New World in the Morning...
Commentary
It was 1971 when Kenyan-born British singer Roger Whitaker released his “New World in the Morning” album. While Whitaker was not known for his current-social-consciousness when writing lyrics, playing instead to themes of nostalgia and lost loves, his “New World in the Morning” joined the political turmoil of the 1960s with eschatological hopes resident in every human heart. He begins with the news of the day: “Everybody talks about a new world in the morning.” But that buzz doesn’t resonate in his day-at-a-time easy-going manner: “I, myself don't talk about a new world in the morning. A new world in the morning, that's today.”
After celebrating the powers of each day’s energy, a subtle shift comes midway through his song. A chance conversation leaves him with a haunting hollowness: “I met a man who had a dream he had since he was twenty. I met that man when he was eighty-one.”
The twinkle of expectation never left that man’s eyes, Whitaker crooned. Yet the world itself seemed to have conspired to put off the “new world” realizations indefinitely. “Everybody talks about a new world in the morning,” he sang. “New world in the morning never comes.”
Hope lives on expectation. “I don’t know why I have to make a song,” Whitaker muses. Yet he knows. “Everybody talks about a new world in the morning. New world in the morning takes so long.”
This is certainly the melody of biblical religion. Creation dawns. Sins threatens and destroys. But a new morning is coming: is it the world after the cataclysmic flood; is it the dreams of Abram’s family; is it relief of Israel entering the promised land; is it the dawning of David’s kingdom; is it the coming of Messiah; is it resurrection morning; is it Jesus’ coming again? We keep hoping.
And so, it is in each of our lectionary readings today. Maybe miraculously born Samuel will bring back “the word of the Lord.” Maybe Jesus’ disciples will live to see the restoration of the kingdom. Maybe Jesus will come soon, as the writer of Hebrews expects, to make all things new.
And so, we wait…
1 Samuel 1:4-20
There are several key issues which emerge through the first half of 1 Samuel, as this new figure takes center stage. For one thing, the covenant theocracy with Yahweh as Israel’s unseen king begins to seem inadequate to the people. This is so for at least two reasons: on the one hand, Yahweh’s voice is hard to hear, unlike the days of Moses and Joshua, when it was quickly apparent what God desired or decreed. On the other hand, the urgent military threats from neighboring nations seem to demand a readily visible and immediate leadership that is not dependent on lengthy rituals of ceremony and sacrifice before Yahweh might or might not put in an appearance. Precisely because of these concerns, Samuel stands as the transition figure between the judges (who gave quick military leadership and then faded away without establishing ongoing royal courts or dynasties) and the monarchy, as it will emerge in part through Saul and to its full extent by way of David and his family. Samuel, as his name indicates, was a new communication link between the people and their God, and also a mighty general in battle. But his appearance on the scene was too brief to nurture public confidence in long-range national stability without a clearly identified temporal rule and an expectation of solid succession plans.
The clues to Samuel’s special gifts and leadership role are scattered throughout the initial seven chapters of 1 Samuel. First, there seems to be injustice and lack of divine blessing in the land. Elkanah’s first wife, Hannah, is barren, a typical sign of divine displeasure or even curse. His second wife, Peninnah, bears a number of children, but acts rudely toward Hannah about their contrasting situations. In short, the good wife is punished, and the bad wife is blessed. Things are definitely wrong in this upside-down world!
Second, the official representative for Yahweh, a priest named Eli (“My God”), neither recognizes true need and absolute devotion in Hannah’s silent praying, nor can intercede on her behalf with Yahweh. At first, he rudely accosts Hannah, calling her a drunkard. Then, when she pours out her deep frustrations, all he can do is wish her well. He does not have Yahweh’s ear, and Yahweh’s voice does not speak through him, even though he is a priest.
Third, Eli’s sons, who are priests, are wicked men. They fail to mediate between Israel and Yahweh. They rob the people to feed their own gluttony. They mishandle the sacrifices, although the rituals are clearly spelled out. They have sexual relations with women at the tabernacle, just like the priest and prostitutes at the fertility shrines of other nations and gods. They fail to heed their faither’s admonitions. And then, to top it off, they presume leadership of the armies of Israel, and brazenly take the ark of the covenant into battle as a weapon of war!
Fourth, the writer uses one telling event during Samuel’s childhood as the defining image of both the times and the man. “In those days the word of the Lord was rare,” he tells us (1 Samuel 3:1). Then, simply, the story of Samuel hearing his name called in the night, is told. Samuel does not know who is calling him, and, at first, Eli does not either. But soon it becomes apparent to the older man that, while he does not have either the ear or voice of Yahweh, this young child certainly does. The nation quickly learns the same, as the writer notes in his closing comments on this episode: “The Lord was with Samuel as he grew up, and he let none of his words fall to the ground. And all Israel from Dan to Beersheba recognized that Samuel was attested as a prophet of the Lord. The Lord continue to appear at Shiloh, and there he revealed himself to Samuel through his word. And Samuel’s word came to all Israel.” (1 Samuel 3:19-4:1)
Fifth, in battles against the neighboring Philistines, the Israelites are impotent. Not only do they lose the war, but the throne of their God, the ark of the covenant, is captured by the enemy through the foolishness of Eli’s sons. Still, Yahweh personally battles the Philistines and their god Dagon, until the Philistines recognize defeat and send the ark home. In the end, it is Samuel alone (1 Samuel 7) who can reconcile Israel back to Yahweh and turn the page on this horrible chapter with a clear divine deliverance from the Philistines.
When the Israelites finally grow bold enough to demand a human king, Samuel is the one who must mediate between Yahweh and the people until each party understands the consequences. Then Samuel anoints both first kings of Israel, the obvious leader who turns out bad, and the overlooked runt who turns out great.
Hebrews 10:11-14 (15-18) 19-25
The writer of Hebrews continues his analysis of the day of atonement, and its relation to Jesus. This is clear from his reference to “the blood of bulls and goats” in verse 3. The day of atonement was built around the sacrifice of these two kinds of animals, and there was no other event or celebration in Israel’s ceremonial life which shared the same featured sacrificial combination.
At the start of the day of atonement, a bull would be offered in the cleansing ritual for the high priest. Since the high priest represented the nation of Israel as a whole, the largest possible single animal sacrifice was made, standing in for this largest expression of the national population. Later in the day, two goats were selected for further cleansing rituals. One was sacrificed as a sin offering, while the other became the “scapegoat,” channeling the sins of the people symbolically out into the wilderness where it was turned loose.
The author is summarizing and reiterating the point he made just prior to this: the very fact that the day of atonement had to be repeated yearly in the cycle of Israel’s national cleansing before God indicated that it was only modestly powerful to cleanse. But Jesus, who is a different kind of high priest (after the order of Melchizedek), provided a single once-for-all-time sacrifice that needed no repetition.
