To boldly go ...
Commentary
For those of us of a certain age, we can only hear the admonition "to boldly go" as intoned by Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise (played by William Shatner). Each episode of the original Star Trek series was introduced by a prologue in the captain's voice extolling the virtues of space exploration and ending in the phrase, "to boldly go where no man has gone before." Apparently two centuries wasn't enough time to instill gender inclusive patterns of speech, but one more generation was since Captain Jean-Luc Picard (played by Patrick Stewart) altered the opening of the sequel Star Trek: The Next Generation to "to boldly go where no one has gone before." There seems to be no end for split infinitives, however.
The original television series, which ran from 1966-1969, called forth a bold optimism about the future at a time when the Cold War, strained race relations, rapid cultural change, and the excitement and danger of the space race -- all underlying themes of the series -- were on everyone's mind. There would always be perils, but humanity should move forward with boldness and confidence.
Although simple familiarity over the course of some two millennia of Christian tradition has all but eliminated it, there must have been something of the same sense of mixed joy and anxiety, boldness and apprehension among the first Jewish converts to Christianity. For probably more than a millennium they had approached God's presence through the mediation of priests and sacrifices. The great symbol of the separation between the holy realm of God and the profane world of humanity was the curtain in the temple separating the inner sanctum of the Most Holy Place from the outer sanctuary of the Holy Place -- neither of which could ever be entered by common folk. Yet, the author of Hebrews insisted, that frontier had been opened. "Therefore, my friends, since we have confidence to enter the sanctuary by the blood of Jesus, by the new and living way that he opened for us through the curtain, ... let us approach with a true heart in full assurance of faith" (Hebrews 10:19-22).
It is certainly not the case that access to the presence of God unmediated certainly by sacrifice or even by priest is uncharted space for mainline Protestants, something completely alien to our experience. But if we will be honest, we will admit that spiritual disciplines that induce both joy and apprehension in regular encounters with the Divine are not a characteristic most associated with us in this day and time. Regaining such experiences in worship, then, is not blazing new trails but once again following paths essential to our spiritual lives.
1 Samuel 1:4-20
In his book The Art of Biblical Narrative, Robert Alter introduced the idea of "type scenes" to biblical studies. Borrowed from work on Homer's poetry, he suggested that there were well-established conventional patterns for narrativizing certain types of stories (think of our own ways of telling westerns involving quick-draw sheriffs, or why everyone knows "the butler did it" in murder mysteries). These conventional ways of telling stories account for the tremendous similarities between some biblical narratives.
One of the biblical type scenes that he identifies is the annunciation. Its conventional plot involves strife between two wives because one has been unable to conceive children, the special love of the husband for the childless wife, and an oracle announcing the birth of an extraordinary child to the heretofore "barren" wife (to use the harsh term usually found in biblical texts). Obvious examples include Sarah, Rachel, and Hannah (for Alter's treatment of this text, see pages 81-86).
Understanding the role of conventions in constructing narratives helps to isolate the author's purposes in telling the story by showing the ways the author adopted and was constrained by those conventions and also the way that the author varies, plays with, or even flouts those conventions. By using the annunciation type scene here, the author indicates to his original readers (who were as well-versed in their cultural conventions as we are in ours) the special importance of the child who is to be born, Samuel, as clearly as the white hats and black hats identify the good guys and bad guys respectively in a traditional western. These circumstances of conception portend greatness for the child so born.
But just as important are the ways this story does not follow the conventions. Usually an angel (think not only of Sarah but also Mary and Elizabeth in the New Testament) or a trusted messenger from God gives the oracle. Yet here, the birth comes not because of a divine pronouncement from the blue, as it were, but rather in response to Hannah's prayer. Eli does not so much proclaim the miraculous birth of the child as simply offer the wish that the prayer he had so completely misunderstood might be granted (v. 17).
