Category: Hebrew Scripture

A king forever (Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 22C; 2 Sam 7)

A king forever. That is the promise of these well-known words in 2 Samuel 7, which we will hear and reflect on in worship this coming Sunday. They are significant words for Jews; they are also significant words for Christians, for they have informed the way that followers of Jesus would talk about him. The words are given initially to David, only the second king of Israel, but the one who would provide descendants to sit on the throne for half a millennium. 

The words of the prophet Nathan, given to him (as he says) by the Lord God, are reported and remembered over those centuries as validation of the power of those kings, even though so many of them “did evil in the sight of the Lord” (as later verses in the historical narratives of Israel report). God stood by those leaders over many generations, consistently reminding the people of their responsibility to adhere to the covenant, affirming them at moments when their faith is evident, and rebuking them at times when that is not the case. 

These words have been remembered further by Christians, who see that in Jesus, God has sent “the King of the ages” (1 Tim 1:17), to whom “belong the glory and the power forever and ever” (1 Pet 4:11; also Rom 16:26; Eph 3:21). This is in accord with the “eternal purpose that [God] has carried out in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Eph 3:11), to lead believers to “eternal life” (Luke 10:25; John 17:3; Rom 5:21; 6:23).

Of course, in those words which Nathan speaks to David, we recognise the play on words that occurs. David understands God to be promising a “house” which is “a house of cedar” (v.7), but God actually intends to establish “offspring after you … his kingdom” (v.12).

The word “house” is used fifteen times in 2 Samuel 7, where it has three different meanings. It refers to David’s palace (vv.1–2), to the temple of the Lord God (vv.5–7, 13), and then to David’s dynasty (vv.11, 16, 18–19, 25–27, 29). The story promises a stable future for generations to come. So the motif of a kingdom that lasts “forever” is linked both with the affirmation that there will be a king “forever”, and also with the belief that the covenant with Israel will last “forever”. That there will be a king “forever” is integral to God’s promise to David that “your throne shall be established forever” (2 Sam 7:16), repeated by the Chronicler, “when your days are fulfilled to go to be with your ancestors, I will raise up your offspring after you, one of your own sons, and I will establish his kingdom … and I will establish his throne forever” (1 Chron 17:11–12).

The kingdom that will last “forever” is introduced by God’s words in 2 Samuel 7, where God promises David that “your house and your kingdom shall be made sure forever before me” (2 Sam 7:16). The Chronicler also repeats this promise, quoting God as saying of David, “I will confirm him in my house and in my kingdom forever, and his throne shall be established forever” (1 Chron 17:14).

Affirmation of a covenant that will last forever is found in a number of psalms. “The Lord our God … is mindful of his covenant forever, of the word that he commanded, for a thousand generations, the covenant that he made with Abraham, his sworn promise to Isaac, which he confirmed to Jacob as a statute, to Israel as an everlasting covenant” (Ps 105:7–10).

The covenant is noted in a number of psalms. “The friendship of the Lord is for those who fear him, and he makes his covenant known to them”, sings the psalmist (Ps 25:14). “I have made a covenant with my chosen one, I have sworn to my servant David”, God sings in another psalm; “I will establish your descendants forever, and build your throne for all generations” (Ps 89:3–4). 

King David as depicted by photographer James C. Lewis
in his series, Icons of the Bible, in which he depicts
key biblical characters as people of colour

In this same psalm, God affirms that, even if the children of David “forsake my law and do not walk according to my ordinances”, God will punish them, but “forever I will keep my steadfast love for him, and my covenant with him will stand firm … I will not violate my covenant, or alter the word that went forth from my lips” (Ps 89:28, 34). That covenant is to last “forever” (Ps 111:9).

The ultimate message, then, is that God will stand by the leaders of Israel, punishing them, forgiving them, loving them at each step along the way. A promise to sustain a king and a kingdom “forever”, by virtue of a covenant that lasts “forever”, undergirds this reality for the people of Israel. The modern nation state of Israel has adopted this confident assertion, although without any critical appreciation of the context and the purpose of this promise in antiquity. The dreadful results of this unthinking adoption of the mantra that “God is always with us” is playing out in the many deaths, injuries, and sadness that is taking place in Gaza, even today.

Of course, in the traditional understanding of Christianity, the “forever” component has been taken up in the application of 2 Samuel 7 to Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus is acclaimed as “Son of David” in the Synoptic Gospels (Mark 10:47–48; 12:35; Luke 3:31; 18:38–39; and especially in Matt 1:1, 20; 9:27; 12:23; 15:22; 20:30–31; 21:9, 15; 22:42). This claim is also noted at John 7:42; Rom 1:3; 2 Tim 2:8; Rev 3:7; 5:5; 22:16). The heritage of David lives on in these stories.

This particular son of David, as Christian understanding develops, was understood to be king “forever”; “he will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end” (Luke 1:31–33). The covenant that he has renewed and enacted with the people of God is “forever” (Heb 9:15; 12:20); and the kingdom that he proclaimed and for which we hope will also be “forever” (2 Pet 1:11). 

In the late first century document that we know as letter to the Ephesians, for instance, the resurrected Jesus is seen as seated at the right hand of God “in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and above every name that is named” (Eph 1:20–21). That place of authority for Jesus is envisaged as stretching into eternity, “not only in this age but also in the age to come” (1:20), and as encompassing all places, for God “has put all things under his feet and has made him the head over all things” (1:22). 

The global and eternal rule of Christ is here clearly articulated. The statement by the writer that God “seated [Jesus] at his right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion” (1:20–21) has inspired the development of the imagery of Christ as Pantocrator (Greek for “ruler of all”) in Eastern churches, both Orthodox and Catholic.

Jesus Christ Pantocrator
(detail from a mosaic in Hagia Sophia, Istanbul)

This line of thinking has culminated in the festival of the Reign of Christ, which has been celebrated in the Roman Catholic Church since it was introduced by Pope Pius XI in 1925. It has since been adopted by Lutheran, Anglican, and various Protestant churches around the world, and also, apparently, by the Western Rite parishes of the Russian Orthodox Church Outside Russia. 

1925 was a time when Fascist dictators were rising to power in Europe.  I have read that “the specific impetus for the Pope establishing this universal feast of the Church was the martyrdom of a Catholic priest, Blessed Miguel Pro, during the Mexican revolution”; see Today’s Catholic, 18 Nov 2014, at 

Christ the King

The article continues, “The institution of this feast was, therefore, almost an act of defiance from the Church against all those who at that time were seeking to absolutize their own political ideologies, insisting boldly that no earthly power, no particular political system or military dictatorship is ever absolute. Rather, only God is eternal and only the Kingdom of God is an absolute value, which never fails.”

The scriptures puncture the pomposity of powerful kings, and subversively present Jesus as the one who stands against all that those kings did. This festival provides a unique way of reflecting on the eternal kingship of Jesus. It offers a distinctive way for considering how the kingship bestowed upon David has been understood to last “forever”.

Accusing God: Job and the psalmist (Job 23; Psalm 22; Pentecost 21B)

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”, the psalmist laments, in words familiar to us from their strategic occurrence in the foundational Christian story, as Jesus hangs, dying, upon the cross (Mark 15:34). “Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning?”, they continue, in their resentful tone (Psalm 22:1).

The lectionary offers us the first 15 verses of this psalm for this coming Sunday—no doubt to stand as a companion piece alongside the equally resentful and accusatory words of Job, “today also my complaint is bitter” (Job 23:2). Job, as we know, was “blameless and upright, one who feared God and turned away from evil” (Job 1:2). Even after adversity struck him, he maintained his faith in God—and his integrity, as his wife observes (2:9).

Last week, the psalmist offered by the lectionary to stand alongside the opening scenes in the story of Job was Psalm 26, in which the psalmist assures God that “I have walked in my integrity, and I have trusted in the Lord without wavering” (Ps 26:1, 11), listing the ways in which he has lived this out: “I walk in faithfulness to you; I do not sit with the worthless, nor do I consort with hypocrites; I hate the company of evildoers and will not sit with the wicked; I wash my hands in innocence and go around your altar, O Lord, singing aloud a song of thanksgiving and telling all your wondrous deeds” (Ps 26:3–7).

Accordingly, the psalmist beseeches God to vindicate them (26:1), to “redeem me and be gracious to me” (26:11), asking God “not sweep me away with sinners nor my life with the bloodthirsty” (26:9), and assuring God that “in the great congregation I will bless the Lord” (26:12).

Job maintains his integrity throughout his adversities, matching the psalmist as a person of integrity. Of course, Job is simply a character in the story that is being told; the opening words, “there once was a man” are the ancient equivalent of our “once upon a time”, and “the land of Uz” is an imaginary land. This story is a fable, and those who originally heard it would know this from the opening salvo.

But that doesn’t mean that it is all make-believe and of consequence; for the story is told to tap into some deep human experiences and emotions. The figure of Job is a representative figure; his story is told to represent those of us who, like Job, know the experience of deep pain and great personal loss, when all of his family, servants, and animals were lost, and when his body was covered with boils. Job lived in great pain, physical and psychological. In all this, we are told, “Job did not sin or charge God with wrongdoing” (Job 1:22).


Ilya Repin, Job and His Friends, 1869 

Job’s three friends try to turn his thoughts away from his personal suffering, by proposing that this was just how God worked, and Job simply had to accept the situation. One friend, Eliphaz, has been waxing lyrical about God in the previous chapter; “if you return to the Almighty, you will be restored”, he assures Job, piously advising this righteous and upright man, “if you remove unrighteousness from your tents … then you will delight yourself in the Almighty, and lift up your face to God” (Job 22:23–26). 

