earth” (1 Ki 13:34). Later passages in this book refer to “the sins of Jeroboam” (1 Ki 14:16; 15:30; 16:2, 19, 31; 2 Ki 10:29, 31; 13:2, 6, 11; 14:24; 15:9, 18, 24, 28; 17:22) and “the way of Jeroboam … and the sins that he caused Israel to commit, provoking the Lord, the God of Israel, to anger by their idols” (1 Ki 16:26).

So although the Temple in Jerusalem was the focus for religious activity in the southern kingdom (Judah), Jeroboam had established a number of religious sites in the northern kingdom. Amos warns about the sites at Dan, Bethel, Gilgal and Beersheba (Amos 5:5; 8:14). At these places, not only was the Lord God worshipped, but idolatrous images were used in worship services (5:26). Amos is trenchant in his criticism of the worship that the people offer (5:21–27); embedded in this crisis is a doublet of poetry, words most often associated with Amos: “let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” (5:24).

Indeed, it is the perpetration of social inequity within Israel that most causes him to convey the anger of divine displeasure. He admonishes the rich for the way that they mistreat the poor: “they sell the righteous for silver, and the needy for a pair of sandals—they who trample the head of the poor into the dust of the earth and push the afflicted out of the way” (2:6–7); “you trample on the poor and take from them levies of grain” (5:11).

Again, Amos rails: “you trample on the needy and bring to ruin the poor of the land … buying the poor for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals, and selling the sweepings of the wheat” (8:4, 6). In a biting oracle, he criticises the “cows of Bashan who are on Mount Samaria” for the way they “oppress the poor, crush the needy” (4:1).

Bashan was the mountainous area to the northeast of Israel (Ps 68:15), which rejoiced in majestic oaks (Isa 2:13) and extensive pasture lands (1 Chron 5:16). The luxurious lifestyle of these people can well be imagined. The reference to “winter houses … summer houses … houses of ivory … and great houses” (3:15) is telling. Luxury and opulence is evident amongst the wealthy.

So, too, is the description of “those who lie on beds of ivory, and lounge on their couches, and eat lambs from the flock, and calves from the stall; who sing idle songs to the sound of the harp, and like David improvise on instruments of music; who drink wine from bowls, and anoint themselves with the finest oils” (6:4–6). The extravagance of the wealthy is obvious, juxtaposed against the plight of the poor, as we have noted.

Amos indicates that God had given Israel a number of opportunities to repent, “yet you did not return to me” (4:6, 8, 9, 10, 11). God pleads for Israel to “seek me and live” (5:4), “seek the Lord and live” (5:6), “seek good and not evil, that you may live” (5:14).

But this is all in vain; ultimately, the prophet insists, the Lord God will bring on the day of the Lord—a day of “darkness, not light, and gloom with no brightness in it” (5:18–20). God is determined; “the great house shall be shattered to bits, and the little house to pieces” (6:11); later, he insists again, “the dead bodies shall be many, cast out in every place” (8:3).

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. The most famous prophetic word of Amos is, as we have noted, his call 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) and he tells the rebellious people of his day, “the Lord is a God of justice; blessed are all those who wait for him” (Isa 30:18). He proclaims God’s judgement on those who “turn aside the needy from justice … and rob the poor of my people, that widows may be your spoil, and that you may make the orphans your prey!” (Isa 10:1–2).

Other prophets join their voices to Isaiah’s declaration. Ezekiel laments that “the sojourner suffers extortion in your midst; the fatherless and the widow are wronged in you” (Ezek 22:7). Jeremiah encourages the people of Jerusalem with a promise that God will allow them to continue to dwell in their land if they “do 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) and knows that God’s justice will be “a light to the peoples” (Isa 51:4). The words of Third Isaiah continue in this prophetic stream, for this anonymous prophet begins his words with a direct declaration, “maintain justice, and do what is right” (Isa 56:1). He goes on to articulate his mission as being “to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners” (Isa 61:1), thereby demonstrating that “I the Lord love justice” (Isa 62:8).

This commitment of Amos and many of the prophets resonates also 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

https://johntsquires.com/2023/05/14/father-of-orphans-and-protector-of-widows-psalm-68-easter-7a/

Happy is the one who listens to me, watching daily at my gates, waiting beside my doors; for whoever finds me finds life!

A sermon on Wisdom in Proverbs 8

A sermon on Proverbs 8: 22–36, preached by the Rev. Elizabeth Raine in St Stephen’s Uniting Church, Sydney, at a service of Closure of Ministry for the Rev. Jane Fry, outgoing Secretary of the Synod of NSW.ACT, on Wednesday 29 October 2025.

When Jane asked me to preach at this event, I was very surprised. I expected that a former Moderator or Board Chair would be invited to preach at such an important event as the General Secretary of the NSW/ACT Synod retiring. But here I am!

It is true that Jane and I go back many years, as we went through UTC together, bonded by the attitude of the sexist male colleagues who accused us from everything from ‘sleeping our way to high distinctions’ to being ‘feminists’, like it was some sort of virus. I confess this rather patriarchal attitude has informed this sermon, though it is also true that so many more women now occupy prominent positions in our church, which is a very good thing.

I did warn her that I was unsettling, potentially feral and capable of saying things that were unfiltered in my sermons. Was she sure she wanted to risk such a this? Apparently she did, so here I am.

I was grateful to Jane for her friendship and support then, and I am grateful to her now for her presence as General Secretary over the last 9 years. She has approached this position as she does most things, with integrity, thoughtfulness and a straightforward approach to dealing with what I call ‘faffing around’. Jane has a deep and abiding love for the church and hopes only for its successful transition into the future, and I wish her well for her future in retirement.

*Wisdom*, from the “Women of the Bible” series by Sarah Beth Baca; https://www.sarahbethart.com/products/p/full-image-women-of-the-bible

The book of Proverbs from which one of the readings we heard is drawn tells us a lot about Wisdom (hochma in Hebrew). She is a central character in chapters 1–9, and she appears as a mystical feminine aspect of God. “Lady Wisdom”, as she is known, is a central character in many chapters of Proverbs, and those who know her are seen asrighteous people. She calls to us and invites us on an unexpected journey. She is offered as a role model for us, her teachings are a template for life, and she a pioneer who opens up a pathway to faith and obedience.

Scholars have debated how the personification of Wisdom should be interpreted, especially as Wisdom is stated to be the first creation of God (“the Lord created me at the beginning of his work, the first of his acts of long ago”, Prov 8:22) and is involved in the creation process itself (“the Lord by wisdom founded the earth”, Prov 3:19). Is wisdom meant to be a specific aspect of God or even a separate being from God? Or should all such language be taken as mere metaphor?

She has been described in many ways—as an aspect of God, as a divine entity existing in her own right, even as something approaching a feminine deity, as Proverbs 8 states: Wisdom was present at the beginning of creation as a co-creator with God, who delighted in her presence.

The divine Wisdom has fascinated ecclesiasts and scholars since the inception of the Christian church. As we have heard, Wisdom has been described in many and various ways but Wisdom’s primary function was understood by the very early Christians to be a mediating force between God and the world, and was particularly associated with the work of creation.

The text from Proverbs 8:22 was important for this belief: here, Wisdom declares, “The Lord created me at the beginning of his work, the first of his acts of old”. Wisdom was believed to be a vehicle of God’s self-revelation, granting knowledge of God to those who pursue her through scripture and learning.

Wisdom (Sophia) on her throne supported by seven pillars
A 16th century Icon of Divine Wisdom
in the St George Church in Vologda, Russia

Despite this, the Christian tradition, for most of its life, cannot be said to be famous for finding the feminine aspect of the divine. Relentlessly masculine, the early Christian church systematically excised any sense of the feminine from the orthodox view of God, spirit and Jesus.

The ruach (Holy Spirit) became masculine through the language of Latin; the bat qol (the voice of God) of the rabbinic literature found a different, masculine grammatical construct in Greek, and hochma or sophia (wisdom) morphed into the figure of Jesus, as the New Testament writings firmly associated the attributes of Wisdom with the person of Jesus Christ.

This last is most clearly seen in the letter to the Colossians. This document was originally attributed to the apostle Paul, but is now thought to have been written by a follower of Paul, soon after the apostle’s death in the early 60s. Some early verses in Colossians make it clear that Wisdom had been grafted onto Jesus:

“He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation; for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers — all things have been created through him and for him.”

The Divine Feminine through whom God created the world was replaced with the Divine Masculine. A good example of this can be found in the writings of Justin Martyr – he claimed that Jesus was Wisdom, Logos and the Glory, thereby removing the feminine Spirit (ruach), Wisdom (hochma), and Glory (shekinah) all in one stroke.

Wisdom sadly morphed into a male saviour, who by assuming the divine characteristics Wisdom was meant to share with God, found himself inserted as the third person of a doctrine of trinity with a transgendered holy spirit, who crossed masculine, neuter and feminine across biblical languages.

Instead of recognizing Wisdom, this feminine aspect of the divine, early Christian male leaders instead have tried to satisfy women throughout the world by presenting them with role models of martyrs and virgins, thereby setting a standard that the vast majority of females cannot possibly aspire to.

Wisdom fast lost her independence and feisty nature, and the meek, obedient woman, characterized by the mother of Jesus (another virgin), was held up as the model to which all women should strive to be.

However: far from being obedient and submissive, Wisdom occupies what is the domain of men, teachers and prophets. She stands on busy street corners, she is at the town gate; she sets her table at the crossroads where many pass by. Unlike her counterpart in Proverbs 31, there is nothing of the domestic goddess about her. She is radical, counter cultural and subversive. She teaches knowledge and leads her people on their way through history. In a most unfeminine way, unaccompanied by a male chaperone, she raises her voice in public places that are the domain of men and calls to everyone who would hear her.

Wisdom offers us a radical example of faithfulness yet she remains a disturbing presence. She is a most unladylike figure, venturing outside the house, to stand beside the crossroads, crying out in full voice, surprising and startling and provoking with her words.

She transgresses boundaries by standing amidst the male elders at the city gates and presuming to teach them. She has a clear voice, a colourful personality, a dominant presence, and offers words of hope and the promise of life. She is a vehicle of God’s self-revelation, and grants knowledge of God to those who pursue her through scripture and learning.

The prominent biblical scholar, Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, has written this about Wisdom:

Divine Wisdom is a cosmic figure delighting in the dance of creation, a “master” crafts wo/man and teacher of justice. She is a leader of Her people and accompanies them on their way through history. Very unladylike, she raises her voice in public places and calls everyone who would hear her. She transgresses boundaries, celebrates life, and nourishes those who will become her friends. Her cosmic house is without wallsand her table is set for all.

In short, the biblical figure of Wisdom represents a spirituality of roads and journeys, of public places and open borders, of nourishment and celebration, of justice and equality – rather than a spirituality of categories, doctrines, closed systems and ideologies. Her dramatic modus operandi stands in striking contrast to the slow and methodical way of operating that we see in the classic formulations of Christendom, doctrines that have come to define the church in the eyes of those outside of it.

The church fathers, the male patriarchs of the church, and the myriad of male theologians who followed were, in my humble opinion, consumed with their categories; they articulated their doctrines by amassing the data, analysing the information, systematising the component parts and categorising the key dogmas. And they wrote down these dogmas and systems and turned them into the doctrines by which faith was measured.

By contrast to these closed systems of belief and knowledge, the biblical figure of Wisdom asks for a relational faith, and invites us to develop a wide openness in the way we approach others and God. She requires of us that we really listen to others, including those we don’t agree with … she calls us to listen, to understand, to speak in ways that connect with others and ways that build productive and fruitful relationships across the differences that separate us.