The usual relationships are thereby reversed. God does not choose a formerly childless woman to give birth to a special child, but rather it is the faith and devotion toward God of an exceptional woman that ultimately leads to the birth of an exceptional child. Had Hannah retaliated in response to the provocations of her "rival" (v. 6), accepted Elkanah's suggestion that his special regard for Hannah was enough (v. 8), or given in to the culture norms of decorum for those who made the pilgrimage to the tabernacle at Shiloh (vv. 9-16), then there would have been no Samuel. But because Hannah was bold enough to risk everything in the culture on her relationship with God, both her life -- and the lives of all ancient Israel -- was forever changed.
Hebrews 10:11-14 (15-18) 19-25
This text is the seventh and final lection in a series of sequential readings from Hebrews that began on Proper 22. Within the epistle itself, it marks the conclusion of an extended argument begun in chapter 7 about the superiority of Christ's high priesthood to that of his Levitical predecessors. As I stressed in the previous issue of Emphasis (see "God's greatness [and ours]" for Proper 24, October 19, 2003), this supercessionist view of the superiority of Christianity to traditional Judaism is problematic for our modern ecumenical sensitivities. But it must be stressed that this author's supercessionist tendencies relate to the understanding of God's covenant with the Jews in the light of Christ rather than the superiority of a separate Christian religion as over against Judaism conceived as a distinct religion. That is to say, for this author the debate is waged within a single covenant community, not between competing religions.
The verses assigned here in the lectionary represent two phases of this argument at the very heart of the epistle. Verses 11-18 are the concluding and climatic proof as to why Christ's work as high priest is superior to the work carried at in the earthly tabernacle and subsequent temples of Judaism. The author then offers in verses 19-25 his "so what?" response to what has gone before, introducing pragmatic implications for his readers that will extend through the remainder of the book.
Like much of the preceding argument, the climatic proof of Christ's superiority is heavily influenced by Neo-Platonic philosophical speculation (see the Emphasis article cited above). The significant point of contrast is raised in verses 11-12 where the author states "every priest stands day after day ... offering again and again the same sacrifices," whereas Christ "offered for all time a single sacrifice" and then "sat down at the right hand of God." That is to say, in Neo-Platonic terms, that all human priests necessarily offer material sacrifices that by their very material nature are only imperfect representations of the one only real sacrifice that is offered in the eternal realm of God (what Plato described metaphorically as "the ideal plane").
Perhaps even more than the first readers of Hebrews, we in the twenty-first century may be struck with a sense that it is all very interesting as an exercise in philosophical theology but that it has little to do with practical dimensions of life. After all, our culture has long since abandoned Neo-Platonism. But for the author of the epistle, this understanding of the ultimate significance of Christ's crucifixion viewed as a sacrifice offered by the high priest has radical implications. Because it reveals (granting the philosophical system in which the argument is structured) Christ as the only real high priest, then there is no longer need to be bound to the forms of priestly sacrifice. We all now share a right of access to God that exceeds what was previously only to the high priest's. For whereas the priests were compelled to work with the forms or types, we now have direct access to God's presence through Christ.
The New Revised Standard Version translates the consequence of this revelation as "confidence to enter the sanctuary by the blood of Jesus" (v. 19). But given the audacity of what is being claimed compared to what had previously been available, surely the venerable King James Version has better captured the nuance with its rendering of the Greek by "boldness." The author's admonition to approach God's presence "with a true heart in full assurance of faith" (v. 22) must be one of the great theological understatements of all time. Consider both the joy and apprehension at going directly before God for people whose traditions included the expectation that only a high priest could enter the inner most sanctum of God's presence -- and then only once a year with death being the result of doing so improperly. A "true heart," "full assurance of faith," "boldness" indeed!
In order that they might retain this newfound "boldness," the author offers three more admonitions. First, they must maintain this new "confession ... without wavering" (v. 23). They must consider how to encourage one another "to love and good deeds" (v. 24). Finally, they must meet together regularly to form a community of faithful support (v. 25). Each of these themes finds further elaboration in the remainder of the epistle.