This immediately leads the writer to a new topic — the relationship between the old and new expressions of God’s saving, cleansing activity among God’s people. In what has come to be known as typology, the author uses two words to describe the two sides of a single redemptive coin. The former (God at work in and through Israel, shaped by the “law” and its ceremonies) is called Σκιὰν (“shadow”, Hebrews 10:1), while the latter (God at work in and through Jesus, shaped by the power of crucifixion and resurrection) is identified as εἰκόνα τῶν πραγμάτων (“the realities,” literally “the form of things,” Hebrews 10:1). One might pair these as “shadow and substance.” It is impossible to have a shadow if the substantial thing is not present. At the same time, in the world of planet earth, during the daylight, when we are able to see things because of the light provided by the sun, no reality exists without casting a shadow. Shadow and substance co-exist in a symbiotic manner. One cannot be had without the other. Where one is present, its companion is also evident.
But that does not make the substantial thing and its shadow identical or equivalent. The person and her shadow may have the same outline form, but one could never mistake the one for the other. Also, there is an unequal relationship of dependency between the two, shadow and substance. The thing of substance creates the shadow, and not the other way around. While both are inextricably tied to each other, the substance carries the weight of their common identity. It is not the shadow that dictates terms to the substantive thing, but the substantive thing which forces the shadow to take shape and meaning.
So it is, according to the author of Hebrews, in the relationship between the day of atonement (along with all that was part of the “law” and the ceremonial system of Israel) and Jesus. Although the former occurred prior to Jesus recent appearance in human history, it is symbiotically dependent upon Jesus for both its existence and its meaning. Jesus is how God brings salvation to this world, while the sacrifices and ceremonies of the day of atonement and its kin were only typologically prefiguring this culminating reality.
Thus, in the former age, God spoke through prophets, and God’s care was ministered through angels, Moses and the temporary house of God (the tabernacle), with its levitical priesthood whose priests were imperfect and offered sacrifices that had to be repeated. Meanwhile, in this new age, God speaks through Jesus, while God’s care is ministered through the son (who is better than the angels or Moses), by way of the true house of God (the arena of heaven and earth) under the care of the one who is ordained to the Melchizedek priesthood, offering a perfect sacrifice that does not need to be repeated.
This typology lends itself toward a kind of dualism — the former and the latter, the imperfect and the perfect, the repeated and the once-for-all, the shadow and the substance. But it is not the same kind of dualism as one encounters in the cosmology of Plato, where all materiality is but temporary copies and imitations of the true forms and eternal ideals that populate the realm of transcendent spirituality. Nor is it like Buddhist dualistic cosmology, where the material world is temporary, noisy, and engaging, and ultimately destructive to essential identity through its forced isolation of spirit from the oneness of all being, while the spiritual world is eternal, quiet and elusive, and ultimately destructive to essential identity through annihilation of the uniqueness of personhood.
Instead, the typological dualism expressed in Hebrews functions within time, rather than expressing substantive cosmology defining the whole of reality. This typological dualism found its earlier expression in the Covenant period, sometimes known as the Age of the Prophets, where, through the auspices of the tabernacle and its Levitical priesthood, there was an endless cycle of repeated sacrifices, pointing toward the need for a more complete address of the problem of human sinfulness. Now, in this latter expression of the same work of God, characterized as the Second Covenant period, known also as the Age of the Son, Jesus provides a once-for-all sacrificial ministry that moves us through the heavenly sanctuary into the very presence of God.
This typological dualism is at the heart of Christian theology. Both expressions are God’s means for bringing salvation. Both are built upon blood sacrifice. But the former is temporary (a shadow), although essentially connected to the latter, just as a shadow is essentially connected to the thing that causes it, having the same shape, character, and movements. Meanwhile, the latter is everlasting (the perfection that needs no repetition). It is the source of being, even for the shadow reality, but its substantive nature supersedes its shadow reflection.
Hence there is one mission of the Creator (bring back into fellowship the human race that has been alienated) which becomes accomplished through two missional strategies:
To define a theology of the New Testament is a modest enterprise, and a reasonably uncontroversial task. After all, the textual data is limited (twenty-seven manuscripts, most of them very short), and the nuances of interpretation rather narrow in scope. Although among New Testament theologians there are differences of emphasis or arguments about the significance of certain terms and ideas, they rarely find themselves in fundamentally different camps from one another.
Developing a theology of the Old Testament (or Hebrew Bible) is a much more daunting task. Not only is the literature of this collection considerably more expansive, but it varies extensively among multiple genres, topics, and provenance. Added to these challenges are questions of dating, inherent worldview, and the extent of influence from other ancient near Eastern cultures. Old Testament theologians can square off from very different ideological points of view.
Most intimidating of all, however, is any attempt at a biblical theology that encompasses both testaments, seeking to remain faithful to the origins and directions of each, while pursuing the historical, cultural, and religious bonds that have brought them together as the Christian Bible. Fundamental to this challenge is the question of the relationship between the two collections. Choices made here are inherently theological, philosophical, and confessional. Five major options are most often posited:
This fifth perspective seems most consonant with the message of Hebrews, particularly when the writer supports his arguments with a lengthy quote from Psalm 40. Psalm 40 is a song of deliverance attributed to David. It reflects on a very traumatic, life-threatening event for which God brought about a miraculous escape and restoration. Afterward, even while the menacing taunts of enemies continued, David proclaimed the might of Yahweh to the gathering of God’s people. Although he likely brought a sacrifice to express his thankfulness, he also declares that life devotion and service are the real expression of appreciation.
It is the unique expression given by David in Psalm 40:6-8 that captures the attention of the writer of Hebrews and provides us with another glimpse of his brilliance and depth of scriptural understanding. For one thing, he appears to have vast portions of the Hebrew Bible memorized and available in his thinking with incredibly rapid links of association. Most likely this document is being dictated in about an hour’s time, and the author is not poring over texts and manuscripts, weaving the exact intricacies of a theological treatise. All these scriptures occur to him as he dictates, connected instantaneously by theme and image and implied meaning.
This becomes more apparent, secondly, when the textual variations on Psalm 40:6-8 are noted, with their vast difference in meaning and momentum. While the Masoretic Text and the Septuagint are closely aligned throughout most Old Testament passages, it is not so in the received texts available for Psalm 40. The New Revised Standard Version translation of these verses relies on the Masoretic text, and expresses verses 6-8 in English in this manner:
Sacrifice and offering you do not desire, but you have given me an open ear. Burnt offering and sin offering you have not required. Then I said, “Here I am; in the scroll of the book it is written of me. I delight to do your will, O my God; your law is within my heart.”
The Septuagint, however, seems to be drawn from another textual tradition, and gives rise to a uniquely different English translation:
You did not want sacrifice and offering, but a body you restored to me. You did not ask for whole burnt offering, and an offering concerning sin. Then I said, “Behold, I have arrived. In the scroll of the book it has been written concerning me. I delight to do your will, O my God; your law is within my heart.”
There is clearly a major difference between an “open ear” (as in the Masoretic text) and a “restored body” (as in the Septuagint). While the former has more substantial text and tradition support, and the latter may, in fact, be based upon some copyist’s error rather than a clear reflection of David’s original song, the writer of Hebrews deliberately chose the minor and more obscure rendering of Psalm 40:6-8 to support his point. Why?