Wisdom calls us to work together, for the common good, with others in our society. She is not a figure bound to buildings, books and writing; she is an outdoor, community spirit, seeking relationships with people, engaging wholeheartedly in the public discourse, debating back and forth in the public arena the key elements of a faith-filled life.

What Wisdom presents is a radical democratic concept, in that anyone, whether illiterate or educated, whether without or with status, whether poor or wealthy, can acquire what she offers.

She invites us to be life-long learners of the faithful and missional type, and calls us to be constantly open to challenge and change as we read, study, think, discuss, explore, debate, and decide.

I think that Wisdom is precisely the kind of person who would have relished the invitation, once offered to his disciples by Jesus, to fish on the other side of the boat. She would value the opportunity to look in a different direction, to reconsider the task at hand and seek a new way of undertaking it. Rather then remonstrating with Jesus saying ’but we have always done it this way’, she would jump at the chance to set out in a new arena, to pioneer a new task, to reshape her missional engagement so that it was fresh, invigorating, and creative, open to new possibilities and exciting pathways. What a role model that is, for the church today!

*Lady Wisdom*, by Canadian artist Kiernan Antares (2013)
https://womenspiritualpoetry.blogspot.com/2013/12/lady-wisdom-by-kiernan-antares.html

So, the question that I invite you to ponder at this moment is: How will we interact with Wisdom? Are we open to the exploration and discoveries that the biblical figure of Wisdom invites us to pursue?

Are we content with just repeating our tried and true traditions from the past? Are we happy staying in our familiar comfort zones? Will our mission be simply no more than wishing people to walk through ourdoors, as we remain in our comfortable, self-contained spaces?

Or will we choose the way of the rather unladylike and subversive Wisdom, the radical at the street corner, crying out to all who pass by? Can we adopt Wisdom’s model invitation of radical hospitality as relevant to the church today? Should we be more concerned with ‘raising our voices’ in the public arena than confining ourselves to church buildings?

Hopefully as a church we will choose to follow the path of Wisdom into the future, which through its relational, radical and inclusive theology offers us the potential to transform contemporary situations of injustice, brokenness and violence in the communities we serve. By taking our stance in the marketplace, we can demonstrate the ways that show our deep and profound relationship with and love for God, and how that love is extended to all people. Hopefully all of us, not just a few, can follow Wisdom out of our enclosed gatherings to the space where such social and spiritual change can take place.

I trust that as a church, we will continue to encounter Wisdom, hochma, and learn from her, again and again in the coming years.

*****

You can read a report of the whole service of Closure of Ministry at

“We thank you for the ministry you have exercised”. A service of Closure of Ministry.

In the sound of sheer silence (1 Kings 19; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 21)

On the passage about Elijah in 1 Ki 19 proposed by the Narrative Lectionary

In the passage which the Narrative Lectionary places before us this coming Sunday (from 1 Kings 19), we come to Elijah; one of the key prophetic figures whose deeds are recounted in the books of the Kings or whose words are collected within the Hebrew Scriptures under the catch-all second section of Nevi’im (Prophets).

Elijah, famous for being described as “a hairy man, with a leather belt around his waist” (2 Ki 1:8), was first introduced as Elijah the Tishbite, meaning he came from Tishbe in Gilead (1 Ki 17:1), a place whose precise location has occasioned some debate. See

This initial portrayal of Elijah is nested within the accounts of that long period of time when Israel was ruled by kings, when prophets functioned as the conscience of the king and the voice of integrity within society. The distinctive dress of Elijah perhaps sets him apart from the court of the kings, where a more “civilized” dress code was presumably operative. Nevertheless, Elijah does have some engagement with the kings who ruled at the time he was active: Ahab, and then Ahaziah. Indeed, his distinctive dress points to his emboldened attitude towards those kings.

Elijah operated during the period when Ahab ruled Israel; he figures in various incidents throughout the remainder of 1 Kings—most famously, in the conflict with the prophets of Baal which came to a showdown on Mount Carmel (1 Ki 18), and then later in his confrontation with Ahab and his wife Jezebel, over the matter of Naboth’s vineyard (1 Ki 21). Like Jesus, Elijah was no shrinking violet!

Elijah first appears in the narrative of the various kings, seemingly out of nowhere, just after King Ahab had taken as his wife Jezebel, daughter of King Ethbaal of the Sidonians, who presumably influenced him to begin his worship of Baal (1 Ki 17:31–33). In the same way, at the end of his time of prophetic activity, Elijah simply disappears from sight soon after Kong Ahaziah died. Elijah hands over his role to his successor, Elisha, and as “a chariot of fire and horses of fire separated the two of them”, Elijah ascends in a whirlwind into heaven (2 Ki 2:1–15).

In the book we know as 1 Kings, the compiler of the Deuteronomic History (which stretches from Deuteronomy through Joshua and Judges to Samuel and then Kings) reports many incidents which attest to the courage and power of Elijah. The boldness of Elijah is evident in the confrontations that he has with various rulers; this is made clear, centuries later, to the followers of Jesus, in the earliest account of his life, when John the baptiser is depicted as a fiery desert preacher, calling for repentance, just as Elijah had called the kings to account (Mark 1:1–8).

In a later account of Jesus, there is a clear inference connecting John with Elijah when Jesus notes, “Elijah is indeed coming and will restore all things; but I tell you that Elijah has already come, and they did not recognize him, but they did to him whatever they pleased” (Matt 17:11–12).

Then, in his sermon in Nazareth (Luke 4:16–30), Jesus refers to the first reported miracle of Elijah, when he provided a widow in Zarephath with food and oil that “did not fail”, even though the land was in drought (1 Ki 17:1–16). In subsequent incidents in 1 Kings, Elijah raises a dead son (17:17–24), directly confronts King Ahab with his sins (18:1–18), and famously stares down the prophets of Baal in a mountaintop showdown (18:19–40), leading to the breaking of the drought (18:41–46).

Elijah later condemns Ahab over his unjust seizure of the vineyard of Naboth (21:17–29) and then stands before Ahab’s son, King Ahaziah, to condemn him to death (2 Ki 1:2–16); a death “according to the words of of the Lord that Elijah had spoken” which is promptly reported (2 Ki 1:17).

During the rule of Ahab, Elijah had also most famously heard the Lord God “not in the wind … not in the earthquake … not in the fire”—but rather in something else, which the NRSV renders as “the sound of sheer silence” (1 Ki 19:11–12). This incident is, as noted, the story set before us by the lectionary this coming Sunday. We need to ponder what is being conveyed through the symbols employed in this story.

The three means by which God is said not to have appeared to Elijah reflect the very same means through which Moses, and the people of Israel, did experience the manifestation of the Lord God in their midst. When the escaping Israelites arrived at the Sea of Reeds, according to one version of this archetypal story, “the Lord God drove the sea back by a strong east wind all night, and turned the sea into dry land; and the waters were divided” (Exod 14:21).

The people later celebrated the defeat of the Egyptians who were pursuing them: “you blew with your wind, the sea covered them; they sank like lead in the mighty waters” (Exod 15:10). The wind was a sign of God’s presence, and an agent of divine protection—indeed, it was the very same “wind from God” which “swept over the face of the waters” at the beginning of creation (Gen 1:2). But for Elijah, the Lord God was “not in the wind”.

Then, as they had travelled through the wilderness, the people were accompanied by a blazing fire, another sign of divine presence: “the Lord God went in front of them in a pillar of cloud by day, to lead them along the way, and in a pillar of fire by night, to give them light, so that they might travel by day and by night” (Exod 13:21). The fire signalled the divine presence.

Indeed, the very same flaming fire had been manifested to Moses when he was but a mere shepherd in Midian; “the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire out of a bush; he looked, and the bush was blazing, yet it was not consumed” (Exod 3:2). What follows is the account of the call of Moses; God tells him “I will send you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt” (Exod 3:10). The fire had been the assurance to Moses that it was the Lord God who was present. But for Elijah, the Lord God was “not in the fire”.

The same element of fire was present when Moses and the people ultimately arrived at Mount Sinai in the wilderness of Sinai (Exod 19:1–2). “Mount Sinai”, so the account goes, “was wrapped in smoke, because the Lord had descended upon it in fire; the smoke went up like the smoke of a kiln, while the whole mountain shook violently” (Exod 19:18). Associated with this there was “thunder and lightning, as well as a thick cloud on the mountain, and a blast of a trumpet so loud that all the people who were in the camp trembled” (Exod 19:16).

The scene at Sinai surely reflects the experience of an earthquake; the same phenomenon that prophets would later interpret as a sign of divine presence—indeed, divine judgement. “You will be visited by the Lord of hosts”, Isaiah subsequently tells the people of his time, “with thunder and earthquake and great noise, with whirlwind and tempest, and the flame of a devouring fire” (Isa 29:6).

Still later, Zechariah describes how “the Mount of Olives shall be split in two from east to west by a very wide valley”, and instructs the people, “you shall flee as you fled from the earthquake in the days of King Uzziah of Judah; then the Lord my God will come, and all the holy ones with him” (Zech 14:4–5).

Nahum reflects on the jealous and avenging nature of God, declaring that “his way is in whirlwind and storm, and the clouds are the dust of his feet; he rebukes the sea and makes it dry, and he dries up all the rivers; the mountains quake before him, and the hills melt; the earth heaves before him, the world and all who live in it” (Nah 1:2–5).

This dramatic motif continues on into later apocalyptic writings (Isa 64:1; 1 Esdras 4:36; 2 Esdras 16:12). The prophets and their apocalyptic heirs knew clearly that this whole dramatic constellation of events revolving around an earthquake was a sign of divine presence. But for Elijah, the Lord God was “not in the earthquake”. He was heard in something quite different.

What did Elijah hear? The Hebrew phrase in verse 12 is qol d’mamah daqqah. The King James Version translated this as “still small voice”. More recent translations have provided variants on how these words might be translated. Alternatives that are found include “the sound of a low whisper” (ESV), “a gentle whisper” (NIV, NLT), “a soft whisper” (CSB), or “the sound of a gentle blowing” (NASB). These reflect variations on the kind of nuance that the KJV was offering.

However, the NRSV option of translating this phrase as “the sound of sheer silence” is more confronting: the presence of God is sensed in the absence of sound; any communication from the deity comes, not in audible sounds, but in the utter absence of any sound. It is a striking paradox!

And in the context of the developing story of 1 Kings, the paradox is strong. Earlier, the prophet had stood firm against the might of Baal, the foreign god whom Ahab and Jezebel had prioritized in the life of Israel (1 Ki 18:17–40). When “the four hundred and fifty prophets of Baal and the four hundred prophets of Asherah who eat at Jezebel’s table” gathered on Mount Carmel, they failed to obtain any response from their god, the god of storms. No matter how intensely the pleaded, all they heard was “no voice, no answer, no response” (18:29).

Elijah, by contrast, prays to the Lord God and the fire of his god fell on the sacrificial altar; it consumed “the burnt offering, the wood, the stones, and the dust, and even licked up the water that was in the trench” (18:38). The victory was absolute and complete; the storm god had been defeated. And yet, the deity who accomplished this would communicate most personally and intimately with his chosen prophet, “not in the wind … not in the earthquake … not in the fire”, but rather in “a sound of sheer silence” (19:11–12). What a deliciously powerful irony!