In response, Job laments, “his hand is heavy despite my groaning” (Job 23:2). Blaming God for the sufferings being experienced is a common human trait. How can a person believe in a God who inflicts such suffering—or, at least, allows it to happen unchecked? So, in a clever doubling back on a beloved psalm, Job declares his case against this deity: “I go forward, he is not there; or backward, I cannot perceive him; on the left he hides, and I cannot behold him; I turn to the right, but I cannot see him” (Job 23:8–9; cf. Ps 139:7–12).

These two Hebrew Scripture passages, from the neighbouring books of Job and Psalms, do not inspire hope and engender a light, optimistic feeling. Rather, they take us deep into the pit of human disenchantment with life. Although they both face the same issue of suffering, each one of them deals with this situation in a different way. 

The psalm is one of the psalms of individual lament, as the psalmist reflects the wretched condition of a person who is suffering unjustly, crying out, “why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? … I am a worm, and not a human … all who see me mock at me; they make mouths at me, they shake their heads …. I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast; my mouth is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to my jaws; you lay me in the dust of death.” (Ps 22:1, 6, 14–15). 

In other songs included in the Book of Psalms, various psalmists lament on behalf of the people, in “psalms of communal lament”, such as Psalms 44, 60, 74, 79, 80, 85, 86, and 90; or they bemoan their own personal situation, in the psalms of individual lament, such as this psalm, as well as Psalms 3, 6, 13, 25, 31, 71, 77, 86, and 142. In the face of God’s seeming inaction and unresponsiveness to pleading prayers, the psalmists seem to say, what is there to do, other than to lament? 

Why? Why? Why? is Job’s constant question.

Later, Elihu will rebuke Job, turning his incessant questioning back on him: “God is greater than any mortal. Why do you contend against him, saying, ‘He will answer none of my words’? For God speaks in one way, and in two, though people do not perceive it.” (33:12–14). “Far be it from God that he should do wickedness, and from the Almighty that he should do wrong”, Elihu contends (34:10). “Surely God does not hear an empty cry, nor does the Almighty regard it”, he maintains (35:13). 

The claim that God is not just is an outrage to Elihu. He turns to the inscrutable nature of God: “Surely God is great, and we do not know him; the number of his years is unsearchable” (36:26). “The Almighty—we cannot find him”, Elihu maintains; “he is great in power and justice, and abundant righteousness he will not violate” (37:23).

Yet Job will not budge. Finally, after a blistering speech from the Lord himself, out of the whirlwind (38:1–41:34), in which the deity makes it clear that Job cannot pretend to have any comprehension of the ways that God operates, Job backs down. He responds, sarcastically: “I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted” (42:2), and then delivers his coup-de-grace: “therefore I despise myself, and repent of dust and ashes” (42:6). Job throws in the towel; it is all hopeless; he can never win.

The psalmist does not, however, follow the same trajectory. As is so often the case in psalms of lament, what begins with accusations, wailings, and despair, eventually turns to promise, and then to hope, and faith. Before that—in the fifteen verses that the lectionary allocates for this Sunday—the psalmist rattles off a list of hurts and difficulties: they are scorned, mocked, and despised (vv.6–8), feeling trapped and monstered by the baying dogs (v.16) and the encircling “strong bulls of Bashan” (vv.12–13; perhaps the accusations of Amos 4:1 and Jer 22:20–23 are evoked here?). 

With a series of striking metaphors, the psalmist details their personal distress, manifested in physical ways: “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast; my mouth is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to my jaws; you lay me in the dust of death … my hands and feet have shriveled; I can count all my bones” (Ps 22:14–17). 

Yet this psalmist moves to express a firm assurance that God is “holy, enthroned on the praises of Israel”; in times past, “in you our ancestors trusted; they trusted, and you delivered them; to you they cried, and were saved; in you they trusted, and were not put to shame” (v.3–5). “Do not be far from me”, they plead, “for trouble is near and there is no one to help” (v.11). And then, in the part of the psalm not included in what the lectionary offers for this Sunday, they plead, “deliver my soul from the sword, my life from the power of the dog! save me from the mouth of the lion!” (vv.20–21).

Confident that God will indeed respond, the psalmist exhorts his companions to praise God, stand in awe of him, and pay their vows to God (vv.23–25). So the psalm ends with verses that are strongly evocative of the great prayers of praise and thanksgiving (vv.25–31; cf. PSs 95–100 and 145–150). The psalmist is embued with confidence and trust in the one who has dominion over all, ruling over the nations (v.28). Such confidence differentiates the psalmist from Job; it is almost as if the singer of this song has joined forces with the friends of Job who, in the face of his persistently mournful complaints, defends the Lord God and exalts God. 

Bildad had assured Job, “God will not reject a blameless person, nor take the hand of evildoers. He will yet fill your mouth with laughter, and your lips with shouts of joy” (8:20–21). Yet that is not Job’s experience. When Zophar considered the limits of God, he found there are none. “Can you find out the deep things of God?” he asks; “Can you find out the limit of the Almighty? It is higher than heaven—what can you do? Deeper than Sheol—what can you know? Its measure is longer than the earth, and broader than the sea” (Job 11:7–9). Job will not accept this affirmation of faith, either. Eliphaz had assured Job, “Is not God high in the heavens? See the highest stars, how lofty they are!” (Job 22:12). Once again, Job will demur; that is not his experience.

So Job will not be persuaded. “My foot has held fast to his steps”, he asserts; “I have kept his way and have not turned aside; I have not departed from the commandment of his lips; I have treasured in my bosom the words of his mouth” (Job 23:11–12). Yet this faithful, upright, righteous man is frustrated by the supreme and unfettered sovereignty of God: “he stands alone and who can dissuade him? what he desires, that he does” (Job 23:13). All he has left is to complain and accuse, to bewail and lament. He will not accept the blandishments of his friends; he will not follow the path taken by the psalmist.

If we sit simply with the accusatory speech of Job and the lamentations of the psalmist—and do not try to “rescue” the situation with a closing word of hope—then we are sitting with Job, and with countless human beings, in despair, without hope. That is the existential situation. That is where these passages call us to be: in solidarity with the suffering, with empathy for the hurting, offering compassion to the wounded, not offering an excuse or seeking an easy way out. That is of the essence of ministry, of pastoral ministry. Can we sit with Job and the psalmist, and do that, I wonder? 

In her sermon on Job 23 (preached in the midst of the pandemic), my wife Elizabeth Raine said:

“We need to sit as long as we can with those who have suffered and are suffering from injustice and immense suffering. And perhaps, as we ponder our own tragedies, and the fate of the uncounted and unnamed men, women and children who have died in war or ethnic violence, or pray for the current victims of poverty, famine and disease in our world, we might find our thoughts connecting with experiences and the suffering of Job.”

See

Hope in a broken world (Job 23; Pentecost 21B)

For more on Job, that I wrote three years ago while reflecting on this book in the midst of the COVID. pandemic, see 

Job: a tale for the pandemic, Part One (Pentecost 20B to 23B)
Job: a tale for the pandemic, Part Two (Pentecost 20B to 23B)

As long as he lives, he is given to the Lord (1 Sam 1–2; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 21C)

We continue our readings in the books of scripture which tell of the origins and early periods of Israel. After hearing from Genesis and Exodus, we turn this week and in following weeks to stories in the books of Samuel and the early chapters of Kings. This part of the extended narrative we have in scripture recounts 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.

Alongside that is the story of Samuel, the first of a long line of prophets, gifted and called by God to declare God’s will to the people of Israel.  The stories in the two volumes of Samuel and the following two volumes of Kings also engage us with the lives of prophets, Samuel and Nathan —men who were called to speak the word of God. “Give the king your justice, O God”, the psalmist sings (Ps 72:1), so that they might rule with justice and righteousness (Ps 99:4; Prov 29:4; Isa 32:1; Jer 23:5). That is what these kings, and their successors, were charged with ensuring.

We are told that as the young 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).

This Sunday the Narrative Lectionary invites us to hear the story which tells of the arrival of Samuel into the world (1 Samuel 1:9–11, 19–20; 2:1-10). We meet Hannah right at the start of this passage, as the childless wife of Elkanah, whose other wife, Peninnah, had been blessed with children, both sons and daughters (1 Sam 1:1–2).

In a culture where children were seen as blessing from the Lord, this left Hannah in a difficult situation. Although Elkanah gave Hannah “a double portion, because he loved her, though the Lord had closed her womb” (1:5), nevertheless Peninnah “used to provoke her severely, to irritate her, because the Lord had closed her womb” (1:6)—to the extent that “Hannah wept and would not eat” (1:7).

We are presented with these individuals in a narrative which appears to be an historical account of a real ancient family. However, the nature of the text is somewhat different. Jewish scholar Lillian Klein argues that Peninnah “is probably a literary convention, a foil for the independence and goodness of Hannah, and should be regarded as such”. She proposes that “Peninnah represents a woman who accepts social paradigms without examining them, thus acting out the type of jealousy between co-wives known from the matriarchal texts of Genesis.” See her article in the Jewish Women’s Archive at 

https://jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/peninnah-bible

We need to remember that these stories are not to be regarded as  “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?

and on the sequence of stories told in Genesis and Exodus, at 

“In you all the families of the earth shall be blessed” (Gen 12; Pentecost 2A)

Identifying the stories in the narrative books of the Hebrew Scriptures, including the story of Hannah, as “myths” does not 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.

“In due time Hannah conceived and bore a son”, the narrator informs us (1 Sam 1:20a). The name of the child, in typical biblical narrative style, is Samuel, which she explains as given because “I have asked him of the Lord” (1:20b). After he is born, Hannah sings a wonderful song, praising God for how God has been at work. In this song, she gives thanks for the birth of her son, and praises God especially for God’s care for “the poor”, as she sings how the Lord “raises up the poor from the dust; he lifts the needy from the ash heap” (1 Sam 2:8; also Ps 113:7). 

