Now that we have finished the sequence of passages from Romans, as the Epistle reading offered each week by the lectionary, I thought it might be helpful to post this collection of posts about this letter.
“Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” (Matt 18:21). We know the question—and we know the answer. “If a person sins against you seven times a day, and turns back to you seven times and says, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive”, Jesus says, at least according to Luke’s Gospel (Luke 17:4).
Not so in Matthew’s Gospel. Forgiving seven times, as demanding as that is, is not enough—at least according to the Jesus of Matthew’s Gospel. “Not seven times”, says this Jesus, “but, I tell you, seventy-seven times” (Matt 18:22).
We hear this conversation, and an ensuing parable, on this coming Sunday, as it is the Gospel passage proposed by the lectionary. It follows on from last week’s passage dealing with conflict within the community (18:15–20).
And so, this particular Matthean representation of Jesus appears, on the face of it, to be a more generous, accepting, grace-filled version, than even the Jesus of Luke’s Gospel! Forgiveness is important—so important that it needs to be offered, over and over again, we might assume.
Well, hold on—not so fast. Because immediately after reporting this word of Jesus, the author of Matthew’s Gospel reports him offering a parable which contains a number of difficult—indeed, troublesome—elements. He sets a scene involving a king and a number of slaves. How those characters behave is interesting. The end result is that one slave is thrown into prison “to be tortured until he would pay his entire debt” (18:34).
Slaves, of course, were present in the world in which Jesus lives. Their presence is noted in scenes, such as when we see mention of the sick slave of a centurion (Matt 8:5–13; Luke 7:1–10) and a slave of the high priest (Mark 14:47; Matt 26:51; Luke 22:50; John 18:10). They are recurrent characters in the parables of Jesus (Mark 12:1–12 and parallels; Matt 24:45–51; Luke 12:35–40, 42–48; 14:15–24; 19:11–27; 20:9–19). Slaves are also referred to in a number of the sayings of Jesus (Mark 10:44; Matt 6:24; 10:24–25; 20:27; Luke 16:13; 17:7–10; John 8:34–36).
The character of a king appears in a number of parables of Jesus, in both the Gospel of Luke (Luke 14:31–32; and see also 19:27) and that of Matthew (Matt 18:23–35; 22:1–14; 25:31–46). In this last parable, the final scene of judgement of the nations (25:31–46), the king functions as God’s representative, delivering his commendation of those who acted correctly, but judgement on those who failed to do so.
In the parable we will hear this coming Sunday (18:21–35), the king initially demands repayment of a large debt owed to him by one of his slaves. When the slave cannot pay, he plans to sell him and all his goods and family. However, after being begged by the slave, the king remits the debt (18:27). This part of the parable clearly illustrates the instruction of Jesus concerning forgiveness (18:22).
In the next parable found in Matthew’s Gospel (22:1–14), whilst dealing with guests who turn down his invitation to attend a wedding feast and murder the slaves he had sent to them, the king does not act so graciously; we are told that he “was enraged; he sent his troops, destroyed those murderers, and burned their city” (22:7).
Then, when a guest does enter dressed without his wedding robe, the king was initially rendered speechless, before ordering his attendants, “Bind him hand and foot, and throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth” (22:13). This is hardly the action of a leader who is following the exhortation to “forgive seventy times seven”!
This destructive rampage by the king fits alongside the reaction of the slave in the earlier parable. Although himself forgiven of his massive debt of “ten thousand talents” (18:27)—an impossible huge debt, completely unrealistic—he refuses to forgive his fellow-slave who owes him much less, “a hundred denarii” (18:28–30)—a more realistic amount to owe. He has this slave thrown into prison—but on hearing of this, his master, the king, who had earlier practised forgiveness (18:25–27), turns on his slave, now seen as “you wicked slave”, and condemns him “to be tortured until he would pay his entire debt” (18:34).
So I am somewhat bemused by the inclusion of this parable. Had Jesus stopped at verse 27 (“out of pity for him, the lord of that slave released him and forgave him the debt”), the parable would have been a fine example of the principle of “forgive seventy times seven”. But it doesn’t stop there. It continues on for another eight verses, and those verses tell of the complete opposite of gracious forgiveness.
The idea of forgiving someone who himself had failed to show forgiveness is thus doomed to failure. And not only that—it is not simply the king in the parable who acts with vengeance, it is the “heavenly Father” who will act in this way towards anybody who “does not forgive your brother or sister from your heart” (18:35). It seems that God is fundamentally a God of vengeance, not of grace.
This should not surprise us if we look elsewhere in this Gospel, to see how Jesus portrays God. Whilst God feeds the birds of the air (6:24), “clothes the grass of the field” (6:30), casts out demons through the Spirit (12:28), commands the honouring of parents (15:4), joins together man and woman to be come “one flesh” (19:4–6), and is able to deliver “the one who trusts in him” (27:43), there are more ominous actions of the divine being that Jesus reflects in his teachings.
Whilst Jesus teaches that the kingdom of heaven will be characterised by being like a child (18:1–5), a number of parables indicate that what transpires in the kingdom will vary, depending on how a person has behaved in life. Those who commit to the righteous-justice that Jesus teaches (5:20; 6:33; 21:32) “will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father” (13:53) and will hear gracious words of welcome: “come, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world” (25:34). Their fate is to enter into “eternal life” (25:46).
However, those who fail to live in accord with this way of righteous-justice will encounter a different message: “you that are accursed, depart from me into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels” (25:41). Their fate is terrible; the “eternal punishment” that is noted at the conclusion of this parable (25:46) is variously described in other places within this Gospel.
The slave who was not prepared for the return of his master—in the first of four parables (24:45–51) which conclude the final teaching discourse of Jesus—ends with clear punishment: “put him with the hypocrites, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth” (24:51). Jesus had spoken the instruction to “throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth” in the parable where a person came to a wedding inappropriately dressed (22:14). This is a recurrent motif in Matthew’s Gospel.
He has also pointed to the same punishment for lawless and disobedient people in other places: in his words of judgement spoken in Capernaum, where he encounters a distressed centurion (8:12); in his explanation of the parable of the weeds and the wheat (13:42); in the parable of the good and bad fish (13:50); and in the parable of the talents (25:30).
It is a punishment that is taken from Hebrew Scripture texts: “the wicked plot against the righteous and gnash their teeth at them (Ps 37:12); “the wicked gnash their teeth and melt away; the desire of the wicked comes to nothing” (Ps 112:10); “malicious witnesses … impiously mocked more and more, gnashing at me with their teeth” (Ps 35:11,16). The prophet laments that when Jerusalem is ransacked, “all your enemies open their mouths against you, they hiss, they gnash their teeth, they cry ‘we have devoured her!’” (Lam 2:16). It is a well-known form of torment and punishment.
The parable of the unprepared servant also has this apparently savage instruction: “he will cut him in pieces” (24:51). We find that in Hebrew Scripture, this was an action used in sacrificing animals (1 Kings 18:23, 33) and as a warning of judgement against sinners—in the terrible story of the Levite’s concubine (Judges 19:29), after Saul defeated the Ammonites (1 Sam 11:7), and also in direct prophetic warnings (Isa 45:2; 51:9; Ezek 16:40; Dan 2:34; also Judith 5:22). This is the fate decreed for the unprepared slave—a terrible end, indeed!
Throughout this Gospel, Jesus declares that sinners are destined for “the judgement of fire” (Matt 5:22; 7:19; 13:40, 42, 50; 18:8–9; 25:41). This picks up from the warning of John the baptiser, which Matthew has added to his Markan source: “You brood of vipers! who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? … even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire” (Matt 3:7, 10).
That place is described by Jesus, in parables unique to Matthew, as “the furnace of fire” (Matt 13:43, 50; 25:41). Sinners will be sent to a place of “eternal fire” (18:8; 25:41), “the hell of fire” (5:22; 18:9), the “unquenchable fire” threatened by John: “the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire” (3:12). 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.
Matthew’s portrayal of Jesus is consistent in reporting that he warns his followers, again and again, of the fiery fate that awaits evildoers. Once again, this picks up on Hebrew Scripture passages in which various prophets declare 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).