Elijah was his own, distinctive man, with his own, distinctive encounter with God. He experienced God in a way quite different from what was experienced by Moses and the people of Israel. He experienced God in a way that stood apart from his contemporaries who were priests and prophets of Baal. For that reason, whilst the Lord God of Elijah stands over and against the Baal of Ahab and Jezebel, so too Elijah stands alongside and apart from Moses as a different, but equally great, leader of the people.

I have built you an exalted house, a place for you to dwell in forever (1 Kings 5, 8; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 20)

Discussion of the passages from 1 Kings 5, 8 offered by the Narrative Lectionary

Some weeks ago, the Narrative Lectionary offered the story of God calling Moses to lead his people out of slavery, into freedom (Exod 3–4), followed by another story about the way that Moses exercised this leadership during a testing time (Exod 16). Two weeks ago, we heard the story of God calling Samuel to be prophet (1 Sam 3)—the first of many who would be called to that role. Then last week, we moved on to hear the story of God calling David to be king. So we have had stories about a range of leaders in ancient Israel: the Liberator, the first Prophet, and the most beloved King.

This coming Sunday we jump to another element that is foundational in the religion of ancient Israelite society. For many years—ever since the “wandering in the wilderness”—the people had a focal point for worshipping their God. The Tabernacle, created during the “wilderness story”, was a mobile sanctuary, travelling with the people (Exod 25:1–9). This sanctuary was faithfully served by the Levites, a group set apart for this priestly role (Num 1:48–54).

However, the central figure in this coming Sunday’s story is not a Priest, but rather a King—Solomon, one of the many offspring of David, and the one who, by all manner of machinations, succeeded his father on the throne. The lectionary deftly steps over all those stories, told with gruesome detail in the early chapters of 1 Kings.

Solomon was not first in line to ascend the throne; that would lie with the eldest of his brothers still living, Adonijah. Adonijah knows this; the first book of Kings opens with the revelation that, since “David was old and advanced in years … Adonijah son of Haggith exalted himself, saying, ‘I will be king’; he prepared for himself chariots and horsemen, and fifty men to run before him” (1 Ki 1:1,5).

However, Solomon plots with his mother Bathsheba and the palace prophet Nathan to arrange for the assassination of his older brother. In addition, a number of other people also had to be eliminated to establish Solomon’s firm grip on the monarchy, and to ensure there were no other possible legitimate claimants to the throne remaining. Such was the raw and vicious nature of “life at the top” those days. (Has anything much changed?)

In fairly quick succession, after Solomon had arranged for the death of his eldest brother Adonijah (2:13–25), he banished the high priest Abiathar who had supported Adonijah (2:26–27) and replaced him with another priest loyal to himself. Next he removed Joab, a cousin who was the commander in the former king’s army (2:28–34). He achieved this via a hit man, Benaniah, who became the general of his army (2:35).

Then, Solomon had Shimei, who was a relative of Saul, the king before David, killed (2:36–46). In this way all potential contenders for the throne and their powerful supporters were removed, mostly by violent means. As the narrator curtly comments, “so the kingdom was established in the hand of Solomon” (2:46b).

Fortunately for preachers following this lectionary, there is no expectation that there will be any need to read, reflect on, and speak about these chapters during worship. They certainly reveal the depths of degraded humanity! Rather, in the manner that characterises the Narrative Lectionary, we move from high point to high point—and so, this coming Sunday (in 1 Ki 5:1–5), we hear about the beginning steps taken by Solomon in the preparations for erecting the building which would not only sit on the highest point in Jerusalem, but would stand as a symbolic representation of the highest elements—what was best, most valued, most important—in ancient Israelite society.

Solomon, King of Israel, consults with Hiram, King of Tyre (who has a large navy and workforce) regarding the materials and labour needed to undertake this major building project (1 Sam 5); as the narrator indicates, “Solomon’s builders and Hiram’s builders and the Gebalites did the stonecutting and prepared the timber and the stone to build the house” (1 Ki 5:18). And then, after seven years of intense work, the temple is complete (7:1). Here, the lectionary (wisely) skips over the tedious detail of the items made by the artisans and craftsmen of Solomon (6:1–38).

The second part of the reading offered by the lectionary for this coming Sunday tells of how, after thirteen years, King Solomon assembled “the elders of Israel and all the heads of the tribes, the leaders of the ancestral houses of the Israelites” (8:1). Again, the lectionary skips over the detailed account of the work of Solomon’s men in building his own house: the House of the Forest of Lebanon, the Hall of Pillars, the Hall of the Throne, and the house where he would live (7:1–12).

In like manner, the lectionary jumps over the detailed account of the work of Hiram the bronze worker: pillars, stands, basins, pots, and a whole host of items to be used in the sanctuary (7:13–50). Thank goodness the lectionary compilers jumped over all of those verses!

At any rate, when Solomon assembles the leaders of the nation, in the presence of “all the people of Israel” who had assembled, the priests and Levites bring forward the Ark of the Covenant, the Tent of Meeting which had housed the Ark for decades, and “all the holy vessels that were in the tent (8:1–4). It was surely an impressive majestic procession, followed by a scene of overflowing abundance, as the priests received and sacrificed “so many sheep and oxen that they could not be counted or numbered” (8:5).

There’s no mention of the rivers of blood that must surely have flowed as these sacrifices took place. It may seem like a most unpleasant and unedifying scene to modern eyes and ears; however, the sacrificing of blood was an expression of the central Israelite belief that “the life of the flesh is in the blood … as life, it is the blood that makes atonement” (Lev 17:11). Each sacrifice of a chosen animal was a sacred offering of life that symbolised the obedience and dedication of the person, or people, who had brought the animal to be sacrificed. They were dedicating their whole life to the Lord God through this action, and in return, they were receiving atonement (the forgiveness of their sins) for all the misdeeds they had performed.

Finally, after the procession and sacrifices, the Ark was brought to “the most holy place” (8:6). The presence of the Ark evoked Solomon’s father, David, and his taking of the city from the Jebusites. Solomon was making clear that he was seen to be standing in that fine tradition.

The Ark was placed in the space known as “the Holy of Holies”, as a much later Jewish-Christian writer describes it (Heb 9:3). It was from that time to be set apart as holy for only the High Priest to enter, and at that but once a year (Heb 9:7).

The scene is presented as one of profound religious significance, for “when the priests came out of the holy place, a cloud filled the house of the Lord, so that the priests could not stand to minister because of the cloud; for the glory of the Lord filled the house of the Lord” (1 Ki 8:10–11). The Temple from that time became the fixed dwelling place of God; “O Lord, I love the house in which you dwell, and the place where your glory abides”, one psalmist sings (Ps 26:8); another sings, “bring an offering, and come into his courts; worship the Lord in holy splendour; tremble before him, all the earth” (Ps 96:8b-9). Other psalmists likewise assert the holiness of God in his temple (Ps 11:4; 24:3–4; 48:1; 99:1–5,9).

Holiness (kadushah) was central to the people of Israel. Those who ministered to God within the Temple, as priests, were to be especially concerned about holiness in their daily life and their regular activities in the Temple (Exod 28–29; Lev 8–9). The priests oversaw the implementation of the Holiness Code, a large section of Leviticus (chapters 17–26), which explained the various applications of the word to Israel, that “you shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy” (Lev 19:2; also 20:7,26). The people were expected to be a holy people, dedicated to God, serving obediently by adhering to all the laws and commandments that Moses had received from the Lord God at Sinai (Exod 19:5–6).

As the glory of the Lord fills the Temple, Solomon makes the solemn declaration to his God that “I have built you an exalted house, a place for you to dwell in forever” (1 Ki 8:13). He then offers an extended prayer which stretches over the next 38 verses—another element of the whole story that the Narrative Lectionary, mercifully, does not prescribe for reading in worship!

Henry J. Soulen, ‘Queen of Sheba Visits Solomon’ (1967), illustration in *Everyday Life in Bible Times*
(National Geographic Society, 1967), pp. 230-231

Solomon, I am sure you are thinking, is remembered as The Wise King. As the lectionary has offered this passage for this Sunday, it is worth our thinking further about Solomon. Next week we will jump forward a century or so, to the prophet Elijah. So we might, today, reflect on the quality of Solomon he is best known for: his wisdom. In 2 Chronicles 1, God says to Solomon, “because you have asked for wisdom and knowledge for yourself … wisdom and knowledge are granted to you” (2 Chr 1:11).

And later, King Solomon is said to have “excelled all the kings of the earth in riches and in wisdom. And all the kings of the earth sought the presence of Solomon to hear his wisdom, which God had put into his mind. Every one of [those kings] brought silver and gold, so much, year by year” (2 Chron 9:22–24). And so, Jesus relates how “the Queen of the south [the Queen of Sheba] came from the ends of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon” (Matt 12:42).

This wonderfully wise, insightful, discerning man, Solomon—bearing a name derived from the Hebrew for peace, “shalom”—became a powerhouse in the ancient world. But he did not always live as a man of peace, as we have seen in tracing his rise to the throne. Indeed, as ruler he used his 4,000 horses and chariots and 12,000 horsemen to good effect; we read that “he ruled over all the kings from the Euphrates to the land of the Philistines and to the border of Egypt” (2 Chron 9:26).

Solomon was remembered as king over the greatest expanse of land claimed by Israel in all of history. This large scope of territory noted in scripture forms the basis for the claims of zealous fundamentalist Zionists, in the 21st century, that Israel should run “from the river to the sea”. It’s a claim that has fuelled the building of illegal Jewish settlements on the West Bank and the erection by the modern state of Israel of The Wall which divides Israel from Palestinian Territories—but which divides families and friends as it seeks to separate Israelis from Palestinians.

Solomon, there can be no doubt, was a warrior. And warrior-kings were powerful, tyrannical in their exercise of power, ruthless in the way that they disposed of rivals for the throne and enemies on the battlefield alike. Think Alexander the Great. Think Charlemagne. Think Genghis Khan. Think William the Conqueror. Solomon reigned for 40 years—a long, wealthy, successful time. (Although 40 years, in Israelite time, is basically a way of saying “a heaps long time”.)

Yet in the passage we hear this Sunday Solomon appears not as a powerful king. Rather, he is a humble person of faith. He stands before all the people, raises his arms, and prays to the God who is to be worshipped in the Temple that he had erected. He is a person of faith, in the presence of his God, expressing his faith, exuding his piety.

The prayer of Solomon goes for thirty-eight solid verses; there are eight different sections in this prayer. In the first two sections of this prayer, Solomon identifies two important features of the newly-erected Temple. The first is that the fundamental reason for erecting this building is to provide a focal point, where people of faith can gather to pray to God (2 Ki 8:23–30). The second key element of Solomon’s prayer is that the Temple reaches beyond the people of Israel, covenant partners with the Lord God. He recognises that the Temple is also the place for the prayer of “a foreigner, who is not of your people Israel, [who] comes from a distant land because of your name” (2 Ki 8:41–43).

This is a striking and dramatic element to include in this dedication prayer before all the people of Israel! Perhaps that is the best way we can remember Solomon: a man of his time, committed to his people, but open to receiving the gifts and the prayers of people from afar. Would that, in our present world of nationalistic fervour, militaristic aggression, and parochial bigotry, there were more rulers like that!

For more on the prayer of Solomon in 1 Kings 8, see

O hear in heaven, your dwelling place (1 Kings 8; Pentecost 14B)

Do not judge by appearances (1 Samuel 16; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 19)

A discussion of the Narrative Lectionary passage from 1 Samuel 16

The narrative passage proposed by the Narrative Lectionary for this Sunday (1 Sam 16:1–13) comes from the period of time when Israel was ruled by a king. The story of the choosing of the first king, Saul, is told in 1 Sam 9; his rule runs through this narrative until the last chapter of this book, 1 Sam 31.