It seems to be part of a larger arc of mental development tying all the author’s ideas together in a truly brilliant manner. First, in verse 5, the writer indicates that Jesus is the voice of scripture. This is important, for the whole of Hebrews is based on hearing God speak. In the past, connected to the historic Israelite/Jewish tradition, God spoke through the prophets. Now, however, God is speaking through his son. But if the voice of Jesus is the voice of God because Jesus is God, then the voice of the prophets is actually the voice of Jesus! Therefore, these people who listen closely to the voice of God through the prophets should continue to listen to the voice of God through Jesus, because it is one and the same voice!
Second, since it is Jesus who spoke through David when the great king penned Psalm 40, what emerged is actually a self-declaration of Jesus, even though it also echoed David’s own experiences at the time (think typology). So, David was celebrating divine deliverance from the threats on his life by pledging deeper devotion to God, who had saved him. In David’s mind, one of the most profound expressions of service and devotion happened when a Hebrew slave chose to remain subject to a good master, even though the bondsman was entitled to go free. This relationship was commemorated publicly with an ear-piercing ceremony. This seems to be the background of David’s somewhat cryptic expression in Psalm 40:6, that God has given him “an open ear.” The term, in Hebrew, is כרית , which means “you bore” or “you pierce.” This is precisely what took place in the ancient Israelite ceremony binding a faithful slave to a good master. David visualizes himself in that relationship with Yahweh, his good master who has once again recently saved him.
But now back to the idea that Jesus is the great voice of God speaking through the testimonies of Israelite scriptures. The Septuagint version of Psalm 40:6 declares that a “body” has been prepared or restored. The Hebrew word for “prepared” or “establish” or “restore” is כנית , which is based on the same root that gives rise to כרית , the term for “bore” or “pierce”. This allows the author of Hebrews to take the Septuagint variation of Psalm 40:6 and directly apply it to Jesus. While David was placing himself in relationship with Yahweh symbolically as a slave might pledge himself to a good master that saved him time and again (therefore getting his ear pierced, and remaining indentured to the master for a lifetime), Jesus, who is the true prophet of God speaking through David, declares, by another reading of this text, that in his devotion to the Father, he has become the true sacrifice (having his body prepared for both crucifixion and resurrection) that nullifies the need for animal sacrifice!
In a matter of a few lines, deeply understood and Christologically interpreted, the author of Hebrews has pulled together powerful ideas from the Old Testament and asserted their ongoing message in a New Testament age. To confirm this, he reiterates his reading through the explanation he provides in Hebrew 10:8-10 — When he said above, “You have neither desired nor taken pleasure in sacrifices and offerings and burnt offerings and sin offerings” (these are offered according to the law), then he added, “See, I have come to do your will.” He abolishes the first in order to establish the second. And it is by God’s will that we have been sanctified through the offering of the body of Jesus Christ once for all.
Then, to seal the deal, he reiterates the voice of David in Psalm 110 as functioning essentially as the mouthpiece of Jesus (Hebrews 10:11-13) and brings all things together by evoking the memory of Yahweh’s call to Israel through Moses in Leviticus 19:1-2. The Israelites are to be holy because their God, coming to live among them in the tabernacle, is holy. Now, because Jesus is the true high priest over the house of God, he makes God’s people holy through his unique sacrifice, the offering of his own body.
Culminating these marvelous maneuvers of the mind and heart, the writer of Hebrews quickly nods, once again, to Jeremiah 31:31-34, a passage he exegeted more fully a short while earlier, in what we call Hebrews 8. He merges the two expressions of the divine covenant, give a testimony that both manifestations of the covenant are intended to provide forgiveness from sins through blood sacrifice, and reiterates that Jesus’ sacrifice is the one that completes all things, never needing repetition like was true of the animal sacrifices in Israel’s past experiences.
Summing up, the writer of Hebrews brings everything together in Jesus:
Mark 13:1-8
Most of Jesus’ disciples were from Galilee, a region of small towns and ordinary buildings. Jerusalem was different. Herod the Great had spilled his engineering resources liberally on the capitol city of the Jews, creating massive fortresses and walls, and temple renovations which he believed retooled the tiny and pathetic “second temple” of Ezra 6 into a structure more magnificent than Solomon’s original masterpiece. It was a mighty wonder, bringing even Jesus’ small-town disciples to shivers of awe as they wandered gape-mouthed through the glowing facilities that Thursday night. “Look at these buildings!” they stage-whispered agape.
Jesus was not as impressed. These mighty structures, seemingly indestructible, will soon be a massive pile of weathered rubble, he told them. Yet that was not the greatest shock. Cities, even great ones, rise and fall. Until, one day, when they are all superseded by the eternal city of God.
When?! They asked him, incredulous.
Jesus launched into the greatest dimension of biblical morality: eschatological ethics.
First, Jesus clearly confirms that he is the Messiah foretold by the prophets. This is the most profound sign that the new messianic age has arrived. Since the messianic age was part of the promised “day of the Lord,” a time of divine judgment was sure to arrive soon.
Second, Jesus’ first coming brought the beginnings of the blessings of the messianic age, but it delayed the judgments of God for a time, so that the followers of Jesus could spread the news of salvation far and wide. Splitting the “day of the Lord” in two was an act of kindness on God’s part, providing more opportunity for people to respond in faith. It also placed upon the church a missionary urgency. The reason Jesus left his followers behind during the gap between his ascension and return was to send them as ambassadors of hope to the nations.
Third, the return of Jesus was imminent, and likely to take place within weeks or months. This was the expectation that made any trials, persecutions, or difficulties endurable. Knowing that one can outlast an opponent, no matter how nasty or strong, gives great resilience to hang on and survive with dignity.
Fourth, all who trusted in Jesus when he returned would share in his glory and power. But so too would those who had believed in Jesus and then died before Jesus had made his return. This teaching profoundly changed the burial habits of Christians and altered expectations at dying. Rather than closing doors to human existence, death instead opened them to eternal life. Many early Christians welcomed death by martyrdom, knowing that through this act they were immediately secure in resurrection hope.
Fifth, the yawning gap of time that would be widening before Jesus’ returned required meaningful explanations for his delay. Answers came in three major varieties. Some saw this lengthening “in-between” age as evidence of divine grace: God was not going to bring final judgment until more people could respond to the gospel message in faith. Others declared that the delay was a tool for testing the faithfulness of those who said they believed in Jesus. A final group called to mind Jesus’ words about signs that would appear before the final days and tried more closely to define the number of specific events must still take place prior to his return.
Intertwined together, these three dimensions of eschatological expectations became hardwired into the church and infused it with a missionary urgency and an uncompromising ethic. The church must speak to everyone with loving passion about Jesus. At the same time, Christians were responsible to live in a profound moral simplicity that assessed every behavior by the question, “What should we be doing when Jesus returns?”
Application
As parents of three wonderful daughters, my wife and I can sympathize with the couple who sent their child off to college, only to find out a few months later that she was dating another student, and that the two of them were already talking about marriage. The troubled parents urged their daughter to bring her boyfriend home so that they could meet him. When the college twosome arrived and hurried and worried greetings were made at the door, Mom shunted daughter off to the kitchen while Dad guided the boy firmly into the family room for a little heart-to-heart.
“So,” Dad said at last, trying to find out more about this young man, “what are your plans for your future?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” the boyfriend replied, “but I know that your daughter and I were destined to be together, and that God will provide.”