Amongst those prophetic oracles, Zephaniah, for instance, 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).
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).
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). We must wonder: did Jesus pray these psalms? did he concur with their ideas? did he pray for God to act with vengeance?
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). Matthew appears to share some similarities with the writer of this book, for as we have noted, eternal punishment in a fiery furnace features also in the words of Jesus in Matthew’s Gospel.
So we can’t simply brush aside the closing words of the parable which is in focus this coming Sunday—the Heavenly Father, we are told, will follow the example of the unforgiving servant, who will be “tortured until he would pay his entire debt” (18:34–35), in the service of ensuring that faithful people do indeed forgive one another! (How he will be able to pay off his debt while he is being tortured in prison, I do not know!)
Such punishment is consistent with the way that God’s justice will be implemented, according to the various teachings and parables of Jesus in Matthew’s Gospel that we have already noted. It will be incredibly hard to be let off the hook by this fierce, punitive God!! We are left with the conundrum: what are we to make of this aggressively violent, retributive God?
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I have had a go at addressing this conundrum in terms of how it is presented in Hebrew Scripture, at
Back in the days when I regularly taught “Exegesis of Paul’s Letters” in a theological college (seminary), I would begin the section on Romans in chapter 1, as might reasonably be expected. In characteristically Pauline style, the qualities for which he gives thanks in his opening prayer (1:8–14), as well as the way in which he introduces himself to the believers in Rome (1:1–7), signal a number of the key matters to which he will address himself later in this letter. So that seemed a logical place to start.
However, once we got to 1:16–17, the apparent “theme of the letter”, I would jump over to 15:14–33, and explore what Paul wrote about the intentions that he had, to visit “God’s beloved in Rome, who are called to be saints” (1:7), before pressing on to Spain. Why did he tell them this? It seems to be relevant to what was in Paul’s mind as he wrote his longest, and most theologically complex, letter.
But then, we would continue on, to look at chapter 16, which provides a long list of names of people in Rome to whom Paul sent greetings, as well as those who were with him, who added their greetings to those of Paul. More grist for the mill for understanding Paul’s circumstances, and thus also feeding into his rationale for writing. But also helpful, I believe, for getting an understanding of the situation in Rome, to which Paul was addressing his words. What he indicates about “God’s beloved in Rome, who are called to be saints” in that final chapter, is entirely relevant to our understanding of the letter as a whole.
After that, we would revert to chapter 1, and trace through the theological argumentation of this rhetorically-effusive, doctrinally-loaded stream of words, from 1:16, the thematic declaration of the gospel, which Paul describes as “the power of God for salvation to everyone who has faith, to the Jew first and also to the Greek”, in which “the righteousness of God is revealed through faith for faith”, all the way through to 15:33, the closing blessing, “the God of peace be with all of you. Amen.”
Had I been even braver, before we looked at chapters 1–11, I would have made the class work through the so-called “ethical section” of the letter (12:1–15:33), for what Paul says there has direct and immediate application to the situation in Rome which he sketches in those opening and closing sections. The “ethical exhortations” in this section do reveal more of the dynamics at play within that community, as I have argued over the last two weeks. Understanding that brings even more appreciation of the specific theological argument that is advanced and developed in “the body of the letter” (1:18—11:36).
However, I wasn’t quite brave enough to do that. And besides, the lectionary we are now using in worship has followed the letter through in the order in which it appears in our Bibles, beginning with chapter 1 back in Epiphany, then picking up from chapter 4 after Trinity Sunday. So it is only now, after many weeks of excerpts throughout Pentecost, that we have arrived at the final part of that ethical section. (And sadly, chapter 16 does not get a look-in in the lectionary offerings.)
And so, here we are in chapter 14 of Romans, with a passage that will be our last chance to consider this letter (Rom 14:1–12). Clearly, the quarrels that Paul had heard about in Rome (13:13) and which he here describes (14:1–3) had resulted in some judging others (14:4). The difficulties that this would have created in the community can be imagined; and I have already explored how some earlier teaching of Paul (12:9–21) could be seen to be a corrective to this problematic situation. I have also written about how the Gentile perception of Jews and the relevance, or otherwise, of the Jewish law for followers of Jesus might have exacerbated this situation (13:8–10).
In this section of Romans, Paul provides ethical instruction which is undergirded by his understanding of what Jesus has done for those who believe, and what this means in terms of how to behave. “We do not live to ourselves”, Paul asserts (14:7), and then immediately asserts in the same breath, ““we do not die to ourselves”. The reason he gives for this is straightforward: “whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s—for to this end Christ died and lived again, so that he might be Lord of both the dead and the living” (14:9).
Paul draws no distinction between the living and the dead, insofar as he considers that the death and resurrection of Jesus took place for all people, whether alive or dead. Because he affirms that “we will all stand before the judgment seat of God” (14:10), he then asserts that “each of us will be accountable to God” (14:12). The level of accountability is consistent across all people. And that accountability is, first and foremost, to God.
The situation that has drawn this statement from Paul is one of “quarrelling over opinions” (14:1). Some—later identified as “we who are strong” (15:1)—are those who “believe in eating anything”, while others—here labelled as “the weak” will be more discriminatory, and “eat only vegetables” (14:2). This terminology appears to reflect the same disagreement that is dealt with in more detail in 1 Cor 8—10.
In that context, “the weak” is regularly interpreted to be how Gentile believers perceived the Jews within the Corinthian faith community–they are weak because they refrain from eating meat that had previously been offered to idols and then sold on in the marketplace. “The strong” would thus be the Gentile self-description of those who are not troubled by this, since they know that “no idol in the world really exists” since “there is no God but one” (1 Cor 8:4).
If that is how these terms are to be understood in the context of the various communities of faith that existed in Rome, then the dynamic at work parallels that which Paul knew well in Corinth. In that letter, he admonishes the Corinthians to “build up the church” (1 Cor 14:4), to “strive to excel in [spiritual gifts] for building up the church” (14:12), and to “let all things be done for building up” (14:26).
In writing to the Romans, he offers similar advice: “welcome those who are weak in faith” (Rom 14:1), to “no longer pass judgment on one another, but resolve instead never to put a stumbling block or hindrance in the way of another” (14:13), to “pursue what makes for peace and for mutual upbuilding” (14:19), and to “welcome one another, therefore, just as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God” (15:7).
These exhortations are firmly grounded on Paul’s understanding of what God has already done in Jesus. In the extended discussion that follows the passage in view this coming Sunday, he makes it clear that his instruction to the Romans, “each of us must please our neighbour for the good purpose of building up the neighbour”, is based on the understanding that “Christ did not please himself” (15:2–3). This, in turn, is grounded in the word of the psalmist which he cites, “the I nsults of those who insult you have fallen on me” (Ps 69:9b).
The behaviour of believers is to be modelled on the example of Jesus, whose sacrificial offering paved the way for the inclusive community that Paul desires to see in Rome, and elsewhere: “Christ has become a servant of the circumcised on behalf of the truth of God in order that he might confirm the promises given to the patriarchs, and in order that the Gentiles might glorify God for his mercy” (15:8–9).
Once again, this is grounded in ancient scriptural affirmations. To undergird this view, Paul cites a string of texts, each making reference to the goyim (the nations, or the Gentiles): v.9 cites Ps 18:49, v.10 quotes Deut 32:42, v.11 draws on Ps 117:1, and v.12 draws on the statement about “the root of Jesse” in Isa 11:10.
So the pattern of behaviour that is required in Rome is clear: “if your brother or sister is being injured by what you eat, you are no longer walking in love”, leading to the direct practical application into the Roman situation, “do not let what you eat cause the ruin of one for whom Christ died” (14:15).
And in in the section of Romans that we will hear this Sunday, Paul has undergirded this advocacy of mutual care and concern with a deeper theological rationale, again based on the example of Jesus: “if we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s” (14:8).