Mark 13:1-8
It is perhaps fitting that the readings from Mark in cycle B of the lectionary should end with the Olivet Discourse. The apocalyptic images of cataclysmic judgment upon all of creation in anticipation of "the Son of Man coming in the clouds" (v. 26) has long been associated with the end of time itself. With the amazing popularity of the Left Behind novels (11 installments with one to go), even the broader popular culture is being exposed to the dispensationalist approach to interpreting this and related passages of scripture.
Yet Jesus' warning to his disciples is just as important to modern disciples as well: "Beware that no one leads you astray" (v. 5). If we think that Jesus is providing a detailed timeline of specific historical events that must yet be fulfilled in the twenty-first century or beyond, then we have misunderstood the nature of what Jesus was doing with his disciples and the evangelist was doing with his readers.
Working our way out through these boxes within boxes, let us begin with Jesus and his disciples. Jesus' critique of the Temple and its cultural symbolism during his fateful and only visit to Jerusalem for the Synoptists (bracketing Luke's accounts of visits during his childhood; see Luke 2:21-52) begins with the so-called "temple cleansing" (Mark 11:15-19). (Notice, by the way, how Mark connects Olivet with the cleansing by the framing device of a fig tree: 11:12-14 and 13:28-37.) The Temple had been transformed into a symbol of Jewish nationalism, whereas God had intended it to be "a house of prayer for all the nations" (11:17). His warning that not one stone of the Temple would be left in place set out the dreadful consequences that would ensue if they continued down this path. Jesus echoes the warnings of previous prophets like Micah and Jeremiah: even the temple itself could be lost. But the conditional mood here is important. His purpose, like Jeremiah and Micah before, was to change their behavior so the cataclysm could be averted. Alas, as history shows, his call to repentance was unheeded and the consequences he foresaw came to fruition.
Came to fruition, it must be noted, by the time the evangelist himself wrote the Gospel containing this discourse. Mark and his readers had already seen the desecration of the Temple (13:14) first carried out by the Babylonians in Jeremiah's day, repeated by Antiochus Epiphanes as recounted in the book of Daniel, and quite likely already repeated again in their own lifetimes by Vespasian and Titus (if the siege of Jerusalem itself was not completed, then almost certainly the armed rebellion against Rome had already begun). With hardly subtle winks and nods ("let the reader understand," v. 14), the evangelist warns his readers that "the end is still to come" and the catastrophes of the First Jewish War with Rome will be only "the beginning of the birth pangs" (vv. 7-8) if they still refuse to repent of this narrow nationalism. Alas, as the history of the Second Jewish War with Rome under the leadership of Bar Kochba shows, the evangelist's call to repentance was likewise unheeded and the consequences he foresaw came to fruition.
For the move out to the box of the twenty-first century as opposed to the first century, see the "Alternate Application" below.
Application
Some of the most important writers in the field of spiritual formation refer to the discipline of developing one's relationship with God as "practicing the presence of God." Key to this understanding is the conviction that the omnipresent God is of course always with us. The problem is that we are too often oblivious to that presence. We need to practice ways to attune ourselves to spiritual reality. A comparison of Hannah to those around her shows ways that each of us sometimes fails in this key spiritual discipline.
Sometimes we miss God's presence because we are willing to settle for something less. Elkanah certainly had nothing but the best of intentions when he said to Hannah, "Am I not more to you than ten sons?" (1 Samuel 1:8). His love and concern for Hannah were real. It was out of this love that he "gave her a double portion" of resources to offer sacrifices. He wanted her to enjoy the blessings God had already given them, foremost among them each other. But Hannah longed for something more in her relationship with God. She wanted a child that she might offer in return to God's service (vv. 10-11).
Sometimes we miss God's presence because we look right past it, or worse we confuse it with something else. When Eli saw Hannah so lost in prayer with God that she was not even aware that her lips were forming the words of her petition without her voice uttering a sound, this priest was unable to recognize such mystical union with the Divine. She was vowing to God that her child would never drink "wine nor intoxicants," and with comic irony Eli so misconstrues what is happening that he asks her, "How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself?" (v. 14). If even a priest, attending to his duties at the tabernacle, could miss the signs of God's presence, then where are the unexpected places we have encountered God?