“Well, what about finances? How do you intend to pay the bills if you should get married?”
“To tell you the truth, sir, we haven’t given that much thought yet. But we are deeply in love, and we are confident that God will provide.”
This was not giving the father much confidence, so he pressed on. “Do you have any ideas about careers and where you will live, and whether you will both finish college?”
“We’re planning to take it one day at a time, sir,” came the reply, “and we’re sure that God will provide.”
Later that night Mom and Dad were finally alone together, and she said to him, “Well, what do you think?”
“I have mixed feelings,” he told her. “On the one hand, the fellow seems to be a deluded, shiftless, irresponsible fool who hasn’t even begun to understand how life works. Yet on the other hand, I get the sense that he thinks I am God!”
There is much of that family’s conundrum in the way we all live out our existences here. Partly we breeze through our days and experiences, believing that we can make it on our own, no matter what. At the same time, we wrestle with resources and responsibilities, knowing that there are some moral values and cosmic principles which affirm certain directions and activities in life, while denying and negating or punishing others. Caught somewhere in between is our mixed hope and dread that a higher power out there will fill in the gaps and accommodate our weaknesses and make things right when we mess up. We truck along, blissfully in love with others or ourselves or our careers or our daily duties, trusting that “God will provide,” whatever we assume “God” to be or mean.
From a historian’s viewpoint, it is obvious that the human race is incurably religious and cannot seem to free itself from god-talk, or the language of mystery and transcendence. At the same time, no religion has been able to argue clearly, from within the system of human experience, that a particular deity is inescapably present, or that any peculiar worldview is undeniably true or coherent or all-encompassing. Thus, for several religious systems, divine revelation is a necessary corollary, even though what is needed by humanity, and what is offered from above, are both hotly debated.
Is revelation a form of clarity and insight that rightly discovers the true nature of things, which we are unable to investigate without transcendent help? Or is revelation the accumulating experiences of those who have sought meaning, helping us to stand on the shoulders of others until we can see further? Or is revelation an injection of supernatural knowledge into our limited reasonings, from outside the system, by the one who created the system? Or is revelation an intrusion of divine activity into the human arena, leaving clues and fossils and symbols which must then be interpreted and applied?
The religion of the Bible assumes that all our experiential reality had a beginning, a big bang explosion that fashioned everything we encounter out of previous nothingness. It also declares that this rigging of substance out of matter and energy was the act of a benevolent and all-powerful Creator. And the Bible declares this deity desires an ongoing relationship with the worlds that have been brought into being. More particularly, according to both Old and New Testaments, this God nurtures a special longing to engage the human race as a partner in the journey of life. Humankind is, so we are informed, God’s unique and crowning species within the grand complexity of molecules and moons, of fish and fowl, of galaxies and granite, of emotions and electrons.
But in its understanding of this ongoing friendly arm-wrestling between Creator and creature, biblical religion is deeply rooted in human history. The Bible does not merely talk about values and ideas or morals on which to construct easier lives. Nor is it a set of centering exercises which will keep the imminent more fully tuned to the transcendent. Instead, the story put forward in biblical literature is that the creatures of earth have lost their ability to apprehend or understand their Creator, and that the deity must necessarily take not only the first, but also many recurring steps, in an effort to reconnect with them. So, revelation is a concept involving both action and content. God must somehow interrupt the normal course of human affairs in a way that will catch our attention. And when we have stopped to notice or ponder or even recoil in fright, there must be some information which we can use in a way that allows and encourages us to rethink the meaning of all things.
Alternative Application (Hebrews 10:11-14 (15-18) 19-25)
This is clearly at the heart of Hebrews, and the author’s intent as he keeps writing about (Old Testament) scripture, the sacrifices, and ceremonies of the past, and the coming of Jesus. God is clearly the source and authority of life, according to all biblical literature, including this treatise. And God has interrupted human history in two major ways: first through the events of the exodus and Sinai covenant that created Israel as a missional nation, and then second in the unusual and unrepeatable incarnation of deity into the person of Jesus Christ. All the literature of the Bible is gathered around these two redemptive events and their implications. For this reason, the Pentateuch and the gospels are the critical elements shaping the biblical religion. They are not codes of law or wise ethical teachings from a distinguished school of thought; they are the documents articulating an unusual intrusion of divine will into the human arena for the threefold purpose of actively transforming lives by redemptive transactions, teaching the Creator’s original worldview, and establishing a missional community which will live out and disseminate those perspectives.
Appended to these central documents are the ongoing declarations of guidance provided by divinely authorized and spiritually attuned spokespersons, who called others to remember the redemptive events and their significance and challenged them to live as if these things matter. In the Old Testament expression of biblical religion, these persons are identified as “prophets” — those who speak on behalf of God; in the New Testament, they are called “apostles” — those who are sent by God.
Finally, accreted to these collections are a few other writings that became recognized by the faith community for their depth of spiritual insight, or for their helpful clarification of recurring issues. Whether by divine determination or political maneuvering or the whims of history (or even, perhaps some combination of all of these), the resulting literary product came to its current shape, and is known as the Bible. It cannot be fully understood apart from its assumptions about divine revelation. Yet at the same time, it does not presume to be merely a trans-historical injection of supernatural mysteries into the human arena, for the use of those who alone are inducted into secret societies where the mind of God is supposedly explored.
If the Bible is to have any ongoing religious value, its two historical nodes of divine redemptive activity must be taken seriously, as the writer of Hebrews constantly asserts. Stripped of the exodus/Sinai covenant, or of the redemptive divinity of Jesus, the Bible makes little sense. Suddenly its moral codes are no better than others that have been formed and articulated at various points throughout history; its pilgrimage images are little different from other quests for significance and the sacred; and its personalities become only another bunch of interesting heroes and drifters who give moral lessons through their flawed frolicking.
But if there is a God, and if that God wished to reclaim, by creatorial right, a relationship with those brought into being as an extension of the divine fellowship and heavenly energy, the Bible makes a good deal of sense. It is a collection of covenant documents which trace the divine redemptive mission through two stages: its early history in locating a transformed community at the crossroads of human society in order to be seen and desired, and its later expression through an expanding and transforming presence in every culture, that tells the story of God along with the other tales of life. These two manifestations of divine redemptive activity are inextricably intertwined. Yet the latter supersedes the former, according to Hebrews (and the rest of the New Testament along with it). For just as a thing and its shadow cannot be separated, God’s intents and dealing with the world through ancient Israel and through Jesus are irreducibly linked. Yet also, just as the shadow is produced by the thing that substantively norms its size, shape and motion, and not the other way around, it is only through God’s second great redemptive act that the first one is more fully understood. The Old Testament may not give us a clear picture of Jesus, but when Jesus comes, what happened in the Old Testament is suddenly more fully understood. The shadow testifies to the substance, while the substance give reason for the shadow.
Like the rest of literature, the Bible can be ignored or misread or improperly used. But like the best of literature, when allowed to speak from its own frame of reference and respected as a collection of documents that are inherently seeking to enhance human life rather than deviously attempting to exploit it, the Bible is truly, in a very powerful and exciting way, the Word of God.
After celebrating the powers of each day’s energy, a subtle shift comes midway through his song. A chance conversation leaves him with a haunting hollowness: “I met a man who had a dream he had since he was twenty. I met that man when he was eighty-one.”