Paul concludes this affirmation with the use of a phrase that came to be used by other early Christian writers, pointing to the universal dominion of God: “for to this end Christ died and lived again, so that he might be Lord of both the dead and the living” (14:9; compare “the God of the living and the dead” at Acts 10:42; 2 Tim 4:1; 1 Pet 4:5; and perhaps Rev 1:18).
And so it is that Paul asserts that “we will all stand before the judgment seat of Gods (14:10), a conclusion that he once again supports with reference to scripture—lit is written, ‘As I live, says the Lord, every knee shall bow to me, and every tongue shall give praise to God’” (14:11, quoting Isa 45:23). So then, he concludes, “each of us will be accountable to God” (Rom 14:12).
“So the Lord saved Israel that day from the Egyptians; and Israel saw the Egyptians dead on the seashore” (Exod 14:20). That’s the statement that tells the story of the Exodus in one short verse; it’s also the ethical problem that sits at the heart of the Exodus story. A part of that story is offered by the lectionary for this coming Sunday (Exod 14:19–31).
As I have noted, there is much violence spread throughout the pages of the Hebrew Scriptures—and the reading proposed by the lectionary for this coming Sunday is no exception! I have no doubt that, for many people, the violent scenes in the “historical” narratives, in the prayers of the psalmists, in the visions of the prophets, is most off-putting. As a pacifist myself, I find these scenes disturbing.
As I have worked with people who have experienced trauma from abuse in their lives, I recognise how they may “work through” these matters in ways that are confronting and hard to handle; I have tried to cultivate an attitude of acceptance of them and curiosity about what drives their angry and violent language. And as a person who myself has experienced the trauma of violence through sexual abuse, when I was a child, I am intensely attuned to the ways that violent words and deeds can impact on people.
I don’t, of course, hold to each and every event in the biblical narratives as literal historical events; but I do believe that these narratives reflect the zeitgeist of the time. It was a violent time, life was more precarious, people lived in a more tribal fashion (and thus fighting the neighbour was somehow a regular occurrence). And yet, in the midst of this, we see the emergence and development of a spirituality that values something wider than the immediate tribal, parochial viewpoint.
To the extent that the final editors of the many narratives shaped things intentionally, we might note that the stories of the little tribe(s) which later identified together as Israel, were framed by a grand narrative of the cosmic creation (Gen 1–2) and the strategic place of humanity within that creation (Gen 2–3). That, it seems to me, signals the moves that have been made from the violent tribal interactions of many narratives, into the poetic appreciation (mediated via the hierarchical priestly mindset) of the larger global—and spiritual—picture.
Thus, these texts do have some value; but they need to be understood in their detail, in their contexts, and in terms of the whole. They include the earlier stories of their heritage—because the people creating these texts “honour mother and father”, they preserve and retell those stories—but they also show how faithful people grappled with their various situations and challenges.
In Hebrew Scripture, then, we have extended stories constructed by writers seeking to shape the society of their time through a reconstructed (and perhaps idealised) past; songs from psalmists seeking to find God in trying situations; writings from sages plumbing the depths of wisdom and discernment; and oracles from prophets decrying infidelity and lack of commitment to the covenant, using graphic, even violent, language. The whole is a fascinating mix of case studies about “how to be faithful” in changing and challenging circumstances.
The Exodus needs to be seen in this context. It contains poetic sections (Exod 15) celebrating victory after violent engagement; a narrative shaped around that poem; then a further narrative, woven into the existing narrative but expanding or correcting or challenging the earlier material, all included into a literary stream of words that we puzzle, now, to unknot and make sense of.
The story of this Exodus from Egypt came to occupy a central place in the life of the people of Israel. It gained traction as a story that conveyed the identity of the people—once enslaved, miraculously liberated, steadfastly guided, and ultimately rewarded with a place of their own. It was retold in a number of psalms (Psalms 77 and 78; 80 and 81; 105 and 106; 114; 135 and 136).
A standard refrain which recalls the Exodus, “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery” (Exod 20:2; Deut 5:6) recurs throughout the ensuing narrative books (Deut 1:27; 5:6; 6:12; 8:14; etc; Judg 2:12; 1 Sam 12:6; 1 Ki 6:1; 8:9, 21; 9:9; 12;28; 2 Ki 17:7, 36; 2 Chron 6:5; 7:22). A number of prophets also recall this story with similar phrases (Jer 7:22, 25; 11:4, 7; 16:14; 23:7; 31:32; 32:21; 34:13; Ezek 20:4–10; Dan 9:15; Hos 11:1; Amos 2:10; 3:1; Mic 6:4; 7:15; Hag 2:5).
In the difficulties of the Exile in Babylon, when the final form of the story as we know it was created, this saga resonated deeply with the confronting experiences and the fervently-held hopes of the people. Their Exile was their Egypt; their Exodus was still awaited, and their entry into the land of Israel remained yet well ahead of them. And so, the story is told of the past, but it becomes a story of the present, a hope for the future, for the people.
It seems to me that the dreaming stories of First Nations Peoples in Australia instruct us about the way that the ancients told their stories, retold and reworked them, and then wrote them down (a step that some First Nations peoples are now taking, under the pressure of western colonisation).
It is quite likely that the same kinds of processes were present in the formation, development, and passing on of the stories of ancient Israel, until such time as it was felt needed to write them down (a step that was clearly taken during the Exile in Babylon and in the years after that, as the people returned to the land of Israel).
The narratives bear witness to the faith of ancient peoples; they reflect life and society as it was, with all its faults as well as its positive points; and they invite us to share in the attitude of faith towards God and the demonstration of justice and care for one another that is reflected in the stories that are told.
What, then, do we make of the story of deliberate, divine-authorised death, which is told in Exodus 14, as we hear in the Hebrew Scripture reading in worship this coming Sunday? The story has become foundational, not only for Jews, but also for Christians, as I noted last week. (See the link above.)
Writing in Bible Odyssey, Professor Brian M. Britt offers this insightful summary of the function of the Exodus mythology over a long, extended period of time. He observes, “The prevalence of the exodus tradition in the Bible demonstrates its importance as a foundational collective memory from ancient Israel that predates the monarchy and survives into the time of the early rabbis and followers of Jesus.
“Postbiblical exodus traditions take many forms, from the Jewish observance of Passover to Christian celebrations of Easter, Muslim teachings about the Prophet Musa, and modern liberation theologies. Though many modern readers have asked whether episodes of the exodus, from the plagues in Egypt to the parting of the Red Sea, “really happened,” the exodus remains one of the most powerful narratives of divine compassion and liberation found in the Bible.”
For Jews, this story is foundational. It is both in the remembrance of that first “passing over” at the annual Passover dinner in people’s homes, but also in the self-identity of the people as chosen by the Lord for a special, designated purpose, saved from the antagonisms of hostile surrounding nations, such that the story gains life and becomes effective as a fundamental mythos, a story that explains the very essence of who Jews are.
For Christians, it is in the remembrance of “the night on which the Lord [Jesus] was betrayed”, in the oft-repeated eucharistic celebration in local churches and cathedrals, that the story is foundational. It is part of the central thread of the grand narrative (the death and resurrection of Jesus) that sits at the heart of that religion.
That the story involves bloodshed and death—as well as rescue and salvation—indicates the earthy nature of each faith. Judaism and Christianity alike are grounded in the realities of human existence and deal with factors that are of the essence of human life. It is a foundational story that is important to remember. But that does not mean that the story is without problems.
The fate of the Egyptians, first being bogged in the muddy ground, next panicking as they are subsumed by the waters, and then drowning in the rising sea, is a difficult part of the story. The claim that God deliberately hardens their hearts (14:17) in order to lure them into the waters, is abhorrent. Is this really what God is like? Or is this an element introduced into the story by the narrator, to provide some form of explanation for their fate? I lean to the latter—but it still does not make for easy reading.
This part of the story remains, sitting as an accusatory claim. It is hard to resolve this in a satisfactory way. The Egyptians become a cipher for all with whom the Israelites struggled, over the centuries. They symbolise “the other”; and with the Canaanites, later in the grand narrative, they exercise a peculiar function; a reminder of those who were “in the way” of the grand plan (of God, it was claimed) that was being enacted.