Hannah is so grateful for all that God has done, that she offers Samuel to the Lord; “as long as he lives, he is given to the Lord”, she declares (1 Sam 1:28). The song that she then sings is a striking psalm of praise to God (1 Sam 2:1–10); Christian readers will particularly notice the similarities that this psalm has with Mary’s song of praise before Jesus was born (Luke 1:46–55). For a comparison of the Song of Hannah (1 Sam 2) with the later Song of Mary (Luke 1), see 

Magnificat: the God of Mary (Luke 1) is the God of Hannah (1 Sam 2) (Advent 4C)

The child born to Hannah, Samuel, will grow and develop to become a most important figure in the story of Israel. When Samuel was an adult, he served as the “court prophet” alongside the first two kings of Israel—Saul, whom he anointed (1 Sam 10:1) and then David, whom he also anointed (1 Sam 16:13). He spoke wise words concerning the appointment of a king in Israel, warning the people about what such a powerful leader would do:

“He will take your sons and appoint them to his chariots and to be his horsemen, and to run before his chariots; and he will appoint for himself commanders of thousands and commanders of fifties, and some to plow his ground and to reap his harvest, and to make his implements of war and the equipment of his chariots. He will take your daughters to be perfumers and cooks and bakers. He will take the best of your fields and vineyards and olive orchards and give them to his courtiers. He will take one-tenth of your grain and of your vineyards and give it to his officers and his courtiers. He will take your male and female slaves, and the best of your cattle and donkeys, and put them to his work. He will take one-tenth of your flocks, and you shall be his slaves.” (1 Sam 8:11–17).

And that, of course, is what successive kings did—especially the third king, Solomon, whose empire was extensive and whose army and court required massive resources to support them. Samuel was a wise prophet, indeed!

Both psalmists and prophets declared that the king was charged with the responsibility of leading Israel and ensuring that there was justice in the land. “Give the king your justice, O God”, the psalmist sings (Ps 72:1), so that they might rule with justice and righteousness (Ps 99:4; Prov 29:4). Isaiah looks to the time when “a king will reign in righteousness, and princes will rule with justice” (Isa 32:1; see also Jer 23:5). But the particular calling of the prophet, chosen and anointed by God, was to speak the word of God to the people—and, when required, to the king. This was a weighty responsibility!

We are told that as the young 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). As prophet, Samuel was to listen to what God says to him, and then to speak forth the word of the Lord to the people of his society—and in particular, 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). 

So the story we hear this Sunday stands as a foundational tale for all that transpired in Israel over the coming centuries: in periods of growth and abundance, in periods of conflict and turmoil, through exile and return, through rebuilding and restoring Jerusalem and the Temple. 

Samuel played a pivotal role at the beginning of this sequence; his story, and his words, have been remembered, repeated, recorded, and read over the centuries, because they still speak to us of the importance of justice and integrity in society.

The pattern of Samuel’s life was set from his early years: he would need to summon inner strength, demonstrate commitment to the cause, use clarity of speech, and model integrity of life. He presumably learnt much of this from his own mother, whose dedication in her actions, along with the words of her song, demonstrate these qualities in abundance. The stories from the early years of Samuel’s life (1 Sam 1–3) 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.

For more on the child Samuel, and his call, see

Speak, for your servant is listening (1 Sam 3; Pentecost 2B)

Male and female he made them (Mark 10; Pentecost 20B)

The passage that is set forth by the lectionary for this Sunday (Mark 10:2–16) comes at a pivotal moment in the narrative that Mark narrates. For almost all of the nine chapters that have come before, Jesus has been in Galilee (see 1:14, 16–20, 28, 39; 3:7; 7:31; 9:30), including time in Capernaum (1:21; 2:1; 9:33) and Nazareth (6:1–6; Jesus was known as “Jesus of Nazareth”, see 1:9, 24; 10:47; 14:67; 16:6). Now he makes a decision to turn south and head to Jerusalem, the southern capital. 

Mark makes a very bare geographical report: “he left that place and went to the region of Judea and beyond the Jordan” (Mark 10:1). Luke, at the equivalent place in his narrative, declares “when the days drew near for him to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem” (Luke 9:51). For Luke, this is a momentous turning point; he uses  some weighty theological terms to mark the moment. When Jesus “set his face” to go to Jerusalem, he echoes the prophetic decision to pronounce judgement on Jerusalem (Isa 50:7; Jer 21:10; Ezek 4:3, 7; 6:2; 13:17; 14:8; 15:7; 20:46; 21:2; 25:2; 28:21; 29:2; 35:2; 38:2).

By noting that “the days drew near”, Luke uses a verb (symplērousthai) found also at Acts 2:1, to announce the coming of the Spirit at Pentecost. And the days that were drawing near were when he was “to be taken up”, looking ahead to the ascension (analēmpsin) which concludes Luke’s first volume (Luke 25:50–53)  and opens his second volume (Acts 1:6–11).

All of that is missing from the simple geographical comment of Mark 10:1. In this Gospel, the significant theological weighting that is inherent in the turn to Jerusalem that Jesus undertakes is invested in the scene where he has his followers find a donkey, and he rides into the city to the acclaim of the crowd: “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David! Hosanna in the highest heaven!” (Mark 11:9–10).

Before that, however, Jesus has to deal, yet again, with some Pharisees (10:2). He had previously had debates with northern Pharisees in Galilee a number of times (2:15–17, 18–22, 23–28; 3:1–6; 7:1–13; 8:11–12). This time, amidst the crowds gathered to hear Jesus in “the region of Judea and beyond the Jordan”, some southern Pharisees now come “to test him” (10:2), as their brothers had done earlier (8:11)—the same dynamic that Mark had reported at the very start of the public activity of Jesus, when the Spirit cast him out into the wilderness “being tested by Satan” (1:12–13).

The test set by the Pharisees relates to the matter of divorce. They had a clear cut point of view about this, although in typical Pharisaic—rabbinic style they begin by posing a question. We have seen this technique before. “Why do John’s disciples and the disciples of the Pharisees fast, but your disciples do not fast?” they ask in Galilee (2:18); and then, “Look, why are they doing what is not lawful on the sabbath?” in a grain field (2:24). 

After Jesus had returned from a trip across the Sea of Galilee to “the other side”, a group of Pharisees ask him, “Why do your disciples not live according to the tradition of the elders, but eat with defiled hands?” (7:5 ). In Dalmanutha, some Pharisees approached Jesus “and began to argue with him, asking him for a sign from heaven, to test him” (8:11). And then, in the passage before us this week, once Jesus is in Judea some Pharisees come “to test him” by asking this question, “Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife?” (10:2).

Jesus, of course—being well-schooled in the business of public disputation on matters of Torah—responds to their question with his own question: “What did Moses command you?” (10:3). This, of course, steers the discussion into the heart of the matter: the specific text from Torah which provided guidance on this matter. From here, the debate continues along a familiar pathway, with the Pharisees offering a scripture passage (10:4, referring to Deut 24:1), Jesus responding with an interpretation (10:5) followed by his proposing one scripture passage of relevance (10:6, quoting Gen 1:27) followed immediately by another passage (10:7–9, quoting Gen 2:24). The to-and-fro of scripture citation, interpretation, counter-proposal, and argumentation, is familiar ground for Jesus.

On the matter of divorce, there were different schools of thought amongst Jewish teachers. In biblical law, a husband has the right to divorce his wife, but a wife cannot initiate a divorce (Deut 24:1). A husband could initiate a divorce if he believes there is some uncleanness in his wife. Understandings as to what such uncleanness might varied. At one extreme was the narrow interpretation that divorce was possible only because of adultery. According to the Mishnah (Gittin 9.10), this view was articulated by Beit Shammai, those following the interpretation set forth by rabbi Shammai.

A much broader understanding was adopted within Beit Hillel, that almost any dissatisfaction with his wife’s behaviour could validate a man’s application for a divorce. The Mishnah tractate reports “he may divorce her … because she burned or over-salted his dish … even if he found another woman who is better looking than her and wishes to marry her” (Mishnah, Gittin 9.10).

The line that Jesus takes is to reject the wider understanding; he tells the Pharisees this was decreed by Moses “because of your hardness of heart” (Mark 10:5). That seems to indicate something contingent about the nature of this particular commandment. So Jesus here is practising the kind of evaluation of texts that we know various Torah interpreters practised. He does not simply quote the text and then say “that’s it, case closed”; he undertakes an evaluative interpretation of those older words.

This is a very rabbinic way to operate. A later rabbinic text, Makkot 23b—24a in the Babylonian Talmud (probably compiled in the 6th century CE) reports a debate between rabbis as to how many commandments were included in the Torah. Rebbi Simlai ventured a count of 613 (“two hundred and sixty five prohibtions in accordance with the days of the sun; and two hundred and forty eight positive commandments in accordance with the limbs of a person”). Rav Hamnunya then suggested that David had identified eleven commandments (citing Psalm 15), then Isaiah narrowed this to six (Isa 33:15), then Micah spoke the three key commandments (“do justly, and love mercy, and walk discreetly with your God”, Mic 6:8).

Next, Isaiah is cited once more, from the beginning of what we identify as Third Isaiah (“guard justice and do righteousness”, Isa 56:1). Finally, Amos is cited, with the singular command, “seek me and live” (Amos 5:4). To which Rav Nachman bar Yitzchak responded, saying “maybe it means to seek out the entire Torah?”—although he then proceeds to cite Hab 2:4, “the righteous shall live by his faith”, as the foundational commandment. (We know this obscure prophetic text because it forms the basis for Paul’s declaration of the Gospel to the saints in Rome at Rom 1:16–17). 

You can read the whole debate (in Aramaic, with English translation) on the website Sefaria:

https://www.sefaria.org/Makkot.24a.27?ven=Sefaria_Community_Translation&lang=bi

All of which is to say that, as we read and hear the passage from Mark 10 that is offered by the lectionary, we need to understand the context and apply our learnings from that to the text. The words of Jesus should not be plucked out of context, made to stand in bare isolation, and treated as an eternal, unchanging word of the Lord. That is to misunderstand what is going on in this passage.