The twinkle of expectation never left that man’s eyes, Whitaker crooned. Yet the world itself seemed to have conspired to put off the “new world” realizations indefinitely. “Everybody talks about a new world in the morning,” he sang. “New world in the morning never comes.”
Hope lives on expectation. “I don’t know why I have to make a song,” Whitaker muses. Yet he knows. “Everybody talks about a new world in the morning. New world in the morning takes so long.”
This is certainly the melody of biblical religion. Creation dawns. Sins threatens and destroys. But a new morning is coming: is it the world after the cataclysmic flood; is it the dreams of Abram’s family; is it relief of Israel entering the promised land; is it the dawning of David’s kingdom; is it the coming of Messiah; is it resurrection morning; is it Jesus’ coming again? We keep hoping.
And so, it is in each of our lectionary readings today. Maybe miraculously born Samuel will bring back “the word of the Lord.” Maybe Jesus’ disciples will live to see the restoration of the kingdom. Maybe Jesus will come soon, as the writer of Hebrews expects, to make all things new.
And so, we wait…
1 Samuel 1:4-20
There are several key issues which emerge through the first half of 1 Samuel, as this new figure takes center stage. For one thing, the covenant theocracy with Yahweh as Israel’s unseen king begins to seem inadequate to the people. This is so for at least two reasons: on the one hand, Yahweh’s voice is hard to hear, unlike the days of Moses and Joshua, when it was quickly apparent what God desired or decreed. On the other hand, the urgent military threats from neighboring nations seem to demand a readily visible and immediate leadership that is not dependent on lengthy rituals of ceremony and sacrifice before Yahweh might or might not put in an appearance. Precisely because of these concerns, Samuel stands as the transition figure between the judges (who gave quick military leadership and then faded away without establishing ongoing royal courts or dynasties) and the monarchy, as it will emerge in part through Saul and to its full extent by way of David and his family. Samuel, as his name indicates, was a new communication link between the people and their God, and also a mighty general in battle. But his appearance on the scene was too brief to nurture public confidence in long-range national stability without a clearly identified temporal rule and an expectation of solid succession plans.
The clues to Samuel’s special gifts and leadership role are scattered throughout the initial seven chapters of 1 Samuel. First, there seems to be injustice and lack of divine blessing in the land. Elkanah’s first wife, Hannah, is barren, a typical sign of divine displeasure or even curse. His second wife, Peninnah, bears a number of children, but acts rudely toward Hannah about their contrasting situations. In short, the good wife is punished, and the bad wife is blessed. Things are definitely wrong in this upside-down world!
Second, the official representative for Yahweh, a priest named Eli (“My God”), neither recognizes true need and absolute devotion in Hannah’s silent praying, nor can intercede on her behalf with Yahweh. At first, he rudely accosts Hannah, calling her a drunkard. Then, when she pours out her deep frustrations, all he can do is wish her well. He does not have Yahweh’s ear, and Yahweh’s voice does not speak through him, even though he is a priest.
Third, Eli’s sons, who are priests, are wicked men. They fail to mediate between Israel and Yahweh. They rob the people to feed their own gluttony. They mishandle the sacrifices, although the rituals are clearly spelled out. They have sexual relations with women at the tabernacle, just like the priest and prostitutes at the fertility shrines of other nations and gods. They fail to heed their faither’s admonitions. And then, to top it off, they presume leadership of the armies of Israel, and brazenly take the ark of the covenant into battle as a weapon of war!
Fourth, the writer uses one telling event during Samuel’s childhood as the defining image of both the times and the man. “In those days the word of the Lord was rare,” he tells us (1 Samuel 3:1). Then, simply, the story of Samuel hearing his name called in the night, is told. Samuel does not know who is calling him, and, at first, Eli does not either. But soon it becomes apparent to the older man that, while he does not have either the ear or voice of Yahweh, this young child certainly does. The nation quickly learns the same, as the writer notes in his closing comments on this episode: “The Lord was with Samuel as he grew up, and he let none of his words fall to the ground. And all Israel from Dan to Beersheba recognized that Samuel was attested as a prophet of the Lord. The Lord continue to appear at Shiloh, and there he revealed himself to Samuel through his word. And Samuel’s word came to all Israel.” (1 Samuel 3:19-4:1)
Fifth, in battles against the neighboring Philistines, the Israelites are impotent. Not only do they lose the war, but the throne of their God, the ark of the covenant, is captured by the enemy through the foolishness of Eli’s sons. Still, Yahweh personally battles the Philistines and their god Dagon, until the Philistines recognize defeat and send the ark home. In the end, it is Samuel alone (1 Samuel 7) who can reconcile Israel back to Yahweh and turn the page on this horrible chapter with a clear divine deliverance from the Philistines.
When the Israelites finally grow bold enough to demand a human king, Samuel is the one who must mediate between Yahweh and the people until each party understands the consequences. Then Samuel anoints both first kings of Israel, the obvious leader who turns out bad, and the overlooked runt who turns out great.
Hebrews 10:11-14 (15-18) 19-25
The writer of Hebrews continues his analysis of the day of atonement, and its relation to Jesus. This is clear from his reference to “the blood of bulls and goats” in verse 3. The day of atonement was built around the sacrifice of these two kinds of animals, and there was no other event or celebration in Israel’s ceremonial life which shared the same featured sacrificial combination.
At the start of the day of atonement, a bull would be offered in the cleansing ritual for the high priest. Since the high priest represented the nation of Israel as a whole, the largest possible single animal sacrifice was made, standing in for this largest expression of the national population. Later in the day, two goats were selected for further cleansing rituals. One was sacrificed as a sin offering, while the other became the “scapegoat,” channeling the sins of the people symbolically out into the wilderness where it was turned loose.
The author is summarizing and reiterating the point he made just prior to this: the very fact that the day of atonement had to be repeated yearly in the cycle of Israel’s national cleansing before God indicated that it was only modestly powerful to cleanse. But Jesus, who is a different kind of high priest (after the order of Melchizedek), provided a single once-for-all-time sacrifice that needed no repetition.
This immediately leads the writer to a new topic — the relationship between the old and new expressions of God’s saving, cleansing activity among God’s people. In what has come to be known as typology, the author uses two words to describe the two sides of a single redemptive coin. The former (God at work in and through Israel, shaped by the “law” and its ceremonies) is called Σκιὰν (“shadow”, Hebrews 10:1), while the latter (God at work in and through Jesus, shaped by the power of crucifixion and resurrection) is identified as εἰκόνα τῶν πραγμάτων (“the realities,” literally “the form of things,” Hebrews 10:1). One might pair these as “shadow and substance.” It is impossible to have a shadow if the substantial thing is not present. At the same time, in the world of planet earth, during the daylight, when we are able to see things because of the light provided by the sun, no reality exists without casting a shadow. Shadow and substance co-exist in a symbiotic manner. One cannot be had without the other. Where one is present, its companion is also evident.