Sometimes we miss God's presence because we separate ourselves from the places where God dwells. Hannah regularly went to the tabernacle with her husband Elkanah (v. 3). There is nothing to suggest any lack of devotion on Elkanah's part (and a good bit of evidence to the contrary; vv. 4-5), but he did apparently see these pilgrimages primarily as opportunities for enjoyment and fellowship (v. 8). There is nothing wrong with that, as far as it goes. But Hannah realized that she had a need to receive something from God when she came into God's presence. No doubt she would have concurred with the author of Hebrews in the advice, "Do not neglect to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encourage one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching" (Hebrews 11:25).
An Alternative Application
Mark 13:1-8. It is a maxim of our age that those who refuse to learn from history are condemned to repeat it. The lesson to be drawn from the history of the Olivet Discourse is not that God foreordains the exact course of events (determinism) and then from time to time reveals them in advance to exceptional prophets. Rather, prophecy is most often the ability to look back upon the sacred tradition recounting how God has interacted with the world in the past in order to understand what God is doing in the present on into the usually near-term future. That is what Jeremiah was doing with Micah (see especially Jeremiah 26), what Jesus was doing with Jeremiah and Daniel, and what the evangelist was doing with Jesus. In the current instance, the prophetic warning is that attempts to bring the reign of God's justice through force of arms have ended in catastrophic ruin.
The contemporary danger for us in the twenty-first century can be seen in those who believe that the imposition of a Pax Americana on the world by the force of American military might is our God-given destiny. It can be seen in the frankly cynical support of the nation of Israel among some politically and religiously conservative Christians in hopes of creating "facts on the ground" that will trigger the conflagration of a dispensationalist Armageddon. But as the Ghost of Christmas Future conceded to Ebenezer Scrooge, these images are only of what may yet come to pass and not what necessarily will be. There is still hope that we will yet repent where those who came before us failed. We too are looking for the coming of God's reign of justice for all the world, but we cannot hasten its coming by force of arms.
1 Samuel 2:1-10
Hannah's song is probably best known and most frequently associated in the liturgy as an accompanying reading for the celebration of the angelic visitation to Mary (Luke 1:39-57). When the text is used in this manner, Hannah serves as a type of Mary, with her song echoing themes and expressions to be found in Mary's song.
In doing this, however, the meaning and beauty of Hannah's song becomes obscured, even subordinated to Mary's song. This is not to say that Mary and Hannah serve equal functions in the history of faith. Obviously the birth of Jesus is far more critical to the life of the church that the birth of Samuel. However, it is still a mistake to simply collapse Hannah's song into the Magnificat. Doing this neglects an important yet subtle message found in Hannah's song -- a message that can only be heard if she sings her own song.
There are several significant differences between Hannah and Mary. Mary is a young, vibrant woman. Her whole life is before her. She is marriageable, and filled with the possibility of bringing life into the world.
Hannah is none of these things. Hannah is barren. In the ancient world barrenness was a legitimate cause for divorce. Of course, Hannah's husband did not exercise this prerogative, but in fact pledges his love to her in spite of her barrenness. Unfortunately, this was not enough. To be without children, no matter how much her husband loved her, placed Hannah in psychological and even theological quandary. Hannah knew that in the pecking order of wives and women, her barrenness rendered her second-rate. And in the prevailing theology of her day, she could only conclude that the source of her condition was God.
When filtered through the lens of Hannah's suffering and exclusion, her song sounds quite different from Mary's. When Hannah sings that God has remembered the weak and lowly, the message has a poignant personal application. Mary have been poor and had some sense of life among marginal people. But prior to her pregnancy she was not a marginal person as a woman. Hannah was not poor, yet was oppressed by a social and theological system that regarded her barrenness as a curse.
In other words, when God granted Hannah's prayer and allowed her to bring a tiny life into this world, she experienced the gift of that son out of the depths of her own despair. The birth of Samuel was not just an answered prayer; it was also a validation of Hannah's very existence.