Jesus and the Pharisees are setting forth their different understandings. Through this process of debate and discussion, deeper understanding emerges. Rabbis even to this day value vigorous debate and robust questioning, for this is the way that God’s truth emerges. I learnt this with a vengeance some decades ago, when ministering in a congregation set in the Eastern Suburbs of Sydney, where there was a high concentration of Jewish residents. 

Many of the Jewish residents came to the weekly School for Seniors that we ran in the church building, and quite a few Jews joined with Christians in the weekly Jewish—Christian Dialogue group that I ran. We had many Fridays of vigorous disputation and robust argumentation—all in a good cause, all as friends together. And the same congenial experience was repeated many times during my years on the National Uniting Church Dialogue with the Jewish Community!

So let us not read the declaration of Jesus about divorce as a set-in-stone decree, valid for all times. As a divorced and remarried person, I know all too well the dangers that are inherent in such a reading. For a time, some decades after my divorce, I was pursued online by a rabid fundamentalist who condemned me as “doomed to hell”, told me that I was an “apostate” who “has been deceived”, that I am “hell bound without repentance”, and offering the graphic description of my fate, that I was condemned to the eternal lake of burning sulphur (Rev 20:7–10 and 21:8). All because I was divorced and remarried!!!

Society changes, situations develop, understandings deepen and are reshaped by our contexts. We rightly, today, accept that divorce may be the best way ahead for some people, on pastoral and personal grounds. Our laws accept that, and my denomination, the Uniting Church in Australia, accepts that. We bring more factors into the discussion that were not being considered in the brief interaction that Mark reports in ch.10.

In like fashion, countless people have been hurt—many of them deeply hurt—by the fundamentalist insistence that, when he debated the Pharisees in this encounter, Jesus was setting forth “a biblical definition of marriage” that is immutable, when he said, “from the beginning of creation, ‘God made them male and female.’ ‘For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.’” (Mark 10:6–7).

Such people place the words of Jesus over and against those people who identify as “queer”—gay, lesbian, bisexual, and also now transgender—and whose love, deep and abiding, for a person of the same gender as they are. Forbidden by law to marry until recent years (2017 in Australia), these people are told “marriage is between a man and a woman”, citing the words of Jesus from this week’s Gospel passage. Again, the argument is simplistic: “Jesus said this, this is what it means, end of discussion, case closed”. It’s a hurtful and uninformed way to operate, in my opinion.

What would Jesus have done if confronted with scenarios of increased domestic violence and toxic masculinity feeding unhealthy and damaging relationships? Would he have replied as a fundamentalist: “that’s what Moses said, that’s it”? Or would he have offered a rabbinic explanation, offering different factors and exploring new pathways of understanding? I suspect the latter.

So let’s not use this passage as a word that is prescriptive—that says something like “this is what the text says, and it expresses exactly how God defines marriage and forbids divorce, and that stands for all times and all places”. The text, in my opinion, gives no indication that a general principle, prescribing human behaviour, is being set forth. Indeed, the Genesis passage about marriage that is cited by Jesus is not from a book that sets out Torah commandments; rather, it is from a narrative work. 

Rather, I see it as descriptive—that offers a description of how human beings behave and what should guide us as we navigate our way through life, based on our experiences and reflection on how things have been for us. Indeed, whilst the quote from Moses (in Deut 24) does have a legal tone to it, it needs to be understood within the back-and-forth that characterised rabbinic interpretation of Torah (an ethos shared by Jesus); and the Genesis quote, it should be noted, comes from a book that contains aetiological narratives (which I have explained in my earlier blogs on the Genesis narratives), describing the world and the place of humans in that world on the basis of observation and experience.

So let’s offer Jesus—and the Pharisees—the respect that they deserve as they discuss and debate, and not try to press their words in a direction that they never intended.

For more on this passage, see

“Male and female he made them” … and more? (Pentecost 20B; Mark 10 and Gen 1)

For more on the matter of same-gender marriage, which has been permissible within my church since 2018, see

Marrying same-gender people: a biblical rationale

The Golden Calf and the repentance of God (Exodus 32; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 20C)

The passage which is offered by the Narrative Lectionary for this coming Sunday (Exod 32:1–14) recounts the famous episode of sinful behaviour by Israel, known popularly as “the Golden Calf episode”. 

This story most likely relates to the god who was regarded as the head of the gods amongst the Canaanites—El, who was often depicted as a bull. The bull was the strongest animal in the ancient farmyard, and thus a fitting symbol for a powerful god. The Israelites chose to imitate that god through their golden construction. 

The story told in Exodus 32 (and also summarised in Ps 106:19–23) mocks the Canaanite god, depicting him as more like a calf. By adopting a Canaanite symbol, the Israelites had turned from God (v.21). It seems they would deserve their fate—although Moses interceded and saved them from divine wrath (v.23). 

Moses is the hero who stands in the breach, to convince God to change God’s mind. This is a difficult statement, worth pondering further. What sort of god wishes to wreak savage wrath on people? And also, what kind of god is one who changes their mind in response to human petition? Both aspects challenge elements of classic theological understandings of God.

The language of the wrath of God “burning hot” (vv.10, 11, 22) resonates with the constant prophetic warning that God will use fire to destroy people and places because of their sinfulness (Isa 1:7; 5:24; 30:27–28, 30, 33 18–19; Jer 4:4; 6:27–30; 20:47–48; Hos 8:14; Joel 2:1–3; Amos 1:4—2:5; Nah 1:15). Zephaniah portrays utter devastation through divine judgement: “neither their silver nor their gold will be able to save them on the day of the Lord’s wrath; in the fire of his passion the whole earth shall be consumed” (Zeph 1:18). That is an intense fire indeed!

However, the final prophet in the Christian Old Testament, Malachi, reworks this imagery, offering some hope; God’s messenger on The Day of the Lord “is like a refiner’s fire and like fullers’ soap; he will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver, and he will purify the descendants of Levi and refine them like gold and silver, until they present offerings to the Lord in righteousness” (Mal 3:1–4). 

The references to good and silver in these prophetic oracles sits interestingly in juxtaposition to the Exodus story, in which Aaron “took the gold [from the ears of the people], formed it in a mold, and cast an image of a calf” (Exod 32:4), before he “built an altar before it” and proclaimed, “Tomorrow shall be a festival to the Lord” (v.5). 

So the people gladly “offered burnt offerings and brought sacrifices of well-being” on that altar. The burnt offerings mimick the daily burnt offerings (Exod 29:42), where the Lord God promises “I will meet with you, to speak to you there; I will meet with the Israelites there, and it shall be sanctified by my glory” (Exod 29:42–43). The sacrifices of well-being recall “the burnt offerings and sacrificed oxen as offerings of well-being to the Lord” made during the ceremony to ratify the covenant (Exod 24:5).

The people, under the leadership of Aaron, are deliberately imitating key components of the worship of the Lord God, but in this instance, they are worshipping an idol made with their own hands—in direct disobedience to the commandment “not [to] make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth” (Exod 20:4).

And so, having offered their sacrifices, “the people sat down to eat and drink, and rose up to revel” (v.6). But not so God, for as he had warned the people, “I the Lord your God am a jealous God, punishing children for the iniquity of parents, to the third and the fourth generation of those who reject me” (Exod 20:5). God will not let this transgression pass; as he says to Moses, “I have seen this people, how stiff-necked they are; now let me alone, so that my wrath may burn hot against them and I may consume them” (Exod 32:10).

A number of psalms reflect the desire for God to punish evildoers severely; “pour out your indignation upon them, and let your burning anger overtake them” is the cry of one psalm (Ps 69:24). Another psalm notes the vengeance of God—“in your hearts you devise wrongs; your hands deal out violence on earth” (Ps 58:2)—and suggests that “the righteous will rejoice when they see vengeance done; they will bathe their feet in the blood of the wicked” (Ps 58:10). The graphic picture of a furious God intent on wreaking damage raises difficult theological questions for us as we read such passages.

The image of fiery punishment comes from the story of Daniel (Dan 3:1–30) and appears again in the last book of the New Testament, where the prophet describes his visions of “the lake of fire that burns with sulfur” (Rev 19:20; 20:10, 14–15), also described as “the second death” (Rev 20:14; 21:8). It is there that the devil, the beast, and the false prophet “will be tormented day and night forever and ever” (Rev 20:10). 

In the Gospel of Matthew, in particular, eternal punishment in a fiery furnace features also in the words of Jesus, as he threatens sinners with “the furnace of fire” (Matt 13:43, 50; 25:41), a place of “eternal fire” (Matt 18:8; 25:41), “the hell of fire” (Matt 5:22; 18:9). This builds on the warnings found in Mark’s Gospel about the punishment in store for those who put stumbling blocks in the way of “these little ones”—they will be condemned to “the unquenchable fire” (Mark 9:42–48). These warnings are repeated by Jesus in Matt 18:6–9. 

So Jesus follows the prophetic and narrative insistence, in Hebrew Scripture, on the judgement of God being rightly expressed when sinfulness abounds. And the story of Aaron and the golden calf is a clear demonstration of God’s intent to exact punishment.

But the story takes a turn, when Moses mounts a passionate plea to God, asking for the divine fury to be turned away from the sinful people. Invoking the covenant made with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Moses implores, “turn from your fierce wrath; change your mind and do not bring disaster on your people” (Exod 32:12–13).

Last year, writing a commentary on this passage in With Love to the World, my friend Jione Havea offered an incisive insight into this story as recounted in Exodus 32. He writes as follows:

The plot is straightforward: Israel complained to Aaron that Moses has disappeared for too long, Aaron organized a golden calf as their God, the Lord became angry and decided to wipe Israel off, Moses appealed for Israel’s sake, and “the Lord changed his mind about the disaster that he planned to bring on his people” (32:14). The Lord reconsidered, and changed their mind. 