They are difficult people in the way of the story–much like the First Peoples of the continent of Australia and its surrounding islands are “in the way” of the grand colonising, civilising narrative that has been created by powerful white historians, storytellers, and political leaders.
There is, however, another side of the story of Israel, which is presented in the concluding verses of this week’s passage. What happened in the Sea of Reeds is remembered as the day when “the Lord saved Israel … from the Egyptians” (14:20), the day when “Israel saw the great work that the Lord did against the Egyptians” (14:31). It is a story designed to evoke and strengthen faith.
The graphic scene is sketched in few words, but they are telling words: “Israel saw the Egyptians dead on the seashore” (14:30). That is a vastly understated comment. If you have ever seen pictures from the Western Front battles during World War I, you will know that a scene of dead bodies littering the ground is indeed a gruesome and sobering sight. The Exodus story contains just such a devastating scene.
But the whole purpose of the story is not to lament the dead (they are mere collateral damage, in modern terminology). It is to encourage faith and hope amongst those who have continued as faithful in subsequent years. “So the people feared the Lord and believed in the Lord and in his servant Moses” (14:31). Another brief, pointed observation. All’s well that ends well, it would seem—at least, for the victors.
Many psalms in the later sections of the Book of Psalms begin with the exclamation, “praise the Lord!” (106:1; 111:1; 112:1; 117:1; 135:1; 146:1; 147:1; 148:1; 149:1; 150:1), whilst some end with that same exclamation (105:45; 106:48; 115:18; 117:2; 135:21; 146:10; 147:20; 148:14; 149:9; 150:6). We find this phrase at the beginning and at the end of Psalm 149, which is offered by the lectionary as the psalm for this coming Sunday.
Singing (v.1) is mentioned often in the psalms: “how good it is to sing praise to our God” (147:1), “with my song I give thanks to him” (28:7), “I will praise the name of God with a song” (69:30), and so the people of Israel are encouraged to “sing to God … lift up a song to him who rides on the clouds” (68:4), “raise a song, sound the tambourine, the west lyre with the harp” (81:2). A whole sequence of “songs of ascent” are included in this book, reflecting the journey of pilgrims as the approach the temple to bring their offerings (psalms 120—134).
, was a staple part of the temple liturgy. The Chronicler regularly reports the role that “the singers” had in the Temple, where “they were on duty [to sing] day and night” (1 Chron 9:33). They were to “play on musical instruments, on harps and lyres and cymbals, to raise loud sounds of joy” (1 Chron 15:16; see also 2 Chron 5:12–13; 9:11; 23:13; 29:28; 35:15).
In the return of the people to the city after the Exile, singers take their place alongside “the gatekeepers and the temple servants” (Ezra 2:70; 7:7; 7:24; Neh 7:1, 73; 10:28, 39; 12:45–47; 13:5). Often in these passages they are mentioned in association with the Levites. It was the descendants of Levi who had been appointed to take care of the Tabernacle (Num 1:51–53; 1 Sam 6:15; 2 Sam 5:24; 1 Ki 8:4) and then the Temple (1 Chron 6:48), “living in the chambers of the temple free from other service” (1 Chron 9:33–34).
Psalms are often communal. This particular psalm which we hear this coming Sunday is set “in the assembly of the faithful” (Ps 149:1), as others seem to be (Ps 7:7; 89:5; 107:32). Still other psalms reflect a setting in “the sanctuary of the Lord” (Ps 60:6; 68:35; 96:6; 108:7; 150:1). Sing “a new song” is often enjoined by the psalmists (33:3; 40:3; 96:1; 98:1; 144:9; and here, 149:1). This refrain is picked up by the four living creatures and the twenty-four elders in heaven (Rev 5:9) and then “the one hundred and forty-four thousand who had [the Lamb’s] name and his Father’s name written on their foreheads” (Rev 14:1–2). These latter texts have occasioned much interest in what, exactly, that “new song” was. But who knows?
The instruction to “let them praise his name … making melody to him with tambourine and lyre” (v.3) is repeated in “praise the Lord with the lyre, make melody to him with the harp of ten strings” (Ps 33:2) and further expanded in the complete orchestral array that is mentioned in Ps 150:1–6, as well as in narrative texts concerning the band of prophets coming to meet Samuel and Saul (1 Sam 10:5) and the sons of Jeduthun (1 Chron 25:1–8). Job notes that faithful people “sing to the tambourine and the lyre” (Job 21:12) and David, of course, was recognised for his skill with the lyre (1 Sam 16:14–16, 23; 18:10).
The role of playing the tambourine appears to have been linked with young girls (Ps 68:25) and women (1 Sam 18:6), following the example of “the prophet Miriam, Aaron’s sister” (Exod 15:20). There are tambourines in the instrumental array in the time of David (2 Sam 6:5; 1 Chron 13:8) and they are noted by Jeremiah (Jer 31:4) and in Judith’s “new psalm” of praise to God (Judith 16:1).
Their presence at weddings is reflected in the sad tale of the wedding of the family of Jambri, where weapons concealed amongst “the tambourines and musicians” are used to perpetrate a huge slaughter, such that “the wedding was turned into mourning and the voice of their musicians into a funeral dirge” (1 Mac 9:37–41).
A group of terracotta figurines dating to the eight-seventh century BCE. These small figurines, six–eight inches tall, represent female figures playing the hand-drum, which was probably a woman’s instrument in ancient Israel. These terracottas are in the collection of the Israel Museum in Jerusalem. Photo by Carol Meyers, Duke University; from https://jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/women-with-hand-drums-dancing-bible
Dancing in temple worship (v.3) is also noted in other psalms; on Zion “singers and dancers alike say, ‘all my springs are in you’” (Ps 87:7), and praising God “with tambourine and dance” is encouraged in the great final psalm of praise (Ps 150:4). Dancing appears also in the narrative texts concerning Miriam (Exod 15:20), the daughter of Jephthah (Judg 11:34), Saul (1 Sam 8:6), and David (2 Sam 6:5; 1 Chron 13:8; 15:29).
The psalm ends with a celebration of the ways that God’s justice will be implemented (Ps 149:6–9), which is bracketed by reference to “the faithful” who “exult in glory” (v.5) and the closing affirmation, “this is glory for all his faithful ones” (v.9). These “faithful ones” are active in offering praise in other psalms (Ps 30:4), for they are valued by God. The psalmists affirm that the Lord “will not forsake his faithful ones” (Ps 37:28) and that their death is “precious … in the sight of the Lord” (Ps 116:15).
Yet regarding God’s just actions as the “glory” which God grants to these “faithful ones” is a reminder of the realities of the world in which the Israelites lived. It was marked by conflicts and battles, by bloodshed and killings, by invasions and deportations, so the judgement of God was sought by the “faithful ones” in brutal terms. With “two-edged swords”, with fetters and chains of iron, so “the judgement decreed” by the Lord God will take place (vv.6–9).
After which, the psalmist takes breath, and concludes, “Praise the Lord!” Indeed!
Whenever Christians think about the Spirit—and specifically about the dynamic force that is displayed by the Holy Spirit—our attention goes most immediately to the story of the Day of Pentecost in Acts 2. That’s when the coming of the Spirit was experienced as “a sound like the rush of a violent wind [which] filled the entire house where they were sitting”, followed by “tongues, as of fire … resting on each of them” (vv.2–3).
In the chaos that resulted—“all of them … began to speak in other languages”—the crowd that heard them were bewildered, amazed, astonished, and thought that they were drunk! That’s a disruptive event initiated and impelled by the Spirit right there. The story of Pentecost is a story about God intervening, overturning, and reshaping the people of God. The Spirit certainly was active at Pentecost.
As Luke tells the story of Pentecost, he is deliberately linking his second volume, not only to the activity of the Spirit in Hebrew Scriptures, but also to the way the Spirit overshadowed Mary (Luke 1:35), nurtured John, son of Zechariah and Elizabeth (1:80), descended upon Jesus at his baptism (3:22), led Jesus out into the Judean wilderness (4:1) and then back into Galilee (Luke 4:14) to sustain the activities and preaching of Jesus (4:18; 10:21).