Her song functions, therefore, as a poetic celebration of God's ability to bring life out of death. It's a reminder of God's persistent desire to lift the fallen and the lowly. It is also a powerful example of God granting voice to one who had no voice. In other words, the song of Hannah celebrates just the sort of thing God finally did with the cross. Not that Mary's song fails to do this, for certainly it does. But when Hannah sings of God bringing life out death, we know she has someone in particular in mind.
The original television series, which ran from 1966-1969, called forth a bold optimism about the future at a time when the Cold War, strained race relations, rapid cultural change, and the excitement and danger of the space race -- all underlying themes of the series -- were on everyone's mind. There would always be perils, but humanity should move forward with boldness and confidence.
Although simple familiarity over the course of some two millennia of Christian tradition has all but eliminated it, there must have been something of the same sense of mixed joy and anxiety, boldness and apprehension among the first Jewish converts to Christianity. For probably more than a millennium they had approached God's presence through the mediation of priests and sacrifices. The great symbol of the separation between the holy realm of God and the profane world of humanity was the curtain in the temple separating the inner sanctum of the Most Holy Place from the outer sanctuary of the Holy Place -- neither of which could ever be entered by common folk. Yet, the author of Hebrews insisted, that frontier had been opened. "Therefore, my friends, since we have confidence to enter the sanctuary by the blood of Jesus, by the new and living way that he opened for us through the curtain, ... let us approach with a true heart in full assurance of faith" (Hebrews 10:19-22).
It is certainly not the case that access to the presence of God unmediated certainly by sacrifice or even by priest is uncharted space for mainline Protestants, something completely alien to our experience. But if we will be honest, we will admit that spiritual disciplines that induce both joy and apprehension in regular encounters with the Divine are not a characteristic most associated with us in this day and time. Regaining such experiences in worship, then, is not blazing new trails but once again following paths essential to our spiritual lives.
1 Samuel 1:4-20
In his book The Art of Biblical Narrative, Robert Alter introduced the idea of "type scenes" to biblical studies. Borrowed from work on Homer's poetry, he suggested that there were well-established conventional patterns for narrativizing certain types of stories (think of our own ways of telling westerns involving quick-draw sheriffs, or why everyone knows "the butler did it" in murder mysteries). These conventional ways of telling stories account for the tremendous similarities between some biblical narratives.
One of the biblical type scenes that he identifies is the annunciation. Its conventional plot involves strife between two wives because one has been unable to conceive children, the special love of the husband for the childless wife, and an oracle announcing the birth of an extraordinary child to the heretofore "barren" wife (to use the harsh term usually found in biblical texts). Obvious examples include Sarah, Rachel, and Hannah (for Alter's treatment of this text, see pages 81-86).
Understanding the role of conventions in constructing narratives helps to isolate the author's purposes in telling the story by showing the ways the author adopted and was constrained by those conventions and also the way that the author varies, plays with, or even flouts those conventions. By using the annunciation type scene here, the author indicates to his original readers (who were as well-versed in their cultural conventions as we are in ours) the special importance of the child who is to be born, Samuel, as clearly as the white hats and black hats identify the good guys and bad guys respectively in a traditional western. These circumstances of conception portend greatness for the child so born.
But just as important are the ways this story does not follow the conventions. Usually an angel (think not only of Sarah but also Mary and Elizabeth in the New Testament) or a trusted messenger from God gives the oracle. Yet here, the birth comes not because of a divine pronouncement from the blue, as it were, but rather in response to Hannah's prayer. Eli does not so much proclaim the miraculous birth of the child as simply offer the wish that the prayer he had so completely misunderstood might be granted (v. 17).
The usual relationships are thereby reversed. God does not choose a formerly childless woman to give birth to a special child, but rather it is the faith and devotion toward God of an exceptional woman that ultimately leads to the birth of an exceptional child. Had Hannah retaliated in response to the provocations of her "rival" (v. 6), accepted Elkanah's suggestion that his special regard for Hannah was enough (v. 8), or given in to the culture norms of decorum for those who made the pilgrimage to the tabernacle at Shiloh (vv. 9-16), then there would have been no Samuel. But because Hannah was bold enough to risk everything in the culture on her relationship with God, both her life -- and the lives of all ancient Israel -- was forever changed.