Previously, in Exodus 2:23–25, God had changed their mind and re-membered the covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. In that instance, God responded to the groans and cries of the people. There is a comparable event in Nineveh: “When God saw what they did, how they turned from their evil ways, God changed his mind about the calamity that he had said he would bring upon them” (Jonah 3:10). 

In the case of Nineveh, the people changed God’s mind on the basis of their own actions (Jonah 3:5) and agenda (Jonah 3:9); in the golden calf episode, Moses interceded on behalf of Israel. The story line is the same: God changed their mind. Change of mind (read: repentance) is not evidence of weakness in the character of God. Rather, it is evidence of being present, and of honouring the Tongan quality of va (relationship) over against immutable doctrines. We are called to do likewise.

And so, in the story, as he saw the golden calf at base camp, Moses burned in anger—because of the people, and because his own brother Aaron played a key role in their going astray. He was so angry that he broke the tablets of the covenant that the Lord godself wrote. The Lord repented (v.14) but Moses revenged (vv.19–20). He burned and grounded the golden calf into water, and made the people drink it. And he ordered the sons of Levi to kill people—whether “your brother, your friend, and[or] your neighbour”—who were NOT on the Lord’s side (v.27). 

The Lord changed their mind—but to the opposite effect. This time, the Lord decided to blot out the people who sinned against the Lord (v.33). Because of the golden calf sinners, the Lord sent a plague (v.35). This time, divine repentance led to destruction—echoing the divine repentance that led to the flood (see Gen 6:5–7). 

These stories show that the Lord’s book may have been written (cf. Exod 32:33), but it has not been closed. The Lord may still change their mind, and there is no guarantee that it will be for the reparation of covenant or for the destruction of people. Caveat emptor.

With Love to the World is a daily Bible reading resource, written and produced within the Uniting Church in Australia, following the Revised Common Lectionary. It offers Sunday worshippers the opportunity to prepare for hearing passages of scripture in the week leading to that day of worship. It seeks to foster “an informed faith” amongst the people of God.

You can subscribe on your phone or iPad via an App, for a subscription of $28 per year. Search for With Love to the World on the App Store, or UCA—With Love to the World on Google Play. For the hard copy resource, for just $28 for a year’s subscription, email Trevor at wlwuca@bigpond.com or phone +61 (2) 9747-1369.

Days of feasting and gladness, days for sending gifts (part two) (Esther; Pentecost 19B)

This coming Sunday, the lectionary offers the one and only chance in three years to hear from the book of Esther. (The passages offered are Esther 7:1–6, 9–10; 9:20–22.) There is a lot to note in considering this story, so I am devoting two blogs to it. In Part One I considered the historical and social context. Part Two (this blog) now explores theological issues which are embedded in this story.

This material was originally developed by my wife Elizabeth Raine and myself in the course of teaching a whole course on the Wisdom Literature; you can watch videos of the various sessions at

The book of Esther tells the story of how two wise and courageous Jews, Mordecai and Queen Esther, aided by the providential hand of fate, foil the genocidal schemes of Haman, the “enemy of the Jews”. 

Jewish identity is a key issue in this story. Vashti refuses to appear before Ahasueris “wearing the royal crown, in order to show her beauty” (1:11). The rabbis later interpret this to mean “wearing only the royal crown”—that is, stark naked except for the crown! Esther then takes part in a “beauty contest” (2:1—4) which involves not only parading before the king, but “pleasing the king” (2:4)—an explicitly sexual activity (see 2:13—14). Esther is chosen to be the Queen (2:17). But there is a crucial element in the story that occurs when Esther, taking the advice of Mordecai, decides to hide the fact that she is Jewish (2:20).

So Esther stands as a symbol of Jews who lived successfully in an alien culture. As a woman, she was not in a position of power, just as Diaspora Jews were not members of the power elite (although when she marries the King, and becomes Queen, she does acquire power). As an orphan, she was separated from her parents, as Diaspora Jews are separated from their mother-country. With these handicaps, she had to use every skill and advantage she had, as Diaspora Jews did. They, like Esther, had to adapt themselves to the situation.

Israelites and Canaanites are each signalled within this story. Haman, an Agagite, is a descendant of the people of Canaan (3:1), later described as “the enemy of all the Jews” (3:10; 9:24). He is descended from Agar, King of the Amalekites, whom the men of Saul (an ancestor of Mordecai) had defeated (1 Sam 15:1—9), in obedience to the word of the Lord, “attack Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have; do not spare them” (1 Sam 15:3).

The bad behaviour of Haman in the story of Esther (chs.3—5) is met by the resolute intransigence of Mordecai. He is not going to give way; when Haman presses the point, Mordecai stands up to him. Just as his ancestor, Saul, had fought against the Amalekites, so Mordecai opposes Haman. He will not let him have his way.

The story offers a striking portrayal of just how the Israelites perceived the Canaanites. It offers food for thought in the conflicted and increasingly difficult situation in modern Israel, where the “Canaanites” or “Amelakites”—modern- day Palestinians—are viewed with intense suspicion. Indeed, the government of the modern state of Israel appears utterly focussed on “extermination” as the fundamental policy with regard to the Palestinians. (I note that last year, Prime Minister Netanyahu was reported to have said that Israel is “committed to completely eliminating this evil from the world,” adding “you must remember what Amalek has done to you, says our Holy Bible. And we do remember.”)

In the Additions to Esther, Haman is further described as “Haman son of Hammedatha, a Bougean” (3:1; 12:6).  Bougean is believed to be a term of shame and disgrace (its precise origin is unknown.) A variant text calls him a “a Macedonian”, clearly reflecting the dominance of the empire established by Alexander the great, a Macedonian, from 334 BCE onwards.

 

Haman

Kingship is also an issue in this story. The absolute power of kings in the ancient world seems strange to us, accustomed as we are to the democratic rule of law. But in many parts of the ancient world a king was thought of as a living god. He was a sacred person who embodied, in his person, the state or kingdom that he governed. His physical body was clearly not immortal, but he was thought of as someone who was more than human, with a special and unique connection with the immortal gods. Because of this, he could do what he wanted even when, as in this case, it was clearly unjust.

It is true that Israel had kings. However, they believed that the King served God, who was the true King; and every King was held to account by a Prophet, who declared “the word of the Lord” to the King. When it did have great kings like David or Solomon, it emphasized their humanity. In the Israelite mind, kingship was very close to tyranny, and had to be constantly hedged around with precautions to stop it becoming despotic.

Esther as comedy?  This is a serious suggestion! The story told in Esther contains many of the stereotypical characters that appear in vaudeville, burlesque, or farce—there is a hero, a fool, a beautiful heroine, and a bad guy.  One commentator says, “all the characters are types; the largest interpretative problems melt away if the story is taken as a comedy associated with a carnival-like festival” (A. Berlin, Esther, JPS, 2001). What do you think about characterising this book as a comedy?

Finding where God is at work is another theological issue that this story addresses. God is not explicitly mentioned in the story of Esther. There may be some places where you might think that God is at work in what transpires (for example: “the roll of the dice”, the fasting of the Jews, and the many coincidences in the story). But this is implied, not explicitly stated. As you read the story, how might you hear the invitation to “find ways that God is at work in what happens”? (There are resonances, perhaps, with the claim that is often made today, that “God’s mission is in the world” and so the call to the church is to “seek out ways that God is at work in the world and join with God in that work”.)

So why is Esther in the canon?  We might note some problems: There is no mention of God—Neither Esther nor Mordecai seem to follow Jewish Law—Esther is married to a Gentile—Esther does not follow the food laws of Leviticus (she eats non-kosher food)—The account of Purim does not mention prayers, sacrifices, or any religious ceremony

But there are also some positives: The story is set in the Dispersion, outside of Israel—Esther appears powerless but is able to achieve her goal—Esther offers a positive role model for living successfully in the Dispersion—Purim celebrates the ingenuity of a wise woman in a foreign place

So do you think it is a good thing that Esther is in the canon of scripture??

 

The Additions to Esther. The book of Esther exists in Hebrew Scriptures in its Hebrew original. In the Roman Catholic scriptures, there is a longer version of Esther which contains six so-called Additions. This version is written in Greek and is 150 verses longer. This longer version ends, “In the fourth year of the reign of Ptolemy and Cleopatra, Dositheus, who said that he was a priest and a Levite, and his son Ptolemy brought to Egypt the preceding Letter about Purim, which they said was authentic and had been translated by Lysimachus son of Ptolemy, one of the residents of Jerusalem.” (11:1).

In the Additions to Esther, the extra verses provide more character development, supply information missing from the Hebrew text, and add an explicit religious dimension—God is mentioned at 2:20; 4:8; 6:1, 13. It is clear that the Jews are saved by God. God works primarily through Mordecai. Esther becomes the romantic heroine of the sideline plot, not the centre-stage star.

Finally: how might Esther relate to Lady Wisdom?  The book of Proverbs portrays Wisdom in ways that show she can operate well in “ordinary, everyday life”. Esther and Mordecai operate in the messy circumstances of the royal court of Persia. They manage to find a way through the situations they face which works out well in the end. Is this a valid connection? 

Looking back over the story, we can see that the book tells a story that is not located in Israel, about morally compromised people, with no active involvement in the story by God. How do we understand it?

From the point of view of a Jew living in the Diaspora, the story ends on a positive note. Mordecai has an influential position (10:3). Persian records include positive references to the Jews (10:2). Future generations of Jews celebrate Purim (9:26-32). It assures the people of Israel that God is with them, even when they are living in exile, even when they are acting in morally compromised ways.

From the point of view of a Jew living in Israel, there are no references to the rebuilding of Zion (Ps 102:16), no indication that the nations will come to Zion to worship the God of Israel (Isa 60:1-3). The future of the Jews appears to lie in the capricious and untrustworthy hands of the Persian Empire. It displays the precarious nature of Jewish identity, and the fact that the fate of being a Jew lies in foreign control.