As I have noted before, although these narratives have the appearance of being historical, they are actually ancient tales which were told and retold, passed on by word of mouth and then written down, because of their enduring significance for the people of ancient Israel. Scholars call such stories “myths”, meaning that they convey something of fundamental importance. (We might best define myth as “a traditional story, usually associated with the time of origins, of paradigmatic significance for the society in which it is told”.)

See more on the nature of these stories at

How can we preach on passages in the Bible that are myths?

The picture of Saul, the first man chosen to be king in Israel, demonstrates the flaws of this system of leadership. His reign was characterised by turbulence and opposition; as early as chapter 13 there are signs of the problems that there were in his leadership. After defeating the Philistines, and being impatient for the prophet Samuel to arrive, he went ahead with a burnt offering, in contradiction to the command of God. “You have done foolishly; you have not kept the commandment of the Lord your God, which he commanded you”, Samuel berates the king (1 Sam 13:13). This is not the behaviour expected of a person leading the chosen people of God!

The prophet Samuel foreshadows the coming turmoil under Saul’s leadership, telling him that “the Lord would have established your kingdom over Israel forever, but now your kingdom will not continue” (1 Sam 13:14). In the passage offered by the lectionary for this coming Sunday (1 Sam 16:1–13), we learn that because the rule of Saul is fraught with difficulties, a significant change is on the cards.

Pushed by the words of the prophet Samuel, Saul confesses his sin (1 Sam 15:24, 30). Samuel announces to him that “the Lord has rejected you from being king over Israel” (15:26) and declares, quite dramatically, “the Lord has torn the kingdom of Israel from you this very day, and has given it to a neighbour of yours, who is better than you” (15:28).

The narrator of this story engages in an interesting theological exploration at this point. Samuel is clear about God’s intentions: “the Glory of Israel will not recant or change his mind; for he is not a mortal, that he should change his mind” (15:29). This God had explicitly chosen Saul, who said he was “only a Benjaminite, from the least of the tribes of Israel, and my family is the humblest of all the families of the tribe of Benjamin” (9:21).

God had chosen David, this least and most humble person, to serve as ruler over the people, to “save my people from the hand of the Philistines” (9:16). He would rule form40 years—the biblical,way of saying “for an awfully long time”—and exert great power. We might note that this “least-become-greatest” dynamic prefigures some of the teaching of Jesus, a descendant of David, a millennia later.

Samuel, exercising his prophetic leadership, had assured the people, “there is no one like him among all the people” (10:24); but some in the crowd were doubtful, saying, “how can this man save us?”, and they despised him (10:27). Paradoxically, these men had insight into the character of Saul which the Lord God himself failed to perceive at this time.

However, a little later, the narrator of this story muses that “the Lord was sorry that he had made Saul king over Israel” (15:35). This is regret, but seemingly not quite a full change-of-mind. It does, however, paint the divine in a rather human way; an action undertaken that does not bear fruit for us as anticipated can indeed generate regret.

Elsewhere in Hebrew Scriptures, the matter of a change-of-mind for the divine is explored. Jeremiah instructs the people, “amend your ways and your doings, and obey the voice of the Lord your God, and the Lord will change his mind about the disaster that he has pronounced against you” (Jer 26:13). In the tale of Jonah, 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” (Jon 3:10).

The prophet Amos petitions God, such that “the Lord relented concerning this; ‘it shall not be,’ said the Lord” (Amos 7:3, 6). And in the story of the Golden Bull, Moses implores God to “turn from your fierce wrath; change your mind and do not bring disaster on your people”, and so the Lord repents (Exod 32:12–14).

We might wonder: is the regret that the narrator perceives in the divine (1 Sam 15:35) strong enough to chasten God in future actions, so that there will be no need for a divine change-of-mind?

For more on this topic, see

God changed God’s mind (Jonah 3; Epiphany 3B)

As Saul relinquishes his role, Jesse steps onto the stage; one of his eight sons will sit on the throne. It has been a bitterly-fought transition, and Samuel was saddened by the course of events. But the voice of God pushes him on, to step into his role in the transition taking place; and so the prophet faithfully anoints Saul’s successor.

We should remember that, in the a Christian canon, the two books that tell of the rule of Saul and then David are named, not after those kings, but after the prophet, Samuel—who held and exercised great power, as the story shows, in that he is attuned to God’s voice and speaks God’s words to the people. We saw this dynamic clearly articulated in the earlier narrative (1 Sam 3) on the Sunday after Trinity Sunday (Pentecost 2).

So Samuel follows God’s advice: “do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart” (1 Sam 16:7). This verse is often quoted by people of faith when reflecting on the importance of inner conviction and commitment to God.

This narrative portrays a God who sees and deals with the heart of human beings (v.7). The heart is important to God because of its directional role: “the good person out of the good treasure of his heart produces good, and the evil person out of his evil treasure produces evil, for out of the abundance of the heart his mouth speaks” (Luke 6:45). In like manner, Proverbs 4:23 states “keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life”.

There is a danger here, of course; the outward actions of people are indeed important, and the claim that God’s focus is solely on our “heart” can be deceptive. Both our inner nature and our outer actions are significant; they each point to our faith and express our discipleship.

Indeed, it is worth remembering that, in the Hebrew language—the language in which this narrative was written—the word translated as heart is לֵבָב, lebab. It’s a common word in Hebrew Scripture, and is understood to refer to the mind, will, or heart of a person—words which seek to describe the essence of the person. It is sometimes described as referring to “the inner person”. The word appears 248 times in the scriptures, of which well over half (185) are translated as “heart”. It has a strong connotation of indication “the whole of a person’s being”. That’s what God is focussed on; that’s where faith is shown and discipleship is lived out.

For more on this, see

Love with all that you are—heart and soul, completely and entirely (Deut 6 in Mark 12; Pentecost 23B)

So Jesse brings his sons before Samuel. But which son is it to be? Samuel first offers a sacrifice to God (15:2–5), in the expectation that what he does next will be in accord with the will of God. Samuel had his own ideas, based on appearances; God reprimands him, now telling him to focus on the heart—the very core of the being of the chosen one, the whole of that person’s being (16:7). After receiving all of Jesse’s sons in order (16:8–10), Samuel exercises his prophetic discernment, selecting the youngest son, David, to be the new king (16:11–13).

God confirms this choice by gifting David with the spirit: “the spirit of the Lord came mightily upon David from that day forward” (16:13). Openness to new ways and new possibilities has led to this defining moment.

Ironically, when Samuel first sees David, the narrator introduces him with the description, “he was ruddy, and had beautiful eyes, and was handsome” (16:12)—precisely the elements of “outward appearance” that we were told earlier that the Lord does not consider. Even the careful crafter of this story gets caught!!

Speak, for your servant is listening (1 Samuel 3; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 18)

The two books of Samuel and the early chapters of 1 Kings recount the development of the monarchy in Israel, with stories of Saul, David, and Solomon, the first three men charged with the responsibility of leading Israel and ensuring that there was justice in the land. We have four passages proposed by the Narrative Lectionary at this point of the cycle, beginning this Sunday with 1 Sam 3:1–21.

These stories also engage us with the lives of prophets, Samuel and Nathan—men who were called to speak the word of God. This week we hear about the call of the young Samuel. We are told that as Samuel grew up, “the Lord was with him and let none of his words fall to the ground; and all Israel from Dan to Beer-sheba knew that Samuel was a trustworthy prophet of the Lord” (1 Sam 3:20–21). Years later, Nathan is commissioned by “the word of the Lord” to “go and tell my servant David, ‘thus says the Lord’” (2 Sam 7:4–5). That is the role of the prophet—to listen to what God says to them, and then to speak forth the word of the Lord to the people of their society.

Samuel, Nathan, and other prophets were particularly called to speak truth to the king and to recall them to the centrality of their role, to ensure that God’s justice was a reality in Israelite society (Isa 42:1–4; 61:1–2; Mic 3:8). We see this when Nathan confronts David (2 Sam 12), when Elijah confronts Ahab and the priests of Baal (1 Ki 18), when Isaiah advises Hezekiah (2 Ki 20), and when Josiah consults Huldah (2 Ki 22; 2 Chron 34).

As we pay attention to the details of the stories, let us remember that these stories are not “history” as we know it today. Rather, they are ancient tales told and retold, passed on by word of mouth and then written down, because of their enduring significance for the people of ancient Israel. Scholars call such stories “myths”, meaning that they convey something of fundamental importance. (We might best define myth as “a traditional story, usually associated with the time of origins, of paradigmatic significance for the society in which it is told”.)

See more on the nature of these stories at

How can we preach on passages in the Bible that are myths?

Identifying the stories in the narrative books of the Hebrew Scriptures as myths doesn’t mean they are “not true”—rather, it means that we need to read them, not as historically accurate accounts, but as stories which convey fundamentally important ideas. These stories were valued by people of ancient times. They may well offer us, in our own times, insights and guidance of value.

So we read and ponder these stories from old once again, in our time, because we believe that there is wisdom and guidance in the dynamics we see at work in this ancient society. We pay attention to them because we believe that the same Spirit who anointed the kings, and who called and equipped the prophets, is the very Spirit who today meets us, calls us, and equips us.

This Sunday, the Narrative Lectionary offers us a narrative that recounts the call of the young boy, Samuel, to the role of prophet (1 Sam 3:1–21). Samuel was the designated prophet whose wisdom guided the people in the early period of the monarchy. This story from the early years of Samuel’s life instructs us as we hear it in later times, to listen to God’s voice, and to respond with obedience.

Young Samuel was in the temple, where the elderly Eli was priest. In the evening, while the lamp was still burning, Samuel hears a voice. The voice simply calls his name. “Here I am”, Samuel responds when he hears that voice. He is sure that it is Samuel who is speaking to him—there is nobody else around. Three times, he hears “Samuel”; and three times, he responds “here I am” (vv.4,6,8).

Samuel had been thinking that it was Eli speaking to him; but it was not the priest, it was the voice of the Lord. The story conveys a sense of confusion and unknowing. This reflects something of the uncertainty that people of faith often have with regard to “hearing the voice of the Lord”.

Indeed, the fragility of living by faith without clear and obvious demonstration of he presence of God is signalled in the opening verse: “the word of the Lord was rare in those days; visions were not widespread” (v.1). The poor vision of the elderly priest, Eli (v.2), is a second signal of this uncertainty. The priest cannot see; the child hears but does not understand.

Paying attention to the voice of the Lord is a persistent refrain in Hebrew Scriptures. Indeed, the psalmist rejoices in the clarity of God’s voice: “the voice of the Lord is over the waters; the God of glory thunders, the Lord, over mighty waters; the voice of the Lord is powerful; the voice of the Lord is full of majesty” (Ps 29:3–4). Yet another psalmist recalls the time, in the wilderness, when the people of Israel “grumbled in their tents, and did not obey the voice of the Lord” (Ps 106:25). The people were not always faithful, even though the voice sounded with clarity. They needed reminders of that voice.

In the foundational saga of Israel, Moses is called by the voice of God while tending sheep on Mount Horeb (Exod 3:4). In obedience, he leads the people to freedom—and then informs the people, “if you will listen carefully to the voice of the Lord your God, and do what is right in his sight, and give heed to his commandments and keep all his statutes”, then God promises not to inflict them with disease (Exod 15:26). Later, when Moses has delivered to them “all the words of the Lord and all the ordinances”, the response of the people is an affirmative “all the words that the Lord has spoken we will do” (Exod 24:3).