Hebrews 10:11-14 (15-18) 19-25
This text is the seventh and final lection in a series of sequential readings from Hebrews that began on Proper 22. Within the epistle itself, it marks the conclusion of an extended argument begun in chapter 7 about the superiority of Christ's high priesthood to that of his Levitical predecessors. As I stressed in the previous issue of Emphasis (see "God's greatness [and ours]" for Proper 24, October 19, 2003), this supercessionist view of the superiority of Christianity to traditional Judaism is problematic for our modern ecumenical sensitivities. But it must be stressed that this author's supercessionist tendencies relate to the understanding of God's covenant with the Jews in the light of Christ rather than the superiority of a separate Christian religion as over against Judaism conceived as a distinct religion. That is to say, for this author the debate is waged within a single covenant community, not between competing religions.
The verses assigned here in the lectionary represent two phases of this argument at the very heart of the epistle. Verses 11-18 are the concluding and climatic proof as to why Christ's work as high priest is superior to the work carried at in the earthly tabernacle and subsequent temples of Judaism. The author then offers in verses 19-25 his "so what?" response to what has gone before, introducing pragmatic implications for his readers that will extend through the remainder of the book.
Like much of the preceding argument, the climatic proof of Christ's superiority is heavily influenced by Neo-Platonic philosophical speculation (see the Emphasis article cited above). The significant point of contrast is raised in verses 11-12 where the author states "every priest stands day after day ... offering again and again the same sacrifices," whereas Christ "offered for all time a single sacrifice" and then "sat down at the right hand of God." That is to say, in Neo-Platonic terms, that all human priests necessarily offer material sacrifices that by their very material nature are only imperfect representations of the one only real sacrifice that is offered in the eternal realm of God (what Plato described metaphorically as "the ideal plane").
Perhaps even more than the first readers of Hebrews, we in the twenty-first century may be struck with a sense that it is all very interesting as an exercise in philosophical theology but that it has little to do with practical dimensions of life. After all, our culture has long since abandoned Neo-Platonism. But for the author of the epistle, this understanding of the ultimate significance of Christ's crucifixion viewed as a sacrifice offered by the high priest has radical implications. Because it reveals (granting the philosophical system in which the argument is structured) Christ as the only real high priest, then there is no longer need to be bound to the forms of priestly sacrifice. We all now share a right of access to God that exceeds what was previously only to the high priest's. For whereas the priests were compelled to work with the forms or types, we now have direct access to God's presence through Christ.
The New Revised Standard Version translates the consequence of this revelation as "confidence to enter the sanctuary by the blood of Jesus" (v. 19). But given the audacity of what is being claimed compared to what had previously been available, surely the venerable King James Version has better captured the nuance with its rendering of the Greek by "boldness." The author's admonition to approach God's presence "with a true heart in full assurance of faith" (v. 22) must be one of the great theological understatements of all time. Consider both the joy and apprehension at going directly before God for people whose traditions included the expectation that only a high priest could enter the inner most sanctum of God's presence -- and then only once a year with death being the result of doing so improperly. A "true heart," "full assurance of faith," "boldness" indeed!
In order that they might retain this newfound "boldness," the author offers three more admonitions. First, they must maintain this new "confession ... without wavering" (v. 23). They must consider how to encourage one another "to love and good deeds" (v. 24). Finally, they must meet together regularly to form a community of faithful support (v. 25). Each of these themes finds further elaboration in the remainder of the epistle.
Mark 13:1-8
It is perhaps fitting that the readings from Mark in cycle B of the lectionary should end with the Olivet Discourse. The apocalyptic images of cataclysmic judgment upon all of creation in anticipation of "the Son of Man coming in the clouds" (v. 26) has long been associated with the end of time itself. With the amazing popularity of the Left Behind novels (11 installments with one to go), even the broader popular culture is being exposed to the dispensationalist approach to interpreting this and related passages of scripture.