But that does not make the substantial thing and its shadow identical or equivalent. The person and her shadow may have the same outline form, but one could never mistake the one for the other. Also, there is an unequal relationship of dependency between the two, shadow and substance. The thing of substance creates the shadow, and not the other way around. While both are inextricably tied to each other, the substance carries the weight of their common identity. It is not the shadow that dictates terms to the substantive thing, but the substantive thing which forces the shadow to take shape and meaning.
So it is, according to the author of Hebrews, in the relationship between the day of atonement (along with all that was part of the “law” and the ceremonial system of Israel) and Jesus. Although the former occurred prior to Jesus recent appearance in human history, it is symbiotically dependent upon Jesus for both its existence and its meaning. Jesus is how God brings salvation to this world, while the sacrifices and ceremonies of the day of atonement and its kin were only typologically prefiguring this culminating reality.
Thus, in the former age, God spoke through prophets, and God’s care was ministered through angels, Moses and the temporary house of God (the tabernacle), with its levitical priesthood whose priests were imperfect and offered sacrifices that had to be repeated. Meanwhile, in this new age, God speaks through Jesus, while God’s care is ministered through the son (who is better than the angels or Moses), by way of the true house of God (the arena of heaven and earth) under the care of the one who is ordained to the Melchizedek priesthood, offering a perfect sacrifice that does not need to be repeated.
This typology lends itself toward a kind of dualism — the former and the latter, the imperfect and the perfect, the repeated and the once-for-all, the shadow and the substance. But it is not the same kind of dualism as one encounters in the cosmology of Plato, where all materiality is but temporary copies and imitations of the true forms and eternal ideals that populate the realm of transcendent spirituality. Nor is it like Buddhist dualistic cosmology, where the material world is temporary, noisy, and engaging, and ultimately destructive to essential identity through its forced isolation of spirit from the oneness of all being, while the spiritual world is eternal, quiet and elusive, and ultimately destructive to essential identity through annihilation of the uniqueness of personhood.
Instead, the typological dualism expressed in Hebrews functions within time, rather than expressing substantive cosmology defining the whole of reality. This typological dualism found its earlier expression in the Covenant period, sometimes known as the Age of the Prophets, where, through the auspices of the tabernacle and its Levitical priesthood, there was an endless cycle of repeated sacrifices, pointing toward the need for a more complete address of the problem of human sinfulness. Now, in this latter expression of the same work of God, characterized as the Second Covenant period, known also as the Age of the Son, Jesus provides a once-for-all sacrificial ministry that moves us through the heavenly sanctuary into the very presence of God.
This typological dualism is at the heart of Christian theology. Both expressions are God’s means for bringing salvation. Both are built upon blood sacrifice. But the former is temporary (a shadow), although essentially connected to the latter, just as a shadow is essentially connected to the thing that causes it, having the same shape, character, and movements. Meanwhile, the latter is everlasting (the perfection that needs no repetition). It is the source of being, even for the shadow reality, but its substantive nature supersedes its shadow reflection.
Hence there is one mission of the Creator (bring back into fellowship the human race that has been alienated) which becomes accomplished through two missional strategies:
- First, through Israel as a temporary teaching measure.
- Now, through Jesus as a permanent connection between God and us.
To define a theology of the New Testament is a modest enterprise, and a reasonably uncontroversial task. After all, the textual data is limited (twenty-seven manuscripts, most of them very short), and the nuances of interpretation rather narrow in scope. Although among New Testament theologians there are differences of emphasis or arguments about the significance of certain terms and ideas, they rarely find themselves in fundamentally different camps from one another.
Developing a theology of the Old Testament (or Hebrew Bible) is a much more daunting task. Not only is the literature of this collection considerably more expansive, but it varies extensively among multiple genres, topics, and provenance. Added to these challenges are questions of dating, inherent worldview, and the extent of influence from other ancient near Eastern cultures. Old Testament theologians can square off from very different ideological points of view.
Most intimidating of all, however, is any attempt at a biblical theology that encompasses both testaments, seeking to remain faithful to the origins and directions of each, while pursuing the historical, cultural, and religious bonds that have brought them together as the Christian Bible. Fundamental to this challenge is the question of the relationship between the two collections. Choices made here are inherently theological, philosophical, and confessional. Five major options are most often posited:
- The Old Testament is essential Christian scripture, with the New Testament serving primarily as its explanatory footnote. Because Jesus and the first Christians were Jewish, and the preaching of the apostles was based upon the Hebrew Bible, there is a sense in which the Old Testament is sufficient when considering what revelation God might have given. The New Testament documents, in this view, do not alter or add to the theology of the Old Testament. Instead, they provide notes about the life and teachings of Jesus and collect together the interpretive nuances about him that were put forward by the church’s first preachers.
- The Old Testament is prophecy, and the New Testament describes its fulfillment. This is a significantly New Testament — centered approach. It views the Hebrew Bible and its context as an incomplete religious world in which its leaders invariably pointed to meanings and future happenings that could not be apprehended immediately by their contemporaries. God’s designs, accordingly, were focused on Jesus, and for that reason Israel’s history and religion were inherently still evolving, forming at best a prelude or prologue to the real event.
- The Old Testament is historical background, while the New Testament is essential scripture. In this overtly church-centered analysis, all Christian theology is derived from the New Testament. It, alone, is the complete “Word of God.” The Old Testament is, of course, beneficial, and convenient, for it gives historical context to the life of Jesus and helps explain some of the terms and ideas bandied about in New Testament writings which are shaped by certain ancient cultures. Clearly, however, the New Testament is the guidebook for the church, and for that reason it can be published separately from the Hebrew Bible and studied independently of that other collection which belongs to a different religion.
- The Old Testament is primarily an expression of law, while the New Testament is truly Gospel, “good news.” This approach believes that the God of the Judeo-Christian tradition acted in fundamentally different ways when nurturing the lives of these sibling faith communities. The “law” of Old Testament covenant theology was a somewhat misguided attempt that viewed God as standing like nanny or teacher over a spiritually immature people, until an appropriate time when they would hunger for freedom as believers come of age. The New Testament breathes with grace and spiritual maturity that was not possible during Old Testament times. Jesus is the one who explained the new religious outlook and took care of the penal code associated with the Old Testament “law” so that New Testament believers would not have to worry about it.
- The Old Testament begins God’s covenant mission to reclaim the wayward peoples of earth through a centripetal geographic strategy, and the New Testament reaffirms this core design while retooling its missional thrust centrifugally outward to the far reaches of human settlement and expansion. In this perspective, there is a single unifying motif that binds the two testaments together: the mission of God. This mission is largely channeled through Israel in Old Testament times, with a result that the nation needed to be located at a significant crossroad of international interaction, so that all peoples might eventually have an opportunity to connect with Israel’s God. Furthermore, because the missional activities of God were expressed through a specific cultural context, many of the scriptural teachings were designed in and around and through Israelite culture and history. The New Testament does not alter this divine missional drive, but it renegotiates the parameters, so that it becomes more portable and transferable. The critical event that initiated the Old Testament era of the mission was the exodus of Israel from Egypt, and the formation of its identity through the Sinai covenant. The critical event that initiated the New Testament era of the mission was the incarnation of the divine identity into human form (Jesus) so that the transition could be made quickly, and its redemptive transaction secured once and for all.
This fifth perspective seems most consonant with the message of Hebrews, particularly when the writer supports his arguments with a lengthy quote from Psalm 40. Psalm 40 is a song of deliverance attributed to David. It reflects on a very traumatic, life-threatening event for which God brought about a miraculous escape and restoration. Afterward, even while the menacing taunts of enemies continued, David proclaimed the might of Yahweh to the gathering of God’s people. Although he likely brought a sacrifice to express his thankfulness, he also declares that life devotion and service are the real expression of appreciation.
It is the unique expression given by David in Psalm 40:6-8 that captures the attention of the writer of Hebrews and provides us with another glimpse of his brilliance and depth of scriptural understanding. For one thing, he appears to have vast portions of the Hebrew Bible memorized and available in his thinking with incredibly rapid links of association. Most likely this document is being dictated in about an hour’s time, and the author is not poring over texts and manuscripts, weaving the exact intricacies of a theological treatise. All these scriptures occur to him as he dictates, connected instantaneously by theme and image and implied meaning.
This becomes more apparent, secondly, when the textual variations on Psalm 40:6-8 are noted, with their vast difference in meaning and momentum. While the Masoretic Text and the Septuagint are closely aligned throughout most Old Testament passages, it is not so in the received texts available for Psalm 40. The New Revised Standard Version translation of these verses relies on the Masoretic text, and expresses verses 6-8 in English in this manner:
Sacrifice and offering you do not desire, but you have given me an open ear. Burnt offering and sin offering you have not required. Then I said, “Here I am; in the scroll of the book it is written of me. I delight to do your will, O my God; your law is within my heart.”
The Septuagint, however, seems to be drawn from another textual tradition, and gives rise to a uniquely different English translation:
You did not want sacrifice and offering, but a body you restored to me. You did not ask for whole burnt offering, and an offering concerning sin. Then I said, “Behold, I have arrived. In the scroll of the book it has been written concerning me. I delight to do your will, O my God; your law is within my heart.”
There is clearly a major difference between an “open ear” (as in the Masoretic text) and a “restored body” (as in the Septuagint). While the former has more substantial text and tradition support, and the latter may, in fact, be based upon some copyist’s error rather than a clear reflection of David’s original song, the writer of Hebrews deliberately chose the minor and more obscure rendering of Psalm 40:6-8 to support his point. Why?
It seems to be part of a larger arc of mental development tying all the author’s ideas together in a truly brilliant manner. First, in verse 5, the writer indicates that Jesus is the voice of scripture. This is important, for the whole of Hebrews is based on hearing God speak. In the past, connected to the historic Israelite/Jewish tradition, God spoke through the prophets. Now, however, God is speaking through his son. But if the voice of Jesus is the voice of God because Jesus is God, then the voice of the prophets is actually the voice of Jesus! Therefore, these people who listen closely to the voice of God through the prophets should continue to listen to the voice of God through Jesus, because it is one and the same voice!
Second, since it is Jesus who spoke through David when the great king penned Psalm 40, what emerged is actually a self-declaration of Jesus, even though it also echoed David’s own experiences at the time (think typology). So, David was celebrating divine deliverance from the threats on his life by pledging deeper devotion to God, who had saved him. In David’s mind, one of the most profound expressions of service and devotion happened when a Hebrew slave chose to remain subject to a good master, even though the bondsman was entitled to go free. This relationship was commemorated publicly with an ear-piercing ceremony. This seems to be the background of David’s somewhat cryptic expression in Psalm 40:6, that God has given him “an open ear.” The term, in Hebrew, is כרית , which means “you bore” or “you pierce.” This is precisely what took place in the ancient Israelite ceremony binding a faithful slave to a good master. David visualizes himself in that relationship with Yahweh, his good master who has once again recently saved him.
But now back to the idea that Jesus is the great voice of God speaking through the testimonies of Israelite scriptures. The Septuagint version of Psalm 40:6 declares that a “body” has been prepared or restored. The Hebrew word for “prepared” or “establish” or “restore” is כנית , which is based on the same root that gives rise to כרית , the term for “bore” or “pierce”. This allows the author of Hebrews to take the Septuagint variation of Psalm 40:6 and directly apply it to Jesus. While David was placing himself in relationship with Yahweh symbolically as a slave might pledge himself to a good master that saved him time and again (therefore getting his ear pierced, and remaining indentured to the master for a lifetime), Jesus, who is the true prophet of God speaking through David, declares, by another reading of this text, that in his devotion to the Father, he has become the true sacrifice (having his body prepared for both crucifixion and resurrection) that nullifies the need for animal sacrifice!
In a matter of a few lines, deeply understood and Christologically interpreted, the author of Hebrews has pulled together powerful ideas from the Old Testament and asserted their ongoing message in a New Testament age. To confirm this, he reiterates his reading through the explanation he provides in Hebrew 10:8-10 — When he said above, “You have neither desired nor taken pleasure in sacrifices and offerings and burnt offerings and sin offerings” (these are offered according to the law), then he added, “See, I have come to do your will.” He abolishes the first in order to establish the second. And it is by God’s will that we have been sanctified through the offering of the body of Jesus Christ once for all.
Then, to seal the deal, he reiterates the voice of David in Psalm 110 as functioning essentially as the mouthpiece of Jesus (Hebrews 10:11-13) and brings all things together by evoking the memory of Yahweh’s call to Israel through Moses in Leviticus 19:1-2. The Israelites are to be holy because their God, coming to live among them in the tabernacle, is holy. Now, because Jesus is the true high priest over the house of God, he makes God’s people holy through his unique sacrifice, the offering of his own body.
Culminating these marvelous maneuvers of the mind and heart, the writer of Hebrews quickly nods, once again, to Jeremiah 31:31-34, a passage he exegeted more fully a short while earlier, in what we call Hebrews 8. He merges the two expressions of the divine covenant, give a testimony that both manifestations of the covenant are intended to provide forgiveness from sins through blood sacrifice, and reiterates that Jesus’ sacrifice is the one that completes all things, never needing repetition like was true of the animal sacrifices in Israel’s past experiences.
Summing up, the writer of Hebrews brings everything together in Jesus:
- Verse 8 — since God declares that sacrifices are not desired, Jesus puts an end to them!
- Verse 8 — since sacrifices are related to the “law” (Old Covenant), Jesus abolishes them as he brings in the new covenant age!
- Verse 9 — since Jesus says in Psalm 40:8 (see verse 5) that “I have come to do your will,” and God wishes to put an end to the old covenant, Jesus is the transition from the old to the new!
- Verse 10 — “…it is by God’s will that we have been sanctified through the offering of the body of Jesus Christ once for all.”
- Verses 11-12 — while the priests of the old covenant had to repeat their sacrifices over and over, Jesus offers himself as a once-for-all sacrifice.
- Verses 12-14 — this brings us back to Psalm 110, which affirms that Jesus has accomplished his work (“sat down”), is God (“at the right hand of God”), rules over all as God (“since then has been waiting ‘until his enemies would be made a footstool for his feet’”), and draws us into the end-times waiting with him (“those who are being sanctified”).
- Verses 15-18 — this brings us back to Jeremiah 31:31-34, affirming the beginning of the new covenant age, where God forgets sins because our sins are once-for-all forgiven by way of Jesus’ once-for-all sacrifice, ending the need for repeated sacrifices!
Mark 13:1-8
Most of Jesus’ disciples were from Galilee, a region of small towns and ordinary buildings. Jerusalem was different. Herod the Great had spilled his engineering resources liberally on the capitol city of the Jews, creating massive fortresses and walls, and temple renovations which he believed retooled the tiny and pathetic “second temple” of Ezra 6 into a structure more magnificent than Solomon’s original masterpiece. It was a mighty wonder, bringing even Jesus’ small-town disciples to shivers of awe as they wandered gape-mouthed through the glowing facilities that Thursday night. “Look at these buildings!” they stage-whispered agape.
Jesus was not as impressed. These mighty structures, seemingly indestructible, will soon be a massive pile of weathered rubble, he told them. Yet that was not the greatest shock. Cities, even great ones, rise and fall. Until, one day, when they are all superseded by the eternal city of God.
When?! They asked him, incredulous.
Jesus launched into the greatest dimension of biblical morality: eschatological ethics.
First, Jesus clearly confirms that he is the Messiah foretold by the prophets. This is the most profound sign that the new messianic age has arrived. Since the messianic age was part of the promised “day of the Lord,” a time of divine judgment was sure to arrive soon.
Second, Jesus’ first coming brought the beginnings of the blessings of the messianic age, but it delayed the judgments of God for a time, so that the followers of Jesus could spread the news of salvation far and wide. Splitting the “day of the Lord” in two was an act of kindness on God’s part, providing more opportunity for people to respond in faith. It also placed upon the church a missionary urgency. The reason Jesus left his followers behind during the gap between his ascension and return was to send them as ambassadors of hope to the nations.
Third, the return of Jesus was imminent, and likely to take place within weeks or months. This was the expectation that made any trials, persecutions, or difficulties endurable. Knowing that one can outlast an opponent, no matter how nasty or strong, gives great resilience to hang on and survive with dignity.
Fourth, all who trusted in Jesus when he returned would share in his glory and power. But so too would those who had believed in Jesus and then died before Jesus had made his return. This teaching profoundly changed the burial habits of Christians and altered expectations at dying. Rather than closing doors to human existence, death instead opened them to eternal life. Many early Christians welcomed death by martyrdom, knowing that through this act they were immediately secure in resurrection hope.
Fifth, the yawning gap of time that would be widening before Jesus’ returned required meaningful explanations for his delay. Answers came in three major varieties. Some saw this lengthening “in-between” age as evidence of divine grace: God was not going to bring final judgment until more people could respond to the gospel message in faith. Others declared that the delay was a tool for testing the faithfulness of those who said they believed in Jesus. A final group called to mind Jesus’ words about signs that would appear before the final days and tried more closely to define the number of specific events must still take place prior to his return.
Intertwined together, these three dimensions of eschatological expectations became hardwired into the church and infused it with a missionary urgency and an uncompromising ethic. The church must speak to everyone with loving passion about Jesus. At the same time, Christians were responsible to live in a profound moral simplicity that assessed every behavior by the question, “What should we be doing when Jesus returns?”
Application
As parents of three wonderful daughters, my wife and I can sympathize with the couple who sent their child off to college, only to find out a few months later that she was dating another student, and that the two of them were already talking about marriage. The troubled parents urged their daughter to bring her boyfriend home so that they could meet him. When the college twosome arrived and hurried and worried greetings were made at the door, Mom shunted daughter off to the kitchen while Dad guided the boy firmly into the family room for a little heart-to-heart.
“So,” Dad said at last, trying to find out more about this young man, “what are your plans for your future?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” the boyfriend replied, “but I know that your daughter and I were destined to be together, and that God will provide.”
“Well, what about finances? How do you intend to pay the bills if you should get married?”
“To tell you the truth, sir, we haven’t given that much thought yet. But we are deeply in love, and we are confident that God will provide.”
This was not giving the father much confidence, so he pressed on. “Do you have any ideas about careers and where you will live, and whether you will both finish college?”
“We’re planning to take it one day at a time, sir,” came the reply, “and we’re sure that God will provide.”
Later that night Mom and Dad were finally alone together, and she said to him, “Well, what do you think?”
“I have mixed feelings,” he told her. “On the one hand, the fellow seems to be a deluded, shiftless, irresponsible fool who hasn’t even begun to understand how life works. Yet on the other hand, I get the sense that he thinks I am God!”
There is much of that family’s conundrum in the way we all live out our existences here. Partly we breeze through our days and experiences, believing that we can make it on our own, no matter what. At the same time, we wrestle with resources and responsibilities, knowing that there are some moral values and cosmic principles which affirm certain directions and activities in life, while denying and negating or punishing others. Caught somewhere in between is our mixed hope and dread that a higher power out there will fill in the gaps and accommodate our weaknesses and make things right when we mess up. We truck along, blissfully in love with others or ourselves or our careers or our daily duties, trusting that “God will provide,” whatever we assume “God” to be or mean.
From a historian’s viewpoint, it is obvious that the human race is incurably religious and cannot seem to free itself from god-talk, or the language of mystery and transcendence. At the same time, no religion has been able to argue clearly, from within the system of human experience, that a particular deity is inescapably present, or that any peculiar worldview is undeniably true or coherent or all-encompassing. Thus, for several religious systems, divine revelation is a necessary corollary, even though what is needed by humanity, and what is offered from above, are both hotly debated.
Is revelation a form of clarity and insight that rightly discovers the true nature of things, which we are unable to investigate without transcendent help? Or is revelation the accumulating experiences of those who have sought meaning, helping us to stand on the shoulders of others until we can see further? Or is revelation an injection of supernatural knowledge into our limited reasonings, from outside the system, by the one who created the system? Or is revelation an intrusion of divine activity into the human arena, leaving clues and fossils and symbols which must then be interpreted and applied?
The religion of the Bible assumes that all our experiential reality had a beginning, a big bang explosion that fashioned everything we encounter out of previous nothingness. It also declares that this rigging of substance out of matter and energy was the act of a benevolent and all-powerful Creator. And the Bible declares this deity desires an ongoing relationship with the worlds that have been brought into being. More particularly, according to both Old and New Testaments, this God nurtures a special longing to engage the human race as a partner in the journey of life. Humankind is, so we are informed, God’s unique and crowning species within the grand complexity of molecules and moons, of fish and fowl, of galaxies and granite, of emotions and electrons.
But in its understanding of this ongoing friendly arm-wrestling between Creator and creature, biblical religion is deeply rooted in human history. The Bible does not merely talk about values and ideas or morals on which to construct easier lives. Nor is it a set of centering exercises which will keep the imminent more fully tuned to the transcendent. Instead, the story put forward in biblical literature is that the creatures of earth have lost their ability to apprehend or understand their Creator, and that the deity must necessarily take not only the first, but also many recurring steps, in an effort to reconnect with them. So, revelation is a concept involving both action and content. God must somehow interrupt the normal course of human affairs in a way that will catch our attention. And when we have stopped to notice or ponder or even recoil in fright, there must be some information which we can use in a way that allows and encourages us to rethink the meaning of all things.
Alternative Application (Hebrews 