A number of the prophets indicate that they are impelled to declare “the word of the Lord” to a sinful people because they have heard, and are obedient to, “the voice of the Lord”. Isaiah hears the voice of the Lord calling him: “whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” (Isa 6:8). Isaiah is given words of woe to pronounce over the people (Isa 6:9–13); he warns the leaders of Israel, “listen, and hear my voice; pay attention, and hear my speech” (Isa 28:23).

His fellow-southerner, the shepherd Amos, opens his words with the bold declaration, “the Lord roars from Zion, and utters his voice from Jerusalem” (Amos 1:2), before he launches into his long series of oracles against the surrounding nations (Amos 1:3—2:3) and then against Judah and Israel (Amos 2:4–16).

The image of the lord as a roaring lion is used also by Joel, “the Lord roars from Zion, and utters his voice from Jerusalem, and the heavens and the earth shake” (Joel 3:16), while in another oracle he says, “the Lord utters his voice at the head of his army; how vast is his host!” (Joel 2:1). Joel’s words of judgement penetrate to the heart of the evil of the people: the coming day will be “a day of darkness and gloom, a day of clouds and thick darkness!” (Joel 2:2), and so he calls the people to “return to [the Lord] with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing” (Joel 2:12–13).

Micah also declares, “the voice of the Lord cries to the city (it is sound wisdom to fear your name)” (Mic 6:9) before he lambasts the people for their wickedness: “your wealthy are full of violence; your inhabitants speak lies, with tongues of deceit in their mouths” (Mic 6:12; the whole damning oracle is 6:9–16).

Called as a youth by “the word of the Lord” (Jer 1:4–8), Jeremiah hears the assurance, “I have put my words in your mouth” (Jer 1:9); the prophet later instructs the people, “amend your ways and your doings, and obey the voice of the Lord your God, and the Lord will change his mind about the disaster that he has pronounced against you” (Jer 26:13). Again, he tells them, “obey the voice of the Lord in what I say to you, and it shall go well with you, and your life shall be spared” (Jer 38:20). Eventually, the people affirm, “whether it is good or bad, we will obey the voice of the Lord our God to whom we are sending you, in order that it may go well with us when we obey the voice of the Lord our God” (Jer 42:6).

In the return from exile, both Haggai (Hag 1:12) and Zechariah (Zech 6:15) rejoice that Israel “obeyed the voice of the Lord their God”; but Daniel laments that his people “have not obeyed the voice of the Lord our God by following his laws, which he set before us by his servants the prophets; Israel has transgressed your law and turned aside, refusing to obey your voice” (Dan 9:10).

And yet, various prophets had hesitated when first hearing “the voice of the Lord”. The initial response of Moses is “who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” (Exod 3:11), followed by a series of further objections that he raises (Exod 3:13; 4:1; 4:10). Amos explains to the priest Amaziah how his call had surprised him: “I am no prophet, nor a prophet’s son; but I am a herdsman, and a dresser of sycamore trees” (Amos 7:14).

Isaiah seeks to excuse himself from the prophetic task: “I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips” (Isa 6:5). Jeremiah objects, “truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy” (Jer 1:5). A number of the prophets are, initially at least, reluctant spokespersons for the Lord God.

By contrast, in the story told in 1 Sam 3, after hearing his name spoken by the Lord for a third time, Samuel responds with a declaration of obedience: “speak, for your servant is listening” (v.10). This was just as the priest Eli had instructed him (v.9). Here, Samuel demonstrates careful listening, patience, openness to what he encounters, and complete obedience to that voice.

Just beyond the passage set by the lectionary, the narrator indicates that what will follow will be dramatic and compelling; it will “make both ears of anyone who hears of it to tingle” (v.11). The immediate drama which les ahead will tell of punishment for the sins of the house of Eli. Young Samuel is given his first commission: tell his patron Eli about what lies in store for him. Samuel, in fear and trembling, dutifully does so (v.18); Eli recognises the word of the Lord in the voice of the prophet, and accepts his fate.

The pattern of Samuel’s life is thus set: he will need to summon inner strength, demonstrate commitment to the cause, use clarity of speech, and model integrity of life. The fact that the young Samuel already demonstrated these qualities may well be why this story is remembered and retold. These two stories from the early years of Samuel’s life are remembered in order to instruct those who hear them in later generations, to listen and to obey, to be brave and focussed. And so we, in our time, are to hear the story, reflect on it, and respond appropriately.

The road to freedom: seeking the safety of refuge (Exodus 16; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 17)

Discussion of the story of the Israelites in the wilderness (Exod 16) for the Narrative Lectionary.

This coming Sunday, we will hear a story that didn’t happen—yet a story that is always happening. We hear stories from the grand saga of ancient Israel at this point in the lectionary cycle each year: stories of Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar, of Isaac and Rebekah, stories of Jacob, Leah, and Rachel, and the twelve sons of Jacob, the stories of Joseph and his brothers and the stories from early in the life of Moses.

Yet a critical approach to scripture recognises that these stories did not actually happen as they are reported; but they are told because the dynamics at work in the stories reflect the realities of life as the ancient Israelites experienced it. And we read them again, and listen, and reflect on them, because we have faith that they also convey something to us, in a very different culture and location, about the realities of life as we know it.

Personally, I don’t think we can say that these ancestral stories happened as actual historical events. Certainly, the historical elements in the story of the Exodus are impossible to validate using the standard methods of historical criticism. However, they are worth remembering and retelling, because they are always happening, in the murky depths of human life.

So this year in the cycle of the Narrative Lectionary, as we read and hear this story yet again, may it refresh our understanding of life and take us somehow into the centre of our existential being. This story and others around it have been told and retold throughout the centuries, because they express things that are deep within our lives.

The people depicted in the wilderness in today’s passage (Exodus 16:1–18) are quite relatable characters, to me. We are introduced to “the whole congregation of the Israelites” right at the start, and are told that they “complained against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness” (v.2). I’m going to pass on making any connection between this verse and any congregation of which I have been a part, or in which I have ministered. Let’s just say that humans complaining should not be a surprise to us!

However, let’s pause and consider: the complaint raised by the Israelites against Moses and Aaron appears to be quite unreasonable. How long have they been travelling in the wilderness? And already they seem to think that life was better for them back in Egypt, where “we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread”. Now, in the wilderness, the accuse their leaders of wanting “to kill this whole assembly with hunger” (v.3).

However, if you put yourself into the situation of the Israelites, you might well have a more empathic understanding of their situation. Their years in Egypt were intensely difficult: the Egyptians “set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labour … [they] became ruthless in imposing tasks on the Israelites, and made their lives bitter with hard service” (Exod 1:11–14). How were the Israelites to respond? Fright? Fight? or Flight??

We might hypothesise—imagining what might have been going through the minds of the Israelites in the story as they considered their situation. (As noted above, I don’t think that this was an actual historical event—but it is told in Exodus as a history-like narrative, and that history-like character invites us to consider how the hypothetical characters in that story might have thought and acted.)

In such a situation, fright would have been an understandable response. The power of the Egyptian overlords would have generated fear amongst the Israelites as they struggled to complete the increasingly demanding tasks imposed upon them. As there presumably were many years between the death of Joseph (Gen 50:26) and the time when “a new king arose over Egypt, who did not know Joseph” (Exod 1:8), that suggests that fright gripped the people and paralysed them into inaction. They continued as slaves under increasingly difficult conditions.

The thought of fight might have entered the minds of some—standing up for their rights and asserting themselves in order to gain freedom may well have been suggested, even debated, during this extended interim period. Indeed, as the story recounts, Moses himself, fuelled by a passion for justice and a dislike of injustice, was known to have intervened with passion and force into a situation of injustice—such that “he saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew, one of his kinsfolk; he looked this way and that, and seeing no one he killed the Egyptian and hid him in the sand” (Exod 2:11–12). The next day, fearing that his actions were known, he fled across the desert to Midian, where he remained for quite some years.

Would Moses have thought to press hard against his Egyptian overlords, agitating for them to act justly in relation to the Israelites? His initial thoughts in this regard may well have been completely deficient—that is, until he had encountered God in the burning bush (Exod 3:1–5). From that bush, the voice had come, commissioning Moses to approach Pharaoh “to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt” (3:10).

Moses, of course, argued with God about what that would mean (3:11–4:17)—but in the end, he returned to Egypt (4:18–31) with the intention of confronting Pharaoh, to say “Let my people go” (5:1). The initial request was simply “so that they may celebrate a festival to me in the wilderness” (5:1)—but Pharaoh was resistant, leading to the long sequence of divinely-initiated plagues (7:14—10:28), culminating in the plague of the death of “all the firstborn in the land” (12:29–32).

It was flight, however, which won the day for the Israelites—after they, in turn, had been convinced by Moses that this was what God wanted them to do (12:3, 21–28). And that flight, according to the story line, was supported by the interventions of the divine into the sequence of human events: “at midnight the Lord struck down all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, from the firstborn of Pharaoh who sat on his throne to the firstborn of the prisoner who was in the dungeon” (12:29), and then “the Lord brought the Israelites out of the land of Egypt, company by company” (12:51), and then “the Lord went in front of them in a pillar of cloud by day, to lead them along the way, and in a pillar of fire by night, to give them light, so that they might travel by day and by night” (13:21).

Then, when confronted with the sea in front of them, “the Lord hardened the heart of Pharaoh king of Egypt and he pursued the Israelites, who were going out boldly” (14:8), and then “the Lord drove the sea back by a strong east wind all night, and turned the sea into dry land; and the waters were divided. The Israelites went into the sea on dry ground, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left. The Egyptians pursued, and went into the sea after them, all of Pharaoh’s horses, chariots, and chariot drivers.” (14:21–23).

And so the story resolves the tension: “the Lord tossed the Egyptians into the sea. The waters returned and covered the chariots and the chariot drivers, the entire army of Pharaoh that had followed them into the sea; not one of them remained. But the Israelites walked on dry ground through the sea, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left.” (14:27–29).

The Israelites, so the story reveals to us, had thus experienced a long sequence of frightening and troubling events—culminating in their witnessing the mass drowning of the army that was pursuing them. The narrator makes it clear that “the Lord saved Israel that day from the Egyptians; and Israel saw the Egyptians dead on the seashore” (14:30). Today, meeting people who had experienced such a sequence of events, we would recognise that they had been immersed in a series of traumas, and we would readily explain their current state of being with reference to PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder.

Of course, as we have noted, the narrator shrugs all of this off with the glib summation, “Israel saw the great work that the Lord did against the Egyptians; so the people feared the Lord and believed in the Lord and in his servant Moses” (14:31). The narrator expects the people in the story to move on. And so we are then given the full set of lyrics of the song that Moses led the people in singing, “I will sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously … the Lord is my strength and my might … this is my God, and I will praise him” (15:1–18), followed by a recapitulation of the earlier verses in the song that Miriam and the women sang, “Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously; horse and rider he has thrown into the sea” (15:21).

But as the story continues on, the narrator cannot but help give indication of the ways that the trauma of this long sequence of events has impacted on the Israelites. The first indication of that comes in the complaint of the people when they could find no water; they cried out to Moses, and God intervenes again to enable him to provide water for drinking (15:22–25).

There are further indications when another set of complaints is brought against Moses and Aaron, for the people are now hungry (16:1–3); then the story of another moment of complaint, at Rephidim (17:1–7); and still further stories of complaint at Num 11:1–15 and 14:1–4.