What do you think?

Days of feasting and gladness, days for sending gifts (part one) (Esther; Pentecost 19B)

This coming Sunday, the lectionary offers the one and only chance in three years to hear from the book of Esther. (The passages offered are Esther 7:1–6, 9–10; 9:20–22.) There is a lot to note in considering this story, so I am devoting two blogs to it. Part One (this blog) considers the historical and social context. Part Two will explore theological issues which are embedded in this story. 

This material was originally developed by my wife Elizabeth Raine and myself in the course of teaching a whole course on the Wisdom Literature; you can watch videos of the various sessions at 

This short book sits oddly within the body of wisdom literature. It is not like Proverbs (poetic songs and short proverbs), nor Ecclesiastes (musings on the meaning of life), nor the Song of Songs (love poetry). There is no clear moral teaching in this book; rather, it tells a story which has twists and turns in the plot to keep us entertained. 

So this book of nine chapters is more like the “short story” books in the Bible—Ruth (four chapters), Tobit (a little longer, at 14 chapters), and Judith (the longest, at 16 chapters). However, whilst Ruth and Judith are set within Israel, Tobit and Esther are located outside of Israel. And whilst Ruth, Judith, and Tobit all tell of people who faithfully keep the laws of Israel (even though Ruth is from Moab), there is barely any reference to the Law, or to Jewish matters, in the story of Esther.

Yet Esther has its place as one of the five scrolls (in Hebrew, Megilloth) in the third section of the Hebrew Bible (the Writings, or Kethuvim), along with Song of Songs, Ruth, Lamentations, and Ecclesiastes. Each of these books is associated with a key Jewish Festival and the book is read in synagogue worship on that day: Song of Songs at Pesach (Passover), Ruth at Shavuot (the Feast of Weeks, or Pentecost), Lamentations on Tish B’Av (the Ninth of Av, the saddest day in the calendar marking the destruction of both Temples), Ecclesiastes at Sukkot (Tabernacles), and Esther at Purim.


A scroll of Esther, made at the Bezalel Academy of Art
in Jerusalem in the early 20th century,
held in the Library of Congress in Washington DC, USA

This book tells a rollicking tale, a story with goodies and baddies, twists and turns, drama and suspense … it seems that it was not intended to be “a factual account of a real person”, but rather it tells a dramatic story designed to draw right into the plot those who hear the story—a story filled with tension, drama, and potential disaster—a story that tells of the survival of the people of Israel, through their exile and on into the life in Diaspora.

Esther tells a story of a faithful Israelite women, living in the dispersion (in exile from the land of Israel) in Persia. Israelites were taken into exile in two major waves. The first was in the northern kingdom, when invaded by the Assyrians in 721 BCE. Israelites from the north were taken away to live in various lands under Assyrian control. Some people were permitted to return to the land; but most stayed in exile. (2 Kings 17 gives a southern perspective on what took place.) 

The second was in the southern kingdom, when invaded by the Babylonians in 587 BCE. People of Judah were taken away to live in Babylon. Adapting to foreign customs, learning a foreign language, and becoming a part of another culture, was challenging. (Psalm 137 reflects the bitterness of those in exile.) 

However, a large number of such exiles were permitted to return to the land when the Persians took control of Babylonian territories. Cyrus of Persia decreed that the people could return; he was hailed as “the Lord’s anointed” (Isaiah 44:28, 45:1-13).

Living in exile was a challenge that called forth different responses from the people of Israel. Some felt the difficulties of living in a foreign land, and yearned to return ‘home’. They jumped at the chance to return. Some adapted more easily into life in exile, married local people, and became settled in this new land as their new ‘home’. It is for this latter group that the story of Esther was told. Esther’s story takes place in Persia, in around 483—473 BCE, when Ahasuerus was king. (Ahasuerus is a Hebrew name; he is identified with the Persian king Xerxes, grandson of Cyrus.)

The book of Esther tells the story of how two wise and courageous Jews, Mordecai and Queen Esther, aided by the providential hand of fate, foil the genocidal schemes of Haman, the “enemy of the Jews”. The ensuing victory celebration of the fourteenth and fifteenth of the month of Adar (February-March) becomes the occasion for inaugurating a new Jewish festival, Purim. It is a very entertaining story. It illustrates how the Jews survived whilst living in exile.

There are a string of banquets in Esther. They start in the opening scenes: a banquet of 180 days (1:2-4), a banquet of 7 days (1:5), the banquet of Queen Vashti (1:9). Then the king throws a great banquet (2:18), after which Esther holds a banquet (5:4-5, 6:14—7:1). 

After this, the establishment of an annual banquet to celebrate Purim is told (8:17, 9:16-19, 9:24). This banquet is named after the lots that were cast (3:17)—the Hebrew for “lots” is purim. These banquets are contrasted with the fast undertaken by the Jewish people (4:16—17).

What do Jews do at the feast of Purim? They read the story of Esther (The Megillah), once on Purim Eve, once on the morning of Purim—give money or food to needy people—send gifts of food to their friends—fast in the daylight hours on Purim Eve—get dressed up in costumes for the synagogue service—hold The Feast of Purim on Purim itself—eat special dishes: a large challah with raisins, meals made with beans and peas, and hamantashen, triangular cookies filled with jelly or fruit—and wish each other “chag Purim sameach” ( חג פורים שמח ).

One Jewish website says, “When Haman’s name is mentioned you can twirl graggers  (noisemakers) or stamp your feet to eradicate his evil name. Tell your kids that Purim is the only time when it’s encouraged to make noise during services!” You can watch videos of celebrations at Purim:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6mmZDYogjCk

I will pass through the land (Exod 12, 13; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 19C)

The instructions are clear: “take some of the blood and put it on the two doorposts and the lintel of the houses in which they eat it” (Exod 12:7). The explanation is also clear: “I will pass through the land of Egypt that night, and I will strike down every firstborn in the land of Egypt, both human beings and animals … the blood shall be a sign for you on the houses where you live: when I see the blood, I will pass over you, and no plague shall destroy you when I strike the land of Egypt” (Exod 12:12–13).

It’s a story of hope, expressed in joy; and it’s a story about death, filled with despair. We will hear it this Sunday, as it is offered as the Narrative Lectionary reading for Pentecost 19 (Exodus 12:1–13; 13:1–8). It all depends on where you stand as you hear the story. Are you in the shoes of the escaping Hebrews? Or in the shoes of the Egyptians who saw their beloved children slaughtered?

The story that is told about the Exodus in the Hebrew Scriptures is a story filled with hope. It tells of the liberation of an oppressed people, suffering under the burdens of forced labour; it recounts the sequence of events that led to the miraculous escape from slavery, crossing through the Sea of Reeds, travelling unhindered through the wilderness, into a land which the story claims was promised by God—a promised land, gifted to a chosen people by a holy God.

The story that is told in the Hebrew Bible about the Exodus is also a story filled with violence. There is the violence executed in Pharaoh’s actions in having the young boys murdered. There is the violence that is threatened by the Egyptian army as their chariots and horses thunder in hot pursuit of the escaping Israelites. 

Worse, there is the insistent violence in the series of increasingly damaging plagues which God is said to have sent against the Egyptians. And finally, there is the climactic and catastrophic violence of the surging of waters over the army and their horses, as they as swamped and drowned in the middle of the Sea of Reeds.

It is a difficult story to take at face value; what sort of people remember such a tale of incessant violence? and what sort of a God takes sides with one group of people and acts in such a vicious way against their opponents? Furthermore, how can we accept this story as part of our canon of scripture, when it is so filled with violent act after violent act?

This is not the only place that we encounter violence in the Hebrew Scriptures; as the story goes on, it proves to be one of invasion, massacre, colonisation, and dispossession of people in the land of Canaan; and then, a string of battles take place in various locations, as the invading Israelites gradually exert their dominance over the indigenous people of the land. 

All of this violence is indeed of deep concern, and it can be seen to place the whole of those scriptures under a cloud. However, I don’t want to fall into the supercessionist trap, the approach taken in the second century by Marcion of Sinope, who discarded the whole of the Old Testament—and, indeed, a significant part of the New Testament! We have these stories as part of our scriptures, and we need to hear them, ponder them, and engage critically with them.

Nor do I want to gloss over the fact that acts of violence, both those committed by human beings, and those attributed to the Lord God, can be found in many parts of the New Testament. It is a ubiquitous problem. Violence is expressed in many texts in scripture—both Jewish and Christian—and, indeed, is found in the texts of many other religious traditions. Human beings live, and die, by violence. We can never escape it, it seems.

If we take these texts as a literal account of historical events, we have significant theological issues to address. And there are a number of difficult historical questions that must be addressed, if we want to hold to the claim that Exodus is reporting an historical “as it really happened”. Where is the evidence for the escape of a huge number of people at that time? (There is none.) Who was the Pharaoh of the time? (There are two very different suggestions about this.) 

What about the evidence for the huge crowd that spent 40 years in the desert? Where are the bones of the dead, the remains of campsites, from that crowd, if that is accepted to be the massive crowd 600,000 males (plus their women and children) that would set forth into the wilderness (see Exod 12:37) and then their descendants? There is absolutely no evidence for these archaeological remains, at all.

But such a forensic historical interrogation is not my approach to the story of the Exodus, nor to other parts of Hebrew Scripture, nor, indeed, to the narratives found in the New Testament.

So my approach to these texts has been to undertake an appreciative enquiry approach: what is this text saying? what drives the energy of the writer? what issues of concern do I read and hear—explicitly in the words used, and implicitly, in between and under what is said? what elements can I affirm, as contributing constructively to the Hebrew Scriptures’ understandings of God? and, as a consequence of that, to the New Testament’s understandings of God?