Yet Jesus' warning to his disciples is just as important to modern disciples as well: "Beware that no one leads you astray" (v. 5). If we think that Jesus is providing a detailed timeline of specific historical events that must yet be fulfilled in the twenty-first century or beyond, then we have misunderstood the nature of what Jesus was doing with his disciples and the evangelist was doing with his readers.
Working our way out through these boxes within boxes, let us begin with Jesus and his disciples. Jesus' critique of the Temple and its cultural symbolism during his fateful and only visit to Jerusalem for the Synoptists (bracketing Luke's accounts of visits during his childhood; see Luke 2:21-52) begins with the so-called "temple cleansing" (Mark 11:15-19). (Notice, by the way, how Mark connects Olivet with the cleansing by the framing device of a fig tree: 11:12-14 and 13:28-37.) The Temple had been transformed into a symbol of Jewish nationalism, whereas God had intended it to be "a house of prayer for all the nations" (11:17). His warning that not one stone of the Temple would be left in place set out the dreadful consequences that would ensue if they continued down this path. Jesus echoes the warnings of previous prophets like Micah and Jeremiah: even the temple itself could be lost. But the conditional mood here is important. His purpose, like Jeremiah and Micah before, was to change their behavior so the cataclysm could be averted. Alas, as history shows, his call to repentance was unheeded and the consequences he foresaw came to fruition.
Came to fruition, it must be noted, by the time the evangelist himself wrote the Gospel containing this discourse. Mark and his readers had already seen the desecration of the Temple (13:14) first carried out by the Babylonians in Jeremiah's day, repeated by Antiochus Epiphanes as recounted in the book of Daniel, and quite likely already repeated again in their own lifetimes by Vespasian and Titus (if the siege of Jerusalem itself was not completed, then almost certainly the armed rebellion against Rome had already begun). With hardly subtle winks and nods ("let the reader understand," v. 14), the evangelist warns his readers that "the end is still to come" and the catastrophes of the First Jewish War with Rome will be only "the beginning of the birth pangs" (vv. 7-8) if they still refuse to repent of this narrow nationalism. Alas, as the history of the Second Jewish War with Rome under the leadership of Bar Kochba shows, the evangelist's call to repentance was likewise unheeded and the consequences he foresaw came to fruition.
For the move out to the box of the twenty-first century as opposed to the first century, see the "Alternate Application" below.
Application
Some of the most important writers in the field of spiritual formation refer to the discipline of developing one's relationship with God as "practicing the presence of God." Key to this understanding is the conviction that the omnipresent God is of course always with us. The problem is that we are too often oblivious to that presence. We need to practice ways to attune ourselves to spiritual reality. A comparison of Hannah to those around her shows ways that each of us sometimes fails in this key spiritual discipline.
Sometimes we miss God's presence because we are willing to settle for something less. Elkanah certainly had nothing but the best of intentions when he said to Hannah, "Am I not more to you than ten sons?" (1 Samuel 1:8). His love and concern for Hannah were real. It was out of this love that he "gave her a double portion" of resources to offer sacrifices. He wanted her to enjoy the blessings God had already given them, foremost among them each other. But Hannah longed for something more in her relationship with God. She wanted a child that she might offer in return to God's service (vv. 10-11).
Sometimes we miss God's presence because we look right past it, or worse we confuse it with something else. When Eli saw Hannah so lost in prayer with God that she was not even aware that her lips were forming the words of her petition without her voice uttering a sound, this priest was unable to recognize such mystical union with the Divine. She was vowing to God that her child would never drink "wine nor intoxicants," and with comic irony Eli so misconstrues what is happening that he asks her, "How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself?" (v. 14). If even a priest, attending to his duties at the tabernacle, could miss the signs of God's presence, then where are the unexpected places we have encountered God?
Sometimes we miss God's presence because we separate ourselves from the places where God dwells. Hannah regularly went to the tabernacle with her husband Elkanah (v. 3). There is nothing to suggest any lack of devotion on Elkanah's part (and a good bit of evidence to the contrary; vv. 4-5), but he did apparently see these pilgrimages primarily as opportunities for enjoyment and fellowship (v. 8). There is nothing wrong with that, as far as it goes. But Hannah realized that she had a need to receive something from God when she came into God's presence. No doubt she would have concurred with the author of Hebrews in the advice, "Do not neglect to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encourage one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching" (Hebrews 11:25).