If we enter into the story and imagine the state of the people, there can be no doubt that they would have been gripped with terror and fear—wondering what the future would hold, lamenting the difficulties of the present, and looking back already on the past with “rose-coloured glasses”, unable to remember exactly how difficult and oppressive it was for them to live in Egypt.

And yet, the narrator wants us to understand that, in the midst of the complaints raised by the people, there was hope: they camped at a fertile oasis at Elim (15:27), they ate the quails and manna provided each day (16:13–18; Num 11:7–9); they had water to drink at Massah and Meribah (17:7)

The story that is shaped in the narrative of Exodus has a strong belief in an active, interventionist deity. That is possible to claim with the benefit of hindsight, knowing that the people did survive their time in the wilderness, did have nourishment and water, did eventually enter the land promised to them, and did settle and become prosperous in the land. That is the blessing of telling a story long after the time in which it is set; the long range result can be known!

It was not the case in the midst of the story, as the events being narratives took place. Doubt and fear grounded in uncertainty, as well as dysfunction generated by repeated traumatic events, would have blurred and marred any sense of confident hope, surely. And that is precisely the situation that we find ourselves in, today. Life is “happening” to us. We do not have a guarantee of the end-in-view, the longterm result that is hoped for. We live by faith, with hope, yearning and trusting.

So the story we hear this coming Sunday (Exod 16:1–18) tells of God’s provision for the people of Israel—and, by extension, for people of faith today—as they, and we, live with an attitude of hopeful expectation and patient faith.

The climax of the story, at least in terms of the verses that the lectionary offers us, is the simple affirmation that the “fine flaky substance, as fine as frost on the ground”, the “bread from heaven” that they found, was indeed “the bread that the Lord has given you to eat” (16:4, 14–15).

Later in the chapter, we are told that this was the staple diet of the people for “forty years” (16:35), which is the standard biblical expression for “a very, very long time”. And much later, of course, in Christian tradition, Jesus of Nazareth is presented as “the bread from heaven”, the “living bread” which is given “for the life of the world” (John 6:31–51)—bread which lasts, not for ”forty years”, but “forever” (John 6:51).

Also in the story told in Exodus 16, we are told that “the house of Israel called it manna” and that “it was like wafers made with honey” (16:31). An explanation of this name—drawn from the comment made in Numbers—is that the phrase means “this is aphids”, indicating that the dew was crystallised matter deposited by insects. (See “the manna was like coriander seed, and its color was like the color of gum resin”, Num 11:7.)

An alternative explanation for the name manna lies within the text of Exodus itself; for when the people ask, “what is it?” (16:15), the Hebrew is man hu. And so the name reflects the initial puzzlement—a nice ironic twist, indeed.

How do we read this story today? For me, the story of the first half of Exodus has really strong resonances with the story of millions of people in the world today. These are people that we call refugees and asylum seekers—people fleeing from oppression and mistreatment in the land where they were born, travelling through difficulties and dangers, to seek the safety of refuge in a new land; a land that becomes, for them, a land of hope, a land of promise.

The United Nations Refugee Agency, UNHCR, keeps track of current numbers and publishes a summary each year. For 2024, the figures were:

There has been a consistent rise in numbers of internally displaced people and refugees throughout this century. Compared to a decade ago, the number of refugees under UNHCR’s mandate has more than doubled. This steady increase reflects the persistence of civil war and uprisings in many places, and the impact of various natural disasters (many being the result of, or exacerbated by, climate change).

Each person in those millions of people has experienced trauma, sought to escape, travelled along difficult pathways on land or sea, and is seeking safety in another country—or is patiently waiting to be resettled from the refugee camp where they are, into another country. In their report on the situation in 2024, the UNHCR says that “While mental health issues can affect anyone, refugees and other forcibly displaced people often face additional stressors that affect their mental health. According to a survey conducted by UNHCR, refugees in all countries are at a higher risk of experiencing depression compared to the host population. Refugees who have experienced violence, are widowed or separated from their partners or who live in adverse living conditions are more likely to experience depression.”

There are other key factors noted in their report, which can be read at https://www.unrefugees.org/news/five-takeaways-from-the-2024-unhcr-global-trends-report/

Perhaps the Exodus story can resonate in our current global context, and remind us of the value of people who are seeking the safety of refuge, whether as displaced persons within their own country, or as refugees fleeing to a safe haven in another country. It can remind us of the importance of meeting the needs of these people, and the necessity of remembering the trauma that they experienced which has pushed them to flee their homeland and seek safety elsewhere.

The people of Israel, in the ancient story told by Exodus, were refugees, seeking asylum in a foreign land. And as people of faith, we might well ponder: how do we serve as the agents of God, to offer to refugees and asylum seekers, today, “the bread that the Lord has given [them] to eat”?

My take on Exodus, as not an historical account but more of a foundational myth, raises questions about preaching on such stories. I have considered this matter in this blog:

How can we preach on passages in the Bible that are myths?

Standing on holy ground (Exodus 2–4; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 16)

Discussion of the Narrative Lectionary passage from Exodus 2–4

“The angel of the Lord appeared to [Moses] in a flame of fire out of a bush; he looked, and the bush was blazing, yet it was not consumed. Then Moses said, ‘I must turn aside and look at this great sight’ … and [when] the Lord saw that he had turned aside to see, God called to him out of the bush, ‘Moses, Moses!’ And he said, ‘Here I am.’ Then he said, ‘Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.’” (Exod 3:2–5)

The story of the burning bush is well-known; it is the moment when Moses, the murderer who has fled from Egypt (2:11–15), is galvanised by a striking event to become Moses the liberator, the one who will “go [back] to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt” (3:10). The transformation is striking—although perhaps the transformation is not quite as dramatic as many envisage.

It may well be the case for Moses that a strong sense of justice undergirds both his act of killing the Egyptian who was beating a Hebrew (2:11), and his commitment to deliver the Israelites from “the misery of Egypt” (3:17). Moses was passionate about the need for justice in society. Paradoxically, this passion led him to say NO to a man he witnessed committing a crime, and YES to a body of people who were suffering oppression in a foreign land.

Of course, common sense says that Moses should not have taken things into his own hands when he saw that Egyptian man beating one of his fellow-Israelites. But the passion within him—passion for fairness and justice—boiled up inside him and overflowed into unjust actions. This was in keeping with the charge given to the father of his people, when God mused about Abraham, “I have chosen him, that he may charge his children and his household after him to keep the way of the Lord by doing righteousness and justice” (Gen 18:19).

No wonder Moses fled, escaping the wrath of Pharaoh, travelling east across the desert areas of the Sinai Peninsula, all the way to Midian! (Exod 2:15). His action, out of proportion with the crime he saw being committed, was unjust. It is not a very propitious start for Moses, the man who towers over the story of the people,of Israel—ironically, best remembered as Moses the lawgiver!

Mind you, throughout Genesis, we have been regaled by tales of men behaving badly—Abraham lying about his wife Sarah as his sister (Gen 12 and again in Gen 20) and threatening to sacrifice his own son (Gen 22); Isaac, who also lied that his wife Rebekah was his sister (Gen 26); and Jacob, the deceiver, who stole his birthright from his twin brother Esau (Gen 27) and then deceived his father-in-law Laban and profited from his flock (Gen 30–31). And let’s not go into the treatment of Joseph by his brothers, throwing him into a pit in the desert, and then selling him off to some passing Midianite traders (Gen 37). And there are more; they are not exactly wonderful role models!

Yet the story about Moses that we are offered by the Narrative Lectionary this week presents Moses in a much more positive light, and it contains two fundamental elements in the story of Israel: the declaration that Moses stands on holy ground, and the revelation of the name of God.

Holy ground

God’s word to Moses, after calling for his attention, is to declare that “the place on which you are standing is holy ground” (Exod 3:5). This is the first occurrence of the concept of holiness in the Torah—the word is absent from all of the narratives in Genesis. And it is fascinating that this “holy ground” is in Midian, both far away from Egypt and far away from Canaan, the land that would subsequently be decreed as holy (Exod 15:13; Jer 21:23; Zech 2:12). This God is now able to appear in places far away from Canaan, and declare them holy.

A central motif in Hebrew Scripture is that holiness was a defining character of the people of Israel. A section of Leviticus (chapters 17—26) is known as “The Holiness Code”; its main purpose was to set out laws to mark Israel as different from the surrounding cultures. “You shall not do as they do in the land of Egypt, where you lived”, God told Moses, “and you shall not do as they do in the land of Canaan, to which I am bringing you” (Lev 18:2).

The rules of Leviticus were meant to set the Israelites apart from the Canaanites and Egyptians, who at that time had customs and rituals that were not to be adopted by the Israelites. Moses is instructed to relay to the people, “you shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy” (Lev 19:2), and to remind them to “consecrate yourselves therefore, and be holy; for I am the Lord your God. Keep my statutes, and observe them; I am the Lord; I sanctify you” (Lev 20:7). The whole book details those many statutes and commandments, all designed to keep the practices of the Israelites “holy to the Lord” (Lev 19:8; 23:20; 27:14–24).

Once the Temple was constructed, as a holy place within that holy land, those who ministered to God within the Temple, as priests, were to be especially concerned about holiness, both in their daily life and in their regular activities in the Temple (Exod 28–29; Lev 8–9). The priests oversaw the implementation of the Holiness Code, explaining the various applications of the word to Israel, that “you shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy” (Lev 19:2; also 20:7, 26).

In the years before and during the exile, a number of prophets took to addressing the Lord God as “the Holy One of Israel” (Hos 11:9, 12; Isa 1:4; 5:9, 24; 10:20; 12:6; 17:7; 29:19; 30:11–15; 31:1; 37:23; 41:14–20; 43:3, 14; 45:11; 47:4; 48:17; 49:7; 54:5–6; 60:9, 14; Jer 50:29; 51:5; Ezek 39:7; Hab 1:12; 3:3). The psalmists also pick up this phrase (Ps 71:22; 78:41; 89:18), reflecting the affirmation made by Hannah, “there is no Holy One like the Lord, no one besides you; there is no Rock like our God” (1 Sam 2:2).

As a consequence, Israel is regularly assured that the whole nation is a “chosen people” (Deut 7:6–8, 14:2; Ps 33:12; Isa 41:8–10, 65:9), set apart as “a kingdom of priests, a holy nation” (Exod 19:4–6), called to be “a light to the nations” (Isa 42:6, 49:6). So in the towns and villages of Israel, by contrast to the centralised priests, the scribes and Pharisees provided guidance in the interpretation of Torah and in the application of Torah to ensure that holiness was observed in daily living of all people in Israel.

These dispersed teachers undertook the highly significant task of showing how the Torah was relevant to the daily life of Jewish people. It was possible, they argued, to live as God’s holy people at every point of one’s life, quite apart from any pilgrimages made to the Temple in Jerusalem. These figures, scribes and Pharisees, are evident in a number of interactions with Jesus that are reported in the Gospels—interactions focussed on interpreting the Torah (Mark 7:1–23 and Matt 15:1–20 exemplify such encounters).

Perhaps the origins of this localised interpretive role are told in the post-Exilic narrative of Nehemiah, when “the priest Ezra brought the law before the assembly, both men and women and all who could hear with understanding”, ably assisted by men who “helped the people to understand the law, while the people remained in their places”, explaining the significance of “this holy day” and other matters (Neh 7:73b—8:12). The story explains the modus operandi of these teachers.