Luke, of course, had received the account of the active role of the spirit in the baptism and testing of Jesus (Mark 1:10, 12) and developed it, just as Matthew had done likewise, introducing the saying of Jesus, “if it is by the Spirit of God that I cast out demons, then the kingdom of God has come to you” (Matt 12:28).
Certainly, the activities of Jesus can only be thought of as both disruptive—framed by the breach of the heavens at his baptism, the tearing of the temple curtain at his death—and as transformative—signalled by the transfiguration on the mountain top, as well as the change in the disciples effected by their time with Jesus.
Some interpreters have noted that the book of Acts is less about “the acts (deeds) of the apostles” than it is about “the acts of the Hoy Spirit”.
The author himself described the two-volumes work (Luke’s Gospel Acts) as “an orderly account of the things that have come to fulfilment amongst us”. The work highlights how the Holy Spirit plays a central, active role in what is being reported—and how the dual motifs of disruption and transformation continue apace in the movement that Jesus inspired.
The events reported in Acts are generated from the dramatic intervention of the Spirit into the early community formed by the followers of Jesus after his ascension. The story of that intervention reports that Jews came from around the eastern Mediterranean are gathered in Jerusalem for the annual festival (Acts 2:1–13), when the Spirit comes upon them. Each bursts out, “speaking about God’s deeds of power” (2:11). The joy and excitement is tangible even as we hear the story at two millennia’s distance.
Unthinkingly, the wider group of pilgrims hear the cacophony of Spirit-inspired voices, and assume that this is a sign of drunkenness (2:13, 15). Actually, as Luke has made clear, the tongues being heard are not the unintelligible gibberish evident in Corinth, but known languages from the various places of origin of those speaking. And the disruptive element is not from the tongues spoken, but from the actions undertaken by believers in the days, months, and years ahead—as the narrative of Acts conveys.
A second story of the coming of the Spirit is told at a later point in Acts—after Peter sees a vision in which God declares “all food is clean”, and he is summoned to the home of the Gentile centurion, Cornelius, in Caesarea (10:1–33). As Peter preaches to the Gentiles, the Spirit falls on them, “just as it had upon us [Jews] at the beginning (11:15). This event is specifically portrayed as a complementary event alongside the falling of the Spirit on Jews on the Day of Pentecost (2:1–4). It is a further disruptive action that the Spirit impels.
The activity of the Spirit is noted at various places in this sequence of events. The Spirit guides Peter to meet the men sent by Cornelius and travel with them to Caesarea (10:19; 11:12). In reporting to the church in Jerusalem about the arrival of messengers from Cornelius (11:11–12), Peter notes simply that “the spirit said to me to go with them without criticism” (11:12; cf. 10:19–20).
In this report to the Jerusalem church, Peter is short on factual reporting, as it were; he simply states that the spirit fell on them (11:15). His omission of many details (character traits, travel details, conversation and personnel; even, surprisingly, the name of Cornelius) places the focus on the role of the spirit. Once again, what the Spirit impels from this vision, visit, and sermon, is highly disruptive for the early communities of faith.
Jews had been used to eating separately from Gentiles and selectively in terms of food, in accordance with the prescriptions of Leviticus. Now, they are now invited—indeed, commanded—to share at table with Gentiles and to put aside the traditional dietary demarcations.
This is disruptive: just imagine being commanded by God to become vegan and eat meals with the family of your worst nightmares, for instance! And it is transformative: from this sequence there emerge inclusive communities of Jews and Gentiles across the Mediterranean basin, sharing at table and in all manner of ways. That becomes the way of the church.
The importance of the Spirit in Luke’s account of the early movement cannot be underestimated. The significance for the church today of the Spirit’s disruptive, empowering, transformative presence at Pentecost is likewise high. And that transformative activity continues on throughout Acts.
After Peter’s sermon in Caesarea and the gifting of the Spirit to the Gentiles (Acts 10—11), the Spirit guides Barnabas and Paul to Seleucia and onwards (13:2) and then later guides Paul away from Asia Minor, towards Macedonia (16:6–7). This latter move marks a critical stage in the story that Luke tells.
At this key moment of decision in Troas, three injunctions are given; each one is from a divine source. The first of these, an instruction not to speak in the southern region of Asia, comes from the Holy Spirit (16:6). The second direction, a prohibition against any attempt to head north and enter Bithynia, comes from the same spirit, here described as “the spirit of Jesus” (16:7). The third divine interjection takes place at Troas, where a vision is seen in the night with a petition to “come across into Macedonia” (16:9).
The new spirit-inspired direction of travel is disorienting; a serious disagreement between Paul and Barnabas had just occurred (15:39). But this disruption provides the springboard for Paul and Silas to undertake a new mission in Philippi, Thessalonica, and Beroea (16:11—17:15), before visiting the centre of Greek philosophy and politics, Athens (17:16–34), and then Corinth, where Paul stayed eighteen months (18:1–17). Indeed, all that takes place, as Paul travels relentlessly with various companions across many places (13:4—21:17), is driven by the Spirit (13:2, 4), a constantly disruptive and transformative presence.
Much later, Paul’s final visit to Jerusalem and his subsequent arrest takes place under the guidance of the Spirit (20:22-23; 21:11). That event had hugely disruptive consequences for Paul, of course, as he is arrested and spends the rest of his life as a prisoner under Roman guard.
The story of the early years of the movement initiated by Jesus, then, is of multiple events inspired and propelled by the Spirit over these years—intrusive, disruptive, yet transformative events. The Spirit who guides all of this is both disruptive and transform. We need, today, to be open to the same disruption and transformation today.
Whenever Christians think about the Spirit—and specifically about the dynamic force that is displayed by the Holy Spirit—our attention goes most immediately to the story of the Day of Pentecost in Acts 2. That’s when the coming of the Spirit was experienced as “a sound like the rush of a violent wind [which] filled the entire house where they were sitting”, followed by “tongues, as of fire … resting on each of them” (vv.2–3). And, of course, the chaos that resulted—“all of them … began to speak in other languages” meant that the crowd that heard them were bewildered, amazed, astonished, and thought that they were drunk!
That’s a disruptive event initiated and impelled by the Spirit right there. The story of Pentecost is a story about God intervening, overturning, and reshaping the people of God. The Spirit certainly was active at Pentecost; but this was not the first time that Jewish people had experienced the Spirit. Pentecost was far from being the first time that the Spirit came and caused upheaval!
Hebrew Scripture refers to the actions of the spirit at many places throughout the story of Israel. In the Exodus from Egypt, the foundational story of Israel—an incredibly disruptive and disturbing experience, to be sure!—the Spirit was at work. “You gave your good spirit to instruct them, and did not withhold your manna from their mouths, and gave them water for their thirst” is how Ezra recounts the story (Neh 9:20–22). It was the work of the Spirit to release the captives from Egypt, lead them through the challenges of the wilderness, and then bring them into the land promised to them.
The Spirit which had guided Moses and was then gifted to chosen elders (Num 11:16–25) was subsequently imparted to Joshua (Num 27:18; Deut 34:9) and then to a string of Judges: Othniel (Judg 3:10), Gideon (6:34), Jephthah (11:29), and Samson (13:24–25; 14:6,19; 15:14). Each of these men led their people through dangerous, challenging, and turbulent experiences, as they sought to impose Israelite domination on the peoples already living in Canaan.
We might justifiably have a different ethical assessment of this process today—invasion, colonisation, and massacre are familiar dynamics, unfortunately, in the Australian context—but for our present purposes we can note that the Spirit was the energising force in this long and disruptive process. It was disruptive for the inhabitants of the land, as they lost homes, families, and cultural heritage. It was disruptive for the invading Israelites, as they followed they call of their leaders to enter and inhabit the land that they believed God had long promised to them.