An Alternative Application
Mark 13:1-8. It is a maxim of our age that those who refuse to learn from history are condemned to repeat it. The lesson to be drawn from the history of the Olivet Discourse is not that God foreordains the exact course of events (determinism) and then from time to time reveals them in advance to exceptional prophets. Rather, prophecy is most often the ability to look back upon the sacred tradition recounting how God has interacted with the world in the past in order to understand what God is doing in the present on into the usually near-term future. That is what Jeremiah was doing with Micah (see especially Jeremiah 26), what Jesus was doing with Jeremiah and Daniel, and what the evangelist was doing with Jesus. In the current instance, the prophetic warning is that attempts to bring the reign of God's justice through force of arms have ended in catastrophic ruin.
The contemporary danger for us in the twenty-first century can be seen in those who believe that the imposition of a Pax Americana on the world by the force of American military might is our God-given destiny. It can be seen in the frankly cynical support of the nation of Israel among some politically and religiously conservative Christians in hopes of creating "facts on the ground" that will trigger the conflagration of a dispensationalist Armageddon. But as the Ghost of Christmas Future conceded to Ebenezer Scrooge, these images are only of what may yet come to pass and not what necessarily will be. There is still hope that we will yet repent where those who came before us failed. We too are looking for the coming of God's reign of justice for all the world, but we cannot hasten its coming by force of arms.
1 Samuel 2:1-10
Hannah's song is probably best known and most frequently associated in the liturgy as an accompanying reading for the celebration of the angelic visitation to Mary (Luke 1:39-57). When the text is used in this manner, Hannah serves as a type of Mary, with her song echoing themes and expressions to be found in Mary's song.
In doing this, however, the meaning and beauty of Hannah's song becomes obscured, even subordinated to Mary's song. This is not to say that Mary and Hannah serve equal functions in the history of faith. Obviously the birth of Jesus is far more critical to the life of the church that the birth of Samuel. However, it is still a mistake to simply collapse Hannah's song into the Magnificat. Doing this neglects an important yet subtle message found in Hannah's song -- a message that can only be heard if she sings her own song.
There are several significant differences between Hannah and Mary. Mary is a young, vibrant woman. Her whole life is before her. She is marriageable, and filled with the possibility of bringing life into the world.
Hannah is none of these things. Hannah is barren. In the ancient world barrenness was a legitimate cause for divorce. Of course, Hannah's husband did not exercise this prerogative, but in fact pledges his love to her in spite of her barrenness. Unfortunately, this was not enough. To be without children, no matter how much her husband loved her, placed Hannah in psychological and even theological quandary. Hannah knew that in the pecking order of wives and women, her barrenness rendered her second-rate. And in the prevailing theology of her day, she could only conclude that the source of her condition was God.
When filtered through the lens of Hannah's suffering and exclusion, her song sounds quite different from Mary's. When Hannah sings that God has remembered the weak and lowly, the message has a poignant personal application. Mary have been poor and had some sense of life among marginal people. But prior to her pregnancy she was not a marginal person as a woman. Hannah was not poor, yet was oppressed by a social and theological system that regarded her barrenness as a curse.
In other words, when God granted Hannah's prayer and allowed her to bring a tiny life into this world, she experienced the gift of that son out of the depths of her own despair. The birth of Samuel was not just an answered prayer; it was also a validation of Hannah's very existence.
Her song functions, therefore, as a poetic celebration of God's ability to bring life out of death. It's a reminder of God's persistent desire to lift the fallen and the lowly. It is also a powerful example of God granting voice to one who had no voice. In other words, the song of Hannah celebrates just the sort of thing God finally did with the cross. Not that Mary's song fails to do this, for certainly it does. But when Hannah sings of God bringing life out death, we know she has someone in particular in mind.