Certainly, the culture and religion of the Israelites was to be marked by a concern for holiness. This is read back into the foundational narrative of the call given to Moses, “to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt” (Exod 3:10, 17). When he hears this call in Midian, Moses is standing on holy ground (3:1-12).

Name of God

Although he is in Midian, far away from Canaan (later to become Israel), Moses encounters the God who is most firmly identified with that land. It is “the Lord, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob” who appeared to Moses (Exod 3:6, 16). This is the first occurrence of this characteristic linkage of the Lord God with the three patriarchs (see also Exod 3:15–16; 4:5; 6:3, 8; 33:1; Lev 26:42; Num 32:11; Deut 1:8; 6:10; 9:5, 27; 29:13; 30:20; 34:4; 2 Ki 13:23; Jer 33:26).

Identified, therefore, as “the God of your ancestors” (in Hebrew, elohe abotekem) (3:15, 16; 4:5), a distinctive term is added into the mix, and highlighted by God as “my name forever … my title for all generations” (3:15). The term is regularly translated as Lord, and is often capitalised to indicate its distinctive nature. In fact, the name comprises just four consonants (transliterated as yhvh or yhwh).

Despite its apparent simplicity, the meaning of the word has occasioned intense discussion amongst interpreters over the centuries. First, we should note that many Jews today adhere to the age-old prohibition and do not speak the name of God. This is based on the third of the Ten Commandments, “You shall not take his name in vain” (Exod 20:7; Deut 5:11).

Rabbi Baruch Davidson, writing on the website chabad.org, explains: “Although this verse is classically interpreted as referring to a senseless oath using G‑d’s name, the avoidance of saying G‑d’s name extends to all expressions, except prayer and Torah study. In the words of Maimonides, the great Jewish codifier: ‘It is not only a false oath that is forbidden. Instead, it is forbidden to mention even one of the names designated for G‑d in vain, although one does not take an oath. For the verse commands us, saying: “To fear the glorious and awesome name. Included in fearing it is not to mention it in vain.’” See

https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/1443443/jewish/Why-Dont-Jews-Say-Gds-Name.htm#footnote2a1443443

The name of God that is given to Moses in this story is often referred to as the Tetragrammaton (meaning “four letters”), because it is a four-letter word, yud-hey-vav-hey (יהוה). This name is derived from the verb “to be”, which has led to speculation that it could be translated as “I am who I am” or “I will be whom I will be”—revealing nothing, really, about the nature of this divine being, other than the existence of God. It is a curious “revelation”. What has Moses actually learnt about God in this encounter??

Since Hebrew words are constructed with a set of consonants as the base, to which a variety of vowels can be added, this short word is often expanded to either Jehovah or Yahweh. The former places the vowels of the word Adonai (meaning “lord”) to form the artificial term Jehovah, a title that has been popularised by the Jehovah Witnesses. The latter is a more accurate rendition of the blending of these consonants with the vowels of the verb to be, hayah, forming Yahweh.

This name is certainly mysterious. What does it mean to say, “I am who I am”? or “I will be who I will be”? The mystery of each phrase invites the listener or reader to pause, ponder, and consider what is being conveyed. This is not a direct propositional statement, declaring a closed statement along the lines of, “God is love”, or “God is all-knowing”, or “God desires justice”, or other such statements. It is, rather, mystical, evocative, inviting, something that is invitational and encouraging exploration. Perhaps that, in itself, is enough of a basis for our considering as to who God is and what God desires?

Jewish mystical literature actually teaches that there are seventy names for God; and if you explore the biblical texts (the Torah), the developing rabbinic literature (Mishnah, Talmud, and Midrash) and then the proliferation of Jewish mystical terms, God is referred to by almost more names than can be counted.

Rabbi Stephen Carr Reuben asks “Why so many names, and why does God tell Moses that the name he knows God by is different from that of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob?” As he explores this question, he notes that “Every name reflects a quality in relation to human beings that each of us can choose to emulate in our own lives. Thus in Jewish mysticism, the ideal state is to be in harmony with the Divine by emulating the attributes reflected in the great diversity of divine names.”

The rabbi offers some examples: “As God is called, ‘The Compassionate One’ (HARAKHAMAN in Hebrew), so each of us can strive to be compassionate in our behavior toward others. As God is called EL SHADDAI (The Nurturer), so we can be nurturing of the dreams and longings of others. As God is called The Righteous Judge (DAYAN EMET), so we can express righteousness and stand up for justice in our lives.”

What, then, of the revelation to Moses? Rabbi Carr Reuben suggests that “when God tells Moses that he was known by a different name to the patriarchs, it is because every moment in history, and every challenge we face personally demands that we draw upon a different quality of holiness to emulate in our lives. We must choose the name of God that captures the essence of the attributes of Godliness that is appropriate to the moment, and up to the challenge of the day.” See

Naming the Divine

and also https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/the-tetragrammaton/

I had a dream (Genesis 27–28; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 15)

A discussion of the passage in the Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 15

There are some famous dreams throughout history. “I have a dream”, said the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr, speaking in Washington on 28 August 1963, “a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today.” That may be the most famous dream in the 20th century.

There have been other significant dreams in modern times. Paul McCartney woke from a dream and wrote the whole score of “Yesterday”. Mary Shelley’s novel “Frankenstein” was inspired by a nightmare. Niels Bohr had a dream in which he saw “the nucleus of the atom, with electrons spinning around it, much as planets spin around their sun”; and thus he developed his theory of atomic structure—a theory later proven by experimental investigation.

In like manner, Albert Einstein is said to have posed his theory of relativity in a dream in which “he was sledding down a steep mountainside, going so fast that eventually he approached the speed of light … at this moment, the stars in his dream changed their appearance in relation to him”; while it was a dream that led Frederick Banting to develop insulin as a drug to treat diabetes.

I found these and other significant modern dreams described at

https://www.world-of-lucid-dreaming.com/10-dreams-that-changed-the-course-of-human-history.html

*****

A part of the Hebrew Scripture readings that are offered by the Narrative Lectionary for this coming Sunday (Gen 28:10–17) includes a dream that Jacob had, as he slept one night. He was journeying from Beer-sheba, in the Negeb desert in the south of Israel, which is where he had received a blessing from his father, Isaac. This blessing, as we hear in the other section of scripture offered for this Sunday, was won by trickery,as he took the blessing that was intended for Esau (Gen 27:1–4, 15–23). Which explains the name given to Jacob: he is “the one who supplants” (see Hos 12:3).

Isaac was travelling north towards Haran, the place from which Abram and Sarai had left on their journey towards the land of Canaan, the land which God had promised to him (12:1, 4–5). So the journey that Jacob is undertaking is a reversal, in direction and orientation, of the earlier journey that his grandfather had undertaken.

He was travelling to escape the anger of his brother Esau, after he had tricked their father Isaac into blessing him, Jacob, gifting him with the inheritance that was rightly owed to Esau (27:41). Abraham had travelled south in order to receive God’s blessing. Jacob travels in the other direction after having deceitfully gained his father’s blessing.

We are told that, understandably, “Esau hated Jacob because of the blessing with which his father had blessed him” (27:41), and that he threatens to murder his brother, once “the days of mourning for my father” are completed (27:42). Learning of this hatred, Rebekah advises her son, “flee at once to my brother Laban in Haran, and stay with him a while, until your brother’s fury turns away” (27:43–44).

Whether he had been tipped off about this by Rebekah, or not, Isaac commissions his son to journey back to the homeland—in another case of “don’t marry one of these folks, go back to our homeland and marry one of our own” (as we saw with Abraham and Isaac). Isaac says to Jacob, “you shall not marry one of the Canaanite women; go at once to Paddan-aram to the house of Bethuel, your mother’s father; and take as wife from there one of the daughters of Laban, your mother’s brother” (28:1–2). So Jacob obeys him.

It is on this journey of escape that Jacob has his striking dream. Jacob is not the first to have encountered God in a dream, in these ancestral sagas. Abimelech of Gerar heard from God in a dream (20:3–7). After Jacob’s dream at Bethel (28:12–15), Jacob has a further dream regarding a flock of goats, relating to his inheritance, urging him to return to Isaac in the land of Canaan (31:10–16). At the same time, God appeared in a dream to Laban (31:24), conveying instructions which he disobeyed.

The two great “dreamers” in Hebrew Scripture are, of course, Joseph, one of the sons of Jacob, and Daniel, one of the courtiers of Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon, many centuries later. Both men not only dream dreams, but offer interpretations—and interpret dreams that have been dreamt by others. Jeremiah, too, knew of those who claimed that they encountered God in dreams, but warns that understanding those dreams correctly is important (Jer 23:28; 29:8–9).

And dreams as the vehicle for divine communication is found in an important New Testament story, when Joseph learns of the pregnancy of Mary, in Matt 1–2. “Dreaming dreams” is actually an activity inspired by the Spirit, as Joel prophesied (Joel 2:28) and Peter reminds the crowd on the day of Pentecost (Acts 2:17).

In the story we hear this coming Sunday, Jacob sleeps. As he does, he dreams that “there was a ladder set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it” (28:12). What do we make of that dream?

In My Jewish Learning, Pinchas Leiser quotes from a book entitled Ruah Chaim (“the breath of life”), by Rabbi Haim of Volozhin. The Rabbi, who lived from 1749 to 1821, was a student of the Vilna Gaon (1695–1785), the pre-eminent sage of Lithuanian Jewry whose ideas were fundamental for the development of modern Jewry. Rabbi Haim writes:

“Our sages come to teach us that we ought not think that, because of our base material, we are truly despicable, like mere plaster on a wall. About this it says, a ladder stationed on the earth–that is Sinai; and its top reaches the heaven–which represents our soul’s life, which is in the highest sphere. There are even souls that see God, and they are the highest of the high, higher than ministering angels, and by this status can the soul cleave to Torah . A whole person is like a tree whose roots are above, and whose trunk extends downward, which is the body, and which is fastened to its supernal roots.”

Pinchas Leiser, a Jewish psychologist and educator, comments: “Thus, Rabbi Haim of Volozhin views Torah learning as a Sinaitic event, since Torah is what connects the heavens and the earth. With Torah, one can ascend and descend between the two spheres. The people who do so are angel-like.”

This is a penetrating insight into the nature of human beings. We are not spiritual beings, trapped in the prison of the material world, as Plato imagined (and as many writers, including Paul, who were influenced by his philosophy, wrote). Rather, we are fully nephesh, creatures of God containing both material and spiritual characteristics. We belong both to earth and to heaven.

The ladder which Jacob saw reveals this true nature, and tells us that we can transport ourselves between the two places, if we would only open ourselves to the possibility. Jacob’s dream was archetypal—it illustrated exactly who we are and how we can live!

And for me, as a Christian reader, it is important to note that this story (and, indeed, many others in Hebrew Scripture) undermines the crass stereotyping of ancient Israelites—and modern Jews—as alienated from God, crushed under unbearable burdens, far from the grace of God. For this ancient story, told orally for many years before it was ever written down, portrays the possibility of a close and enduring relationship with God, accessible from the patriarch Jacob onwards.

Accompanying the dream of Jacob is a sense of the presence of God; the divine speaks to Jacob, assuring him that God will never leave him. Jacob could never go beyond God’s keeping; angels accompany him on his onward journey to northern Mesopotamia, which was his destination (Gen 29:1). These angels keep going up and coming down on the ladder during this journey; more than this, they continue to accompany him for the twenty years he spends in Haran and then travel with him on his return to the land of Canaan (Gen 31:11; 32:1). The story has a strong sense of the enduring, faithful nature of God’s accompaniment of people of faith throughout their lives.