The Spirit was also active during the period of kingship in Israel. Saul, after he was anointed as king, was possessed by the Spirit and fell into “a prophetic frenzy” (1 Sam 10:6, 10). During his reign, the Spirit continued to operate through David (1 Sam 16:13; 2 Sam 23:2) and presumably gifted Solomon with “his very great wisdom, discernment, and breadth of understanding as vast as the sand on the seashore” (1 Ki 4:29–34; and see Prov 2:6–11). Perhaps Solomon was the model for the spirit-gifted wisdom exhibited by Joseph (Gen 41:33, 38–39), when the ancestral sagas were collected and compiled into the book of Genesis?
It was the Spirit seen in these first three kings who would be seen as the agent for God to be at work in subsequent rulers (Isaiah 11:2). In addition, the prophetic frenzy manifested by Saul might well be regarded as the prototype for later prophetic activity. It signals just how powerfully the work of the Spirit can disrupt and disturb individuals, and a collective group.
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The clearest example of this personally disruptive impact is found in the story of the priest Ezekiel, son of Buzi, who was dramatically called to be a prophet. After Ezekiel saw a striking and bizarre vision of a winged chariot, bearing four winged figures (Ezek 1:4–28), he fell on his face; but the Spirit grabbed hold of Ezekiel, entering into him and raising him up onto his feet (Ezek 2:2). Ezekiel has the same visceral experience many more times (Ezek 3:12, 14, 24; 8:3; 11:1, 24; 37:1; 43:5). The work of the Spirit was anything but calm and measured for Ezekiel.
In his prophecies, Ezekiel notes that the Lord God promised to mete out the same dramatic treatment to the Israelites during their exile (Ezek 11:19; 36:26–27; 37:14). Being seized by the Spirit would reorient the hearts and refashion the lives of the exiles, as they look to a return to the land. That is thoroughly disruptive!
Other prophets also look to the activity of the Spirit to be both disruptive and also transformative. The Spirit would inspire prophecies amidst dramatic portents (Joel 2:28–42); the Spirit would declare the way of justice in the midst of the injustices perpetrated by the people, which presages ruin for the land (Micah 3:8–12); and the Spirit would equip leadership during the return to the land, ahead of the tumult of God “shaking the heavens and the earth and the sea and the dry land” (Haggai 1:14—2:9).
The book of Isaiah contains various exilic oracles which point to the Spirit as the agent of declaring justice to the people (Isa 42:1–9; 61:1–11) and wreaking revenge on the enemies of Israel (Isa 48:14–16). Once again, the disruptive dimension of the Spirit’s work is evident.
In later texts in Hebrew Scripture, there are indications that the spirit inhabits human beings simply through the fact that they exist as the creations of God (Job 27:3; 32:18; 33:4; Zech 12:1). Indeed, all of creation came into being through the spirit of God (Ps 104:30). The act of creation itself was a fracturing of an existing state, a breaking-open of what was for it to become something other than what it had been. Creative activity is disruptive activity.
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So the last thing to note about the Spirit in Hebrew Scripture is the first thing that is said about it in the opening chapter of Genesis—the post-exilic priestly document which recounts the foundational creation myth of the Israelite peoples. As the story of creation is placed at the very beginning of the first scroll in the Hebrew Scriptures (Gen 1:1—2:4a), it is explicitly noted that it was by the spirit of God that the creation came into being (Gen 1:1-3).
That creative act began with complete chaos, and shaped and formed the “formless void and darkness” of the very beginning, to become an ordered, cohesive, complex system of inter-relating parts. The status quo of formless nothingness was disrupted, as the wondrously beautiful creation was shaped by “a wind from God [which] swept over the face of the waters” (Gen 1:2). Interpreters over the centuries have assumed that this wind was in fact the Spirit of God, active from the very beginning of God’s creative act.
The Holy Spirit was already integral to the faith of the ancient Israelites. The Holy Spirit continued to play a key role for the early Christians. The Holy Spirit remains a force to be reckoned with in our own times, today. The Spirit may well be how God is calling us to disrupt the status quo of the church today!
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 Hebrew Scripture reading for Pentecost 15 (Exodus 12:1–14). 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?
The Crossing of the Red Sea by Nicholas Poussin (1633–34)
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.
The Gospel we ascribe to the authorship of Matthew the tax collector, the first of the four in the canon of the New Testament, is distinctive for a number of reasons. One of those is that it contains a collection of the sayings of Jesus which relate to life in the community of faith—a kind of a miniature “community rule” for the people for whom the author was writing.
Those sayings are collected together in chapter 18, which is the fourth of five teaching blocks in the arrangement made by the author of this Gospel. We will hear and read some of those words this coming Sunday (Matt 18:15–20, Pentecost 15A), and then a parable relating to these teachings next week (Matt 18:21–35, Pentecost 16A). And this week’s reading contains some stridently harsh words from Jesus: if a person who has “sinned against” refuses to be reconciled, then “let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collectors” (18:17)!
These five teaching blocks canvass ethical imperatives (5:1–7:29), missional guidelines (10:5–11:1), parables of the kingdom (13:1–53), relationships within the community of faith (18:1–19:1), and apocalyptic predictions about the coming kingdom along with strengthened indications of what righteousness is required in that kingdom (23:1–26:2). These teachings are demanding and comprehensive.
In each block of material, the author has drawn together teachings of Jesus that have been assembled from various sources, and arranged in a manner that presents these collected sayings and teachings as a cohesive, sermon-like presentation. The hand of the author is clear, just as the voice of Jesus is strong.
So the first fourteen verses of this chapter comprise words which are found at various places in the Gospel of Mark, one of Matthew’s sources, as well as in the sayings material which is believed to have been collected earlier, in the hypothetical source known as Q. (Material in Q, according to this theory, was known to and used by both Matthew and Luke, but in different ways and in different places in their works.)
The first five verses (18:1–5) report the words of Jesus about the child and the kingdom of heaven, which are included in all three Synoptic Gospels. When a child is placed before him, Jesus declares that “unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven; whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven” (18:3–4). The same saying is found in slightly varied forms at Mark 10:14–15 and Luke 18:16–17.
The conclusion to this short scene, “whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me” (Matt 18:5), is a variant on an earlier Matthean saying, “whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me” (Matt 10:40; and the subsequent variations, 10:41–42).
This, in turn, is derived from Mark’s own earlier account of when Jesus “took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, ‘Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me’” (Mark 9:36–37). Luke replicates this at Luke 9:47–48.
So the first section of this chapter already shows the dependence of the author on an earlier source, and his willingness to appropriate and reshape the material for his own purposes.
The next four verses (18:6–9) deal with skandala, a group of sayings that Mark reports in his account: “if any of you put a stumbling block [a skandalon] before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea” (Mark 9:42). Mark himself then extends this saying with reference to having a hand or foot cut off, if it is a skandalon, as well as an eye plucked out if it, also, is a skandalon (Mark 9:43–48).
Matthew includes all the material that he finds in his Markan source—the little ones, the errant hand and foot, and the eye—and expands it, adding some words that intensify the warning: “Woe to the world because of stumbling blocks! Occasions for stumbling are bound to come, but woe to the one by whom the stumbling block comes!” (Matt 18:7).
Luke reports the initial words of Jesus (Luke 17:1–2), but then places the word about forgiving another member of the community (Luke 17:3) and the command to “forgive seven times seven” (Luke 17:4)—a word which provides the basis for the last section in Matthew’s fourth teaching block (Matt 18:15–35). So Luke and Matthew have each collated diverse words of Jesus, but in different combinations.
Before that, however, Matthew has Jesus tell the parable of the lost sheep (Matt 18:10–14), which is found also in Luke 15. In Luke’s recounting of the story, it is the first of three parables focussed on seeking the lost and welcoming them home with joy.: a list sheep, a list coin, and then two sons, each list for very different reasons
In Matthew’s narrative, however, the parable stands on its own, as a hinge between the warnings about skandala and instructions about dealing with conflict. The orientation is clear: stumbling blocks present problems, but the Gospel includes a call to seek reconciliation and embrace the return of a repentant one—for “it is not the will of your Father in heaven that one of these little ones should be lost” (18:14).
So the theme is set for passage which is offered by the lectionary this Sunday (18:15–20), which deals with conflict within the community. There is a short and direct statement about such a situation that is made by Jesus in Luke’s account: “if another disciple sins, you must rebuke the offender, and if there is repentance, you must forgive; and if the same person sins against you seven times a day, and turns back to you seven times and says, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive” (Luke 17:2–3).
It seems that this word comprises a reflection that sits neatly alongside an independent Markan saying: “whenever you stand praying, forgive, if you have anything against anyone; so that your Father in heaven may also forgive you your trespasses” (Mark 11:25). That word provides the undergirding for the instruction to forgive: God offers forgiveness.
Divine forgiveness is a theme that the Hebrew prophets of old surely knew (see Isa 33:24; Jer 31:34; 33:8; 36:3; Ezek 16:62–63; Dan 9:9, 17–19; Amos 7:1–3; Hos 4:4–7) and which the psalmists regularly sought (Ps 25:18; 32:1; 65:3; 79:9). They know that, “if you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, Lord, who could stand? But there is forgiveness with you, so that you may be revered” (Ps 130:3–4). And so Jesus instructs his disciples, when praying, to ask God to “forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us” (Luke 11:4; and compare Matt 6:12).
In Matthew’s reworking of this Q material, it takes no less than twenty verses to get from the presenting problem—“if another member of the community sins against you” (18:15)—to the final resolution, that we are to show mercy and forgive—for “if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart”, neither will God forgive you (18:35). Matthew does this through some direct instructions (18:15–20), which we hear in this week’s lectionary readings, and then an extended parable (18:21–35), which we will hear in the following week’s lectionary offerings.
The construction of this instructional section is clear and informative. There are four “if” clauses, setting out a hypothetical situation: “if another member sins” (v.15a), “if the member listens” (v.15b), “if you are not listened to” (v.16), and “if the member refuses to listen” (v.17). We know that this is a hypothetical situation, because the syntax of the Greek at this point does not use the simple construction for a “real present condition”, ei followed by the verb in the indicative mood, with a resolution also in the indicative.
Here, the syntax is ean followed by the verb in the subjunctive mood, followed by a resolution in the indicative. That pattern appears four times in these three verses. Jesus (via Matthew) is setting out a possible scenario, with clear guidance as to what course of action is to be taken in that scenario.
For the first three times, the response is clear and compassionate. If a sin occurs, “go and point out the fault” (v.15a). If the person listens, “you have regained that person” (v.15b). If the person does not listen, “take one or two others with you” (v.16). And as the situation increases, the inclusion of others in the process broadens the responsibility for possible resolution.
It is thought that the “one or two others” in the third step reflects the need for “two or three witnesses” in the prescriptions of Torah (Deut 17:6, and especially 19:15). Indeed, the author of this Gospel, as a pious Jew immersed in the details of Torah, would have known well the process that is outlined in Deut 19:15–21, which provides that “a single witness shall not suffice to convict a person of any crime or wrongdoing” (Deut 19:15).
It is this passage, famously, that proceeds through a process of clarification—particularly in relation to identifying a false witness (Deut 19:16–19)—before the culminating sentence is pronounced: “so you shall purge the evil from your midst … show no pity: life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot” (Deut 19:19, 21). Justice is clear; justice is hard; justice is demanded.
Seen in the light of this Torah provision, we can therefore understand the sequence that Jesus, via Matthew, envisages: a private conversation, then a conversation with witnesses , and then, if required, a full, public declaration of the sin—and the punishment, “let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector” (Matt 18:17).
The process that Matthew envisages is oriented towards “regaining” the one who has sinned. The Greek word in verse 15 which is translated in this way was used by Paul to indicate success as he seeks to convince people to follow Jesus as Messiah (1 Cor 9:19–23; notice the reacting “so that I might win”). It may be that Matthew has this in mind in his use of the word in verse 15; the aim is to “win” or “regain” a person back into the community, through a process of intensified persuasion.
I confess that I once wrote a detailed exegesis of this passage which argued that this word provided the key to the passage: the aim was to regain a person, to have reconciliation. I even went on to claim that “like a Gentile or a tax collector” in verse 17 did not mean, banish this person from the community, but consider them to be providing a new opportunity for them to be “converted”, persuaded of the value of the Gospel. My professor said it was very well argued, even though he did not agree with my somewhat optimistic conclusion. (I got a good grade, though!)
In the decades since then, a number of conversations with my wife Elizabeth—who has spent more time focussing on Matthew’s Gospel than I have, even though I have taught courses on Matthew for 20 years now—convinced me that the clue lies in the words used in verse 17. After all, neither a Gentile nor a tax collector is highly regarded in this Torah-informed Gospel.
Jesus, in Matthew’s account, instructs his disciples “do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do” (6:7), noting that “if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others? do not even the Gentiles do the same.” (5:47), and also that “it is the Gentiles who strive for these things” that are of passing value—food and drink, the length of life and our clothing—on contrast to “the kingdom of God and God’s righteous-justice” (Matt 6:32–33). The Gentiles do not get a good rap from the Matthean Jesus.
Indeed, in this Gospel, Jesus quite distinctively commands his disciples, “go nowhere among the Gentiles, and enter no town of the Samaritans, but go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel” (10:5-6), and dismissively informs a Canaanite woman, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel”, and so “it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs” (15:24, 26). Keep away from the Gentiles is his persistent message! (Until that is reversed by the risen Jesus, in a great turnaround, at 28:19–20).
And as for tax collectors: the first thing to say ist hat whilst the traditional understanding is that this Gospel was written by a tax collector (the one identified at 9:9), scholarly interpreters regularly dismiss this as later tradition, and note that working from the text leads us to conclude that the author was more likely a fervent, pious Jew, Torah-abiding and also deeply committed to regarding Jesus as rabbi, teacher, and Messiah.
Of course, Jesus was known for eating with tax collectors (Mark 2:15–16 and parallels)—but not so much with Gentiles (especially in Matthew’s Gospel!). Here, however, the tax collectors to whom the errant community member are to be dispatched (18:17) are those linked with sinners (9:10–11; 11:19) and with prostitutes (21:32), those who, rather than loving their enemies (5:44), “love those who love you”. “Do not even the tax collectors do the same?”, Jesus asks (5:46), placing them on par with the Gentiles, as we have already noted (5:47). So in this Gospel, it seems that to be with tax collectors and Gentiles is to be amongst those, outcast from God, who are determined to live in a way that does not reflect how Jesus understands God wants his people to live.
So the Matthew passage results in the Sam end as the Deuteronomy passage” “purge the evil from your midst” (Deut 19:19), let the sinful one “be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector” (Matt 18:17). In both cases, the need for a clear boundary, marking off the faithful from the evil ones who surrounded them, was paramount. No gentle Jesus, meek and mild, here!!
The decision is undergirded by words about binding and loosing which harken back to the authority given to Peter (16:19). It is a decision reinforced by divine authority—what is decided on earth “will have been bound (or loosed) in heaven”.
“Love is the fulfilling of the law”, Paul asserts in the passage that we are offered by the lectionary for consideration this coming Sunday (Rom 13:8–14). “Christ is the end of the law”, he has boldly asserted in an early part of the letter (Rom 10:4). How do these two seemingly contradictory statements stand alongside each other? What is the status of the law—the Torah, the foundation of Jewish life and faith—for Christians?
In making his statement about Christ and the Law (10:4), Paul has used an important Greek word: telos. This is regularly translated as “Christ is the end of the Law”; but we might well ask, what is the sense of the word “end” in this verse? On the one hand, this word might does infer a meaning of “the end as and abolition”, doing away with the Law. Apart from the fact that this directly contradicts what Jesus said about his intention not to abolish any single part of the Law (Matt 5:17–18), it is a most an unsatisfactory supercessionist reading, which completely does away with all the Old Testament.
On the other hand, there is the sense (which I prefer) that this means “the end as in bringing to the height of fulfilment”. In which case, Christ is bringing the Law to its logical and natural end, or goal: the complete expression of the Law through love. In other places where the word telos is used, it has this sense of bringing to fulfilment or bringing to perfection.
Indeed, this latter sense accords with the use of the term in other Pauline texts, where it is used to refer to those with spiritual maturity. He encourages the Corinthians, “in your thinking, be adult (teleioi)” (1 Cor 14:20). He confesses to the Philippians, “not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal (teteleiōmenoi)” (Phil 3:12) and exhorts “those of us then who are mature [to] be of the same mind” (Phil 3:15).
In later letter claiming Paul as author, the term signifies those “mature in Christ (teleioi en Christō)” (Col 1:28; see also Eph 4:13). It is perhaps similar to the meaning in Hebrews, which makes the claim that Jesus is the means of offering a perfect sacrifice (Heb 2:10; 5:9) through which “by a single offering he has perfected (teteleiōken)for all time those who are sanctified” (Heb 10:14).
Of course, the idea of being perfect is integral to the appreciation of God that is expressed at various places in Hebrew Scripture. “This God—his way is perfect”, the psalmist sings (Ps 18:30; echoed also at Deut 32:4; 2 Sam 22:31; Job 37:16), and in another psalm, “the law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul” (Ps 19:7).
So the temple that Solomon built was to be perfect (1 Ki 6:22), the sacrifice of wellbeing to be offered there, “to be acceptable it must be perfect, there shall be no blemish in it” (Lev 22:21), and no person with a blemish is able to serve as a priest (Lev 21:16–24).
Perhaps this is the sense of telos, perfection, complete fulfillment, that sits underneath the use of this word by Paul at Rom 10:4? That would mean that he is proposing that Christ brings the Law to a state of perfection in which it is filled to overflowing with God’s goodness.
Certainly, this would explain why Paul is able to affirm that “the whole law is summed up in a single commandment, ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself’” (Gal 5:14). Law and love are here seen in close interrelationship with one another, not in opposition to one another. Love is the essence of the Law, bringing fulfillment what the Law set forth.
And that would also explain the words we have in this coming Sunday’s reading from Rom 13, that “the one who loves another has fulfilled the law” and so “love is the fulfilling of the law” (Rom 13:8, 10).
The key words used in Rom 13:8–10 are equally strong with regard to the ongoing validity and relevance of the Law, for Paul. He uses two words derived from the verb plēroō, meaning “to fill up”, and thus, “to fulfill”. In 13:8, he says that “love has fulfilled the law”, using the perfect form of the verb, peplērōken. The perfect has the sense of an action completed in the past which has consequences which continue on into the present time. So the fulfilling of the Law in the past by deeds of love has ongoing consequences—that Law, those acts of love, impinge on the present time.
Then, in 13:10, Paul reiterates that “love is the fulfilling of the law”, using a noun formed from this verb, plērōma. That conveys the idea that the Law has been filled right up to overflowing, fully and completely, by acts of love. The Law remains relevant and potent, because of those fulfilling acts of love.
Alongside these two words, Paul uses another word to make a similarly strong statement. Quoting for of the Ten Commandments, he affirms that these laws are “summed up” in another set of words, taken from Hebrew Scripture itself: “love your neighbour as yourself” (13:9, quoting Lev 19:18). The verb translated “summed up” is anakephalaioutai, a compound word combining the idea of “the head” (kephalē) and “brought up to” (the preposition ana).
This word contains the sense, then, that everything is gathered together and taken up into the head; obedience to each and every one of the commandments of the Law is gathered together and taken up into the head, that is, in the act of loving the neighbour.
Paul could not be clearer, and could not be stating things more strongly: the Law is filled to overflowing in love. The Law continues to have power. It is not abandoned as irrelevant or outdated.
Paul’s attitude to the Law, however, is quite complex. He trained as a Pharisee, and he notes at he was “far more zealous for the traditions of my ancestors” (Gal 1:14), and so he has a “delight in the law of God in my inmost self” (Rom 7:22). He affirms that he upholds the Law (Rom 3:31), alluding to various commands in The Ten Words which he insists are worth obeying (2:17–22), and affirming that, in its essential character, “the law is holy, and the commandment is holy and just and good” (7:12).
Yet his calling to be “apostle to the Gentiles” (Rom 11:23; Gal 2:8) led to his experience of eating at table with Jews and Gentiles together, in breach of kosher food laws (Gal 2:11–13)—an issue that is clearly in view decades later, as Luke writes his account of the early years of the Jesus movement, siding with Paul in the view that God has set aside the requirement for separate foods and separate tables (Acts 10:1–11:18; 15:19–20, 28–29).
This, in turn, leads Paul to his missionary goal of bridging the gap between Jews and Gentiles in practical ways (Rom 15:25–27), undergirded by the message that he preaches, affirming that salvation is offered “to everyone who has faith, to the Jew first and also to the Greek” (Rom 1:16; see also 2:10; 10:12; Gal 3:28; and the post-Pauline development in Eph 2:11–22). He is driven by the scriptural claim that “God shows no partiality” (Rom 2:11; Deut 16:19–20; 2 Chron 19:7; Sir 35:15–16).
So his letter to the Romans is a long and complex argument in which he explains how he understands that the good news is that “the righteous-justice of God [is] through faith in Jesus Christ for all who believe” (3:22), that there is “justification and life for all” (5:18). The argument builds and develops, demonstrating how God has chosen to make righteous-justice available to all human beings, through Abraham as through Jesus, by means of the indwelling Spirit.
So this leads Paul to write in negative terms about the Law. Although he maintains that having faith in Jesus does not “overthrow the law”, and he insists that “we uphold the law” (3:31), he goes on to note that “the law brings wrath” (4:14), for where “the law came in … the trespass multiplied” (5:20). “If it had not been for the law”, he asserts, “I would not have known sin” (7:7), and so “I am a slave to the law of sin” (7:25), and in Jesus, “God has done what the law, weakened by the flesh, could not do” (8:3).
Accordingly, “Israel, who did strive for the righteousness that is based on the law, did not succeed in fulfilling that law” (9:31). Or, as he portrays things in writing to the Galatians, “a person is justified not by the works of the law but through faith in Jesus Christ” (Gal 2:16), “through the law I died to the law” (2:19), “if justification comes through the law, then Christ died for nothing” (2:21), “no one is justified before God by the law” (3:11), and even, “if you are led by the Spirit, you are not subject to the law” (5:18).
However, to the proposition that he poses, “Is the law then opposed to the promises of God?”, Paul immediately replies, “Certainly not!” (3:21), and then argues that “the law was our disciplinarian until Christ came, so that we might be justified by faith” (3:24). This looks like Paul is ready to contend that the Law is superseded, and should be put aside. But not so fast; “I testify to every man who lets himself be circumcised that he is obliged to obey the entire law” (5:3). He is not prepared to let it go entirely. The Law still stands for Jews—but not for Gentiles.
Indeed, in the most complex midrashic section of his letter to the Romans, Paul plunges into a complex reading of scriptural texts in order to sanction the claim that God’s sovereign mercy offers a universal righteous-justice, both to Jews and to Gentiles alike (Rom 9:1–11:32).
This section of the letter contains the greatest concentration of scripture citations and allusions of the whole of this letter to the Romans—and, indeed, of all of the seven authentic letters of Paul. In the argument that is advanced by a Paul, whilst he signals the limits and inadequacies of the Law, he holds fast with the view that the Law is not rendered obsolete, but rather is brought to fulfilment (10:4; see the discussion above).
Paul,asks pointed questions: “does this mean that “the word of God had failed”? (9:6) and “has God rejected his people?” (11:1). “By no means!” is once again the Pauline riposte. “Through the stumbling [of Israel] salvation has come to the Gentiles, so as to make Israel jealous” (11:11), yet “as regards election they are beloved, for the sake of their ancestors; for the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable” (11:28–29).
The complex midrashic argumentation of these three chapters comes to a climax in a string of joyously prayerful affirmations concerning God’s “riches and wisdom and knowledge”, leading to the attribution of glory to God forever (11:33–36). This is the ultimate response to the singular grace of God’s gift of righteous-justice to all human beings. And that gracious gift fulfils, or brings to culmination, the Law that Israel was given.
An Informed Faith 