To begin, we need to recognise that the Exodus was seen as the paradigm for liberation—political, cultural, social, religious—which has shaped Jewish life for millennia. It is no wonder that it was picked up as a key motif for early followers of Jesus, to describe his significance: preaching the kingdom of God, the righteous-justice of a compassionate God, a challenge to the collective political, social, and religious status quo, and a liberating way of being for those following him.

A group of priests in the exile in Babylon collected and collated materials from earlier traditions, and developed a series of stories that conveyed in saga form the key elements of their national story. Symbolism and poetry were the paramount features of these stories, originally oral, later written on scrolls.

In the latter stages of the Exile or perhaps in the early stages of return to the land and rebuilding society, the stories and sagas were drawn into the set of scrolls we know as the Torah, the first part of the TaNaK. Symbolism featured prominently in these poetic stories and narrative rehearsals of the past.

The Passover occupies a central place in the long, sweeping narrative that is told in Hebrew Scripture. As well as the story of the Passover which led to the exodus from Egypt (Exod 12–15) and the thrice-documented priestly regulations governing the annual celebration (Lev 23:4–8; Num 28:16–25; Deut 16:1–8), the story is told of celebrating Passover at key moments in that ongoing narrative: at the foot of Mount Sinai (Num 9:1–14), at Gilgal when about to enter the land of Canaan  (Josh 5:10–12), when the Temple worship was restored under Hezekiah (2 Chron 30:1–27), and during the great reformation that took place under Josiah (2 Ki 23:21–23).

The priest-prophet Ezekiel, in his vision of the restored land and new Temple, seen during the Exile, insists that the Passover be celebrated on a recurring annual basis (Ezek 45:21–25). Even though the Temple that was eventually rebuilt was of a different size and shape, when the Exiles returned under Darius, the Passover was celebrated at the dedication of the rebuilt Temple (Ezra 6:19–22).

Over time, interpreters under influence from later developments in thinking began to “reify” and “historicise” these symbolic sagas and develop the idea that they reported “events that actually happened”. They didn’t—as we have noted, there is no evidence outside the Bible for the sequence of events found in the Exodus saga. But the story had a potency for these priestly writers as the land was restored, the Temple rebuilt, society reconstructed.

The Passover story, leading up to the escape of the Exodus, that Jews recall and relive each year and which Christians remember on a regular basis in the eucharistic celebration, tells the age-old scapegoat dynamic in a dramatic story filled with symbolism. It too was not an historical event, but a story developed to explain the special significance of the people of Israel and their faith in a god who took extraordinary steps to secure their freedom.

Of course, within the emerging Jewish movement that had a focus on Jesus as an authoritative teacher of the Torah, a key way of grappling with the fact that Jesus was put to death as a criminal, hung on a cross under the orders of the Roman Governor, was to draw on this story of blood shed, lambs sacrificed, and salvation gained.

The timing of the death of Jesus is placed within the Passover festival by all four canonical Gospels. That is the festival that remembers the story of what happened to Israel, long ago—and that passes on the story that this happens year-in, year-out, as the faithful people of Israel remember and relive their national salvation.

One Gospel even locates the actual hour when Jesus dies on the cross as being “on the day of preparation for the Passover” (John 19:14, 31). Jesus, already identified in this Gospel as “the lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world” (John 1:29, 36), dies when the Passover lambs are being slaughtered in preparation for the Passover meal that evening. (The other three Gospels, of course, place the last meal of Jesus with his disciples at the Passover meal—Mark 14:12–25 and parallels—and thus, in their chronology, he dies on the day after Passover.)

Jesus is remembered as the “paschal lamb … who has been sacrificed” (1 Cor 5:7); it is by the shedding of his blood that atonement with God takes place (Rom 3:25), that faithful people are justified (Rom 5:9), that peace is achieved (Col 1:20), that redemption occurs (Eph 1:7). One writer makes much of this, emphasising that this redemption is eternal (Heb 9:12; 13:20), opening up “a new and living way” (Heb 10:19–20). It is his shed (sprinkled) blood makes Jesus “the mediator of a new covenant” (Heb 12:24) and that his faithful people are sanctified (Heb 13:12).

So this ancient story, passed down by word of mouth and then written in scrolls that themselves were passed down for reading and understanding, sits deeply within the self-understanding of both Jewish and Christian people. It is a story we cannot avoid.

“Here comes this dreamer” (Gen 37, 50; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 18C)

“Here comes this dreamer. Come now, let us kill him and throw him into one of the pits; then we shall say that a wild animal has devoured him, and we shall see what will become of his dreams” (Gen 37:19–20). There it is: “brotherly love” on display, for everyone to see! 

The sons of Jacob, who became the sons of Israel, and then gave their names to “the twelve tribes of Israel”, as we saw in an earlier blog, are terrible role models. They show us fraternal jealousy and hatred at its worst. The first part of the story offered by the lectionary for this coming Sunday pulls no punches (Gen 37:3–8, 17b—22). These sons could be mean!

The chapters before this have told the stories of the three patriarchs of Israel, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and their wives, the four matriarchs Sarah, Rebekah, Leah, and Rachel—although Jacob is still alive, and he will figure in some of the final scenes of Genesis in chapters 46 and 48—50. We turn our attention to Joseph, who had been born to Jacob’s wife Rachel, after years of waiting. 

Only after his first wife Leah had given birth to six sons and a daughter, did Rachel give birth, as God “heeded Rachel and opened her womb” (Gen 30:22). As a sign of the passing of her barren state, Rachel declared, ‘God has taken away my reproach’; and we read that “she named him Joseph, saying, ‘May the Lord add to me another son!’ (Gen 30:23). That son, Benjamin, came years later, although Rachel tragically died giving birth (Gen 35:16–20).

We meet Joseph in the passage offered by the lectionary, which notes that, as he grew, Joseph was the favoured son (Gen 37:3). Of course, this fostered the jealousy of his brothers, who “hated him, and could not speak peaceably to him” (Gen 37:4). And so the scene is set for the problematic sequence of events that ensues, as his brothers initially plot to kill him (Gen 37:19–20), before Reuben intervenes (Gen 37:21–23).

We should note that the ethical standards of the people in these ancestral stories leaves something to be desired for us,with our modern sense of ethical standards.  Cheating, stealing, rape, incest, murder, and double dealing appear to be par for the course. Yet these brothers who plot to kill Joseph are the men who give their names to the tribes of Israel—names that are given pride of place in the priestly garments (Exod 1:1–4; 28:9–12, 21, 29; 39:6–7, 14) and in the later history of the people (1 Chron 2:1–2). 

That these stories of their murky ways of operating have been preserved, passed on, and preached on with regularity, is quite remarkable! Perhaps we should reflect that human beings have always been flawed? Or that we should well expect that the ethical standards and cultural practices of our time are different from what held sway in past eras?

And perhaps we need also to note—and take caution from the observation—that this particular incident, selling Joseph for twenty pieces of silver, has fed into the unhelpful stereotype of the Jews who are always and in every way concerned about money. It’s a stereotype that has fed the burgeoning antisemitic attitude and actions of people throughout the Middle Ages, past the Enlightenment on into the modern age—culminating, of course, in the horrors of the Shoah (Holocaust) in Nazi Germany. See

https://antisemitism.adl.org/greed/

Back to the story of Genesis 37. That the brothers plot to kill Joseph, and are only dissuaded by the intervention of Reuben (Gen 37:21–23), is clearly a mark against them. That Judah then suggests that they sell him to a passing caravan of Ishmaelites (Gen 37:25–28), whilst it saves the life of Joseph, is yet another mark against the brothers.

Christian readers will perhaps compare the “twenty pieces of silver” that was paid for Joseph (Gen 37:28) with the thirty pieces of silver paid to Judas for handing Jesus over to the authorities (Matt 26:15). However, a number of passages in Hebrew Scriptures provide a more fitting contrast to the price paid for Joseph. 

Abimelech, in his unsuccessful attempt to install himself as king in Israel, took “seventy pieces of silver out of the temple of Baal-berith with which [he] hired worthless and reckless fellows, who followed him” (Judg 9:4). So twenty pieces are significantly less. 

And the story is told in Judges about when the lords of the Philistines bribed Delilah with eleven hundred pieces of silver to hand over Samson to them (Judg 16:5; 17:1–5), and in the Song of Songs the (poetically-exaggerated) claim is made that Solomon expected a thousand pieces of silver from each of the keepers of his vineyard (Song 8:11). So twenty pieces pales into utter significance, by comparison. Was Joseph worth so little.

The irony is that Israel as a whole is identified with reference to Joseph at a number of places in the Hebrew Scriptures. Both narrative texts and prophets refer to the whole nation as “the house of Joseph” (Josh 17:17; 18:5; Judg 1:22–23, 35; 2 Sam 19:20; 1 Ki 11:28; Amos 5:6; Obad 1:18; Zech 10:6). 

The psalms sing of “the descendants of Jacob and Joseph” (Ps 77:15) and bring petitions to God, “Shepherd of Israel, you who lead Joseph like a flock” (Ps 80:1). Psalm 81 places Joseph alongside Jacob and Israel: “it is a statute for Israel, an ordinance of the God of Jacob, he made it a decree in Joseph, when he went out over the land of Egypt” (Ps 81:4–5). The name of Joseph was revered in the ongoing traditions of Israel.

So let us treasure and reflect on this story, in which Joseph is sold off to foreign travellers. His life had been saved from the plotting of his brothers by a compassionate intervention by one of their number; but he is taken off into Egypt—for what fate? 

Reading the story chapter-by-chapter, as it appears in Genesis, we don’t yet know the significance of Egypt (other than the account of the time that Abram and Sarai spent in Egypt in Gen 12:10—13:12). But people hearing the story when it was written into the scrolls, after the return from Exile, would know of the time of slavery spent by their ancestors in Egypt, when “the Egyptians became ruthless in imposing tasks on the Israelites, and made their lives bitter with hard service” (Exod 1:13–14). They know the ominous threat that lies over Joseph at the end of this week’s story: “they took Joseph to Egypt” (Gen 37:28).

That fate is symbolised by the note in the immediately following verses, that the brothers of Joseph dipped his coat into the blood of a slaughtered goat and brought it back to Jacob. When Jacob recognized the coat, he concluded that “a wild animal has devoured him; Joseph is without doubt torn to pieces” (Gen 37:33). Jacob mourned for many days; despite the best efforts of his family, “he refused to be comforted, and said, ‘I shall go down to Sheol to my son, mourning” (Gen 37:35).

The narrative leaves Joseph with the tantalising comment that he was sold by the Midianites to Potiphar, one of Pharaoh’s officials (Gen 37:36), before veering off to tell a long story about Judah and Tamar (Gen 38). The question remains: what fate awaits Joseph?

After Joseph is sold off to the Egyptians (Gen 37), much happens that the lectionary skips over. Potiphar makes Joseph his personal attendant; he was in charge of the entire household. There is a subplot concerning Potiphar’s wife and Joseph, resulting in Joseph being imprisoned (Gen 39). However, the chief gaoler liked Joseph and put him in charge of all the other prisoners, including Pharaoh’s butler and baker. One night both the butler and the baker had strange dreams, which Joseph interpreted in ways that soon came true. Joseph gained a reputation as a dream interpreter (Gen 40).

Two years later, Pharaoh had two dreams that his magicians could not interpret. Joseph was summoned and told Pharaoh that the dreams forecasted seven years of plentiful crops followed by seven years of famine. Following Joseph’s advice, Pharaoh made Joseph his second-in-command. He gave Joseph his ring and dressed him in robes of linen with a gold chain around his neck. Pharaoh gave him the Egyptian name Zaphenath-paneah and found him a wife named Asenath, daughter of Poti-phera the priest of On (Gen 41).

Joseph traveled throughout Egypt, gathering and storing enormous amounts of grain from each city. During these years, Asenath and Joseph had two sons: Manasseh, meaning, “God has made me forget (nashani) completely my hardship and my parental home, and Ephraim, meaning, “God has made me fertile (hiprani) in the land of my affliction”. These sons, grandsons to Jacob, would later have a key role (but the lectionary doesn’t include this part of the story).

After seven years, a famine spread throughout the world, and Egypt was the only country that had food. Joseph was in charge of rationing grain to the Egyptians and to all who came to Egypt. The famine affected Canaan, so Jacob sent ten of his sons to Egypt. He kept back Benjamin, Rachel’s second son and Jacob’s youngest child, the son who had intervened to save Joseph years earlier (Gen 42). 

The story assumes a rollicking-good-yarn feeling, as Joseph recognises the brothers but does not let on, and sends them back to Canaan. He kept Simeon in jail pending their return with Benjamin, as instructed, despite Jacob’s misgivings (Gen 43).

The brothers return to Egypt with Benjamin, along with a gift for Joseph as well as double the necessary money to repay the money that was returned to them. Again, there is a comedy-of-errors feel, as Joseph acts is if he does not know the brothers when they actually do; in the end he instructed his servant to fill the brothers’ bags with food, return each one’s money a second time, and put his own silver goblet in Benjamin’s bag. Then he sends his servant after them, to accuse them of theft. Benjamin is detained; Judah pleads with Joseph to release him (Gen 44). Will he do so?

At this point in the story, Joseph reveals his true identity to his brothers (Gen 45:3). The narrative is fraught with emotion: Joseph could no longer control himself (v.1), he wept loudly (v.2), his brothers are dumbstruck and dismayed (v.3). After a lengthy speech of explanation (vv.4–13), Joseph bursts into tears, as does Benjamin (v.14), and then Joseph “kissed all his brothers and wept upon them” (v.15). The emotions are deep-seated and visceral; the physical actions described signal the profound effect that the experiences have had on Joseph and his brothers.

The narrative of this meeting ends in a very prosaic manner: “and after that his brothers talked with him” (Gen 45:15). The fractured relationships amongst the twelve has been repaired; the lines of communication between estranged individuals have been restored. It just remains for this to be communicated to Jacob—which is done in the rest of chapter 45. Jacob and his whole family, sixty-six persons in all, relocate to Egypt (Gen 46), but famine eventually strikes even Egypt (Gen 47).

The book concludes with grand scenes of blessing and farewell. Jacob blesses Joseph (Gen 48:15–16), Joseph’s sons Ephraim and Manasseh (Gen 48:17–22), and then the full  complement of his twelve sons (Gen 49:1–28), before Jacob dies and is buried (Gen 49:29—50:14). 

The closing scenes are touching; Joseph’s brothers fear that he may still bear a grudge against them (50:15), but Joseph, highly emotional once again (50:17), reassures his equally emotional brothers, “have no fear; I myself will provide for you and your little ones”; final attitude towards his brothers is one of kindness (50:21). And so, in due time, Joseph himself comes to the end of his earthly life; aged 110, he was “embalmed and placed in a coffin in Egypt” (Gen 50:26).

There is a longer summary of the full saga that is told in the Joseph section of Genesis (chapters 37–40) in the Jewish Virtual Library at https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/joseph-jewish-virtual-library

In praise of Torah (Psalm 19; Pentecost 17B)

The compilers of the Revised Common Lectionary have selected a psalm for each Sunday of the year. That chosen for this coming Sunday, Psalm 19, has two main parts; we will concentrate on the second part in this blog.

Creation is the focus in the first six verses of the psalm, where the psalmist’s view is fixed on “the heavens”, which are “telling the glory of God” (v.1). In those heavens the Lord “has set a tent for the sun, which comes out like a bridegroom from his wedding canopy, and like a strong man runs its course with joy” (v.4–5)—clearly a description of the daily movement of the sun across the sky (from our perspective), from east to west, as verse 6 then elucidates.

However, at this point the focus changes to Torah. The psalmist expresses a consistently positive attitude towards Torah in verses 7–14. Those verses contain a ringing affirmation of the Torah as “perfect, reviving the soul … sure, making wise the simple … right, rejoicing the heart … clear enlightening the eyes … pure, enduring forever … true and righteous altogether … more to be desired than gold … sweeter also than honey” (Ps 19:7–14).

The terms used here in parallel to describe Torah (law, decrees, precepts, commandment, fear, ordinances) are found regularly in the narrative books to describe the collection of laws (Deut 8:11; 11:1; 1 Ki 2:3; 6:12; 8:58; 2 Ki 17:34–37; 1 Chron 22:13; 28:17; Neh 9:13; 10:29) as well as right throughout Psalm 119. See

A fully-developed theology from just one psalm? (Psalm 119; Pentecost 7A) §§4, 5

Such affirmations of Torah sound out insistently throughout the majestically grand doublets of the longest psalm, Psalm 119. The 176 verses of this psalm, artistically arranged into acrostic stanzas of eight verses at a time, are bracketed by delight and confidence (“happy are those … who walk in the way of the Lord … I long for your salvation, O Lord, and your law is my delight”, vv.1, 174). This psalm indicates that the Law shapes the way that the covenant is kept; and the covenant gives expression to the steadfast love and grace of God.

*****

So much is Torah valued, that it apparently offers perfection: “the law of the Lord is perfect” (Ps 19:7), which we might compare with “I have seen a limit to all perfection, but your commandment is exceedingly broad” (Ps 119:96). In this regard, the psalmist’s appreciation for Torah as perfection seems to reflect the priestly desire for people to offer perfect sacrifices, without blemish (Lev 22:21), and Solomon’s desire to build the Temple as a perfect house for God (1 Ki 6:22).

Indeed, such a conception of perfect Torah also resembles the sage’s musings regarding Wisdom: “to fix one’s thought on her is perfect understanding” (Wisdom 6:15), and thoughts found in a prayer attributed to Solomon: “even one who is perfect among human beings will be regarded as nothing without the wisdom that comes from you” (Wisdom 9:6).

Much value is accorded to these words of Torah. As well as calling the law “perfect”, we hear that “the decrees of the Lord are sure” (Ps 19:7), a claim echoed in another psalm (Ps 93:5). The precepts of the Lord that are right (Ps 19:8; see also 119:75, 137, 172) means that one who is faithful and obedient will be led “in right paths” (Ps 23:3) as they pray “put a new and right spirit within me” (Ps 51:10). “The commandment of the Lord is clear” (Ps 19:8) is a claim that informs the later portrayal of those who trace the course of Wisdom “from the beginning of creation … [who] make knowledge of her clear” (Wisd Sol 6:22).

The psalmist extends the adoration of the Law, declaring that “the fear of the Lord is pure” (Ps 19:9), a claim extended in another statement found in wisdom texts, “the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (Ps 111:10; Prov 1:7; 9:10; 15:33; Sir 1:18, 27; 19:20). A further elaboration, “the ordinances of the Lord are true and righteous altogether” (Ps 19:9), is the way that Ezra describes the laws given to Moses on Mount Sinai (Neh 9:13). They are righteous (Ps 119:7, 62, 106, 160, 164), good (119:39), the basis of hope (119:43) and comfort (119:52).

The closing affirmation in this shorter psalm, “more to be desired are they than gold, even much fine gold; sweeter also than honey, and drippings of the honeycomb” (Ps 19:10), is echoed in the longest psalms, “how sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!” (Ps 119:103).

By contrast, when Job asks, “where shall wisdom be found? and where is the place of understanding?”, he proposes that “gold and glass cannot equal it, nor can it be exchanged for jewels of fine gold” (Job 28:12–19), and concludes, “the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understanding” (Job 28:28).

Wisdom, love, the fear of the Lord, enlightenment, and rejoicing—these are the fruits of Torah, as the psalmist sings. These are the benefits of the law which are to be valued even into our own times, as this Sunday we hear again the words of this ancient psalm and affirm its relevance and importance in the contemporary world.