God’s grace is at work in this story. Jacob was an outcast who had deceived his father and lost friends. Seeking God was probably far from his mind; human company was probably what he yearned for. Nevertheless, he was guided by God at this point of need, offering him revealed care and an assurance for the future. Even though he was not expecting grace, grace was unleashed upon Jacob with no word of blame.

So there is a sign of God’s grace in this story—the ladder connecting heaven and earth, on which “angels” ascend and descend at will. God meets Jacob, even as he is running away from family, and perhaps also running away from God; God meets Jacob in a dream. Jacob was fleeing the consequences of his deception of his father. He wanted to be far away from Isaac, whom he deceived, and Esau, from whom he stole the birthright. And in the midst of that journey, God offers a sign of acceptance and grace in this dream.

Indeed, scripture had offered an earlier sign of God’s grace, in the story of Noah. This is a terrible story—God deliberately and intentionally destroys the world, and “starts all over again”. Only Noah and his family, and the animals on his ark, are saved. The rainbow in the sky is the sign of God’s grace for those who have survived, signalling that God will never again destroy the creation.

The ladder represents the commitment that God has, to an enduring connection with human beings, no matter what their situation. It is a sign of God’s grace—for which we can be thankful.

Judging Israel; undoing creation (Jer 4; Pentecost 14C)

“A hot wind comes from me out of the bare heights in the desert toward my poor people, not to winnow or cleanse— a wind too strong for that. Now it is I who speak in judgment against them.” (Jer 4:11–12)

We’ve been following the words of Jeremiah over the last three weeks. He has had some very stern messages to deliver. Perhaps this helps us to see the origins of the term “Jeremiad”. The Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms defines it as “either a prolonged lamentation or a prophetic warning against the evil habits of a nation, foretelling disaster”. The second sense (a prophetic warning) comes directly from the way that the prophet Jeremiah spoke about, and to, the people of Israel in his time.

Jeremiah was, indeed, a voice of doom and gloom. At his calling, the Lord God informed him, “I will utter my judgments against them, for all their wickedness in forsaking me; they have made offerings to other gods, and worshiped the works of their own hands”. He then admonished the young Jeremiah, telling him to “gird up your loins; stand up and tell them everything that I command you”, before putting the very fear of God into him with the warning, “do not break down before them, or I will break you before them” (Jer 1:16–17). That’s stern stuff!

But is this going too far? I think today we would want to call to account the speaker of these words, to remind them not to abuse the power that they have in this relationship, and to be mindful of the vulnerability of the young person to whom they are speaking! (A friend who worked for the then Department of Community Services said years ago that Yahweh would these days be notified to the department if he spoke and acted in this way!)

So Jeremiah remains faithful to his call, through all the challenges and difficulties this brought him. For four decades he is relentless is calling the people of his day to account for their sins: “the house of Israel and the house of Judah have broken the covenant that I made with their ancestors” (11:10); “we have sinned against the Lord our God, we and our ancestors, from our youth even to this day; and we have not obeyed the voice of the Lord our God” (3:25).

In the passage set before us by the lectionary for this coming Sunday, the prophet reports God’s anguish about Israel: “my people are foolish, they do not know me; they are stupid children, they have no understanding; they are skilled in doing evil, but do not know how to do good” (4:22). In despair, God decides to use a foreign power to bring Israel to their senses. He tells the prophet, “I am now making my words in your mouth a fire, and this people wood, and the fire shall devour them. I am going to bring upon you a nation from far away, O house of Israel, says the Lord” (5:14–15). Thus Jeremiah foretells the invasion of the Babylonians (see 2 Ki 25).

Jeremiah senses that God has fixed the course to be taken: “they have taught their tongues to speak lies; they commit iniquity and are too weary to repent. Oppression upon oppression, deceit upon deceit! They refuse to know me, says the Lord … Shall I not punish them for these things? says the Lord; and shall I not bring retribution on a nation such as this?” (9:5–6, 9). National disgrace awaits them, as they submit to a foreign power.

Eventually, from his exile in Egypt, and as others from his nation are taken north into exile by the invading Babylonians, Jeremiah tells the Israelites, “It is because you burned offerings, and because you sinned against the Lord and did not obey the voice of the Lord or walk in his law and in his statutes and in his decrees, that this disaster has befallen you, as is still evident today” (44:23). He has been resolute in his condemnation of the sinful people. He is now, sadly, vindicated. And so God decrees, “I am going to watch over them for harm and not for good; all the people of Judah who are in the land of Egypt shall perish by the sword and by famine, until not one is left” (44:27).

I must confess that it seems quite easy, at the moment, to slip into a simplistic interpretive pattern and apply these words—spoken long again against a sinful nation—to the very nation, today, who still bears the same name as those ancient people: Israel. The sins of the modern nation of Israel are manifold. Established as a refuge for a persecuted people, the nation has turned persecutor. Given land in recognition of the way they had been disposed and dispersed, the landholders sought more and more land, building settlements on Palestinian land, erecting a strong, impenetrable wall to keep “them” from “us”.

In a series of battles, they have waged war to ensure their safety and security. Besieged by leaders of organisations arrayed against them, they have continued to shoot, bomb, and destabilise such “terrorist” groups. Yet what is happening in Gaza today is no longer able to be distinguished from genocide—the very same genocidal actions that the Jewish people experienced almost a century ago. The sins of the nation appear (at least to me) to be clear, persistent, and utterly repugnant. Jeremiah’s words to ancient Israel—“I am determined to bring disaster on you, to bring all Judah to an end” (44:11) could well be the words of God to the modern nation of Israel.

Can we simply apply to condemnation of Jeremiah to modern Israel? It’s tempting; but it’s not responsible interpretation. And it leaves open the door to the accusation—repeated often, now—that this is antisemitic. I don’t believe it is antisemitic, because such criticisms are directed against the policies and practices of the modern nation-state of Israel, and what they result in, and not against all Jews everywhere, simply for being Jewish. So we need to steer clear of this kind of simplistic equation. The criticisms are political and pragmatic, not based on religion or ethnicity.

For my analysis of the current situation involving Israel, Hamas, Gaza, and Palestine, see

Israel, the West Bank, and Hamas: a prayer for peace, and a yearning for justice

and

Significant days, reflecting Shoah, Independence, Nakba, and 7 October.

All of this is in the book of Jeremiah: denunciation after denunciation of the people, warnings of divine punishment, and oracles portending imminent exile and absolute destruction. We can’t get away from that.

However: the passage that the lectionary offers for this coming Sunday raises the stakes even higher. In this passage (Jer 4:11–12, 22–28), the wrath of God is directed not just to Israel, but to all creation. The looming catastrophe is not just national; it is global, cosmic in its scope.

To be sure, the passage reports God’s anguish about Israel, as we have noted: “my people are foolish, they do not know me; they are stupid children, they have no understanding; they are skilled in doing evil, but do not know how to do good” (4:22).

But then comes a most remarkable sequence of sentences, in which the whole of creation seems to be in view. “I looked on the earth, and lo, it was waste and void; and to the heavens, and they had no light”, God is saying. “I looked on the mountains, and lo, they were quaking, and all the hills moved to and fro. I looked, and lo, there was no one at all, and all the birds of the air had fled. I looked, and lo, the fruitful land was a desert, and all its cities were laid in ruins before the Lord, before his fierce anger” (4:23–26).

Writing on this Jeremiah passage in With Love to the World, the Rev Dr Anthony Rees, Associate Professor of Old Testament in the School of Theology, Charles Sturt University, notes: “This is a remarkably evocative passage. It begins with a hot wind, a symbol of judgement (as in Jonah 4). It moves quickly to a promise of destruction from the North (Dan and Ephraim); it almost seems that God is cheering on those who would do Judah harm.”

But there is more than just evocative poetry here. It seems to me that the words of Jeremiah might be describing the end result of a process that is happening in our own time. Since the start of the Industrial Revolution, and continuing apace into the 21st century, the damage that human beings have been causing to the planet has been increasing with noticeable impacts seen in so many areas: global warming, more intense extreme weather events, more frequent extreme weather events, the diminishing of the ice caps at the poles of the earth, the warming of the oceans’ temperature, rising sea levels impacting particularly islands in the Pacific, the bleaching of the Great Barrier Reef, and so many more things that can be attributed to human-generated climate change.

In our own household, in just the past five years, we have seen a searing bushfire come within a few kilometres of our suburb, and then a massive downpour lead to rising floodwaters that reached the other side of the road on which we live. Climate change is real, and close. We are well on track, as many scientists are saying, to see a planet with a radically altered ecosystem.

The view from our front yard:
Gordon, ACT, January 2020 (*top*),
during the severe bushfire in the ACT;
Dungog, NSW, May 2025 (*bottom*),
during the east coast flooding

Anthony Rees continues his reflections on Jer 4: “Judah is destroyed, the people and land laid waste on account of childish stupidity and ignorance. A remarkable image is then seen: the earth is described as waste and void, the very same description given of the earth in Gen 1:2 before God’s creative activity begins.”

The passage in Jeremiah has God narrating his view of the systematic undoing of his work as the Creator, as that has been set out in the narratives of Gen 1 and Gen 2, and in the poetry of Psalms 8, 19, 65, 104, and 148. God sees that the earth was once again “waste and void” (Jer 4:23a), as it was in the beginning (Gen 1:2). All that the landscape showed was a ravaged wilderness, for no longer did the earth bring forth vegetation: “plants yielding seed of every kind, and trees of every kind bearing fruit with the seed in it” (Gen 1:12; 2:8–9; and see Ps 65:11–13; 104:14–15, 27 –28). Rather, what God sees is that “the fruitful land was a desert, and all its cities were laid in ruins” (Jer 4:26).

In the heavens there is no light (Jer 4:23b), thus undoing God’s early creative work (Gen 1:3, “let there be light”; and Ps 8:3; 19:4b—6; 148:3). Hills and mountains were shaking (Jer 4:24); the stability they provided, the unshakeable foundation of the earth, has been undone (Ps 65:6; 104:5, 8; 148:9). All the birds have fled (Jer 4:25), undoing the work of God reported at Gen 1:21–22 (and see Ps 8:8; 104:12; 148:10b).

Anthony Rees notes, “Jeremiah looks to the heavens and the light is gone. God’s creative work has been undone on account of human failure. And again, human failure has consequences that go beyond our species: mountains sway, birds flee, arable land is turned to desert. What good news is there to be found here? What image of hope?”

The relevance for today of Jeremiah’s poetic “vision” that undoes the vision of creation expressed long ago by priests and poets is striking. And his perception that it is human sinfulness that is at the root of this is noteable. We know what we need to do to slow the rate of change, so that the climate remains within an inhabitable range. We know what we need to do to stop pumping gases into the air that are changing the way the planet works. We know what changes we need to make to our way of living—a whole host of changes, large and small—but we lack the will to do so. Our national policies continue to favour the industries that contribute most to the degradation of our environment. Our daily practices show minimal change, if that, in so many households.

Anthony Rees concludes, “Perhaps we might best read this text as a warning, and commit ourselves to working in ways that maintain relationship with God, our neigbours, and the rest of the created order.” It is certainly a timely word, given our critical situation. How do you respond to Jeremiah’s mournful poetry? What changes can you make? What lobbying can you undertake? What advocacy can you commit to do? Are we always going to be condemned to be, like ancient Israel, those who “are skilled in doing evil, but do not know how to do good”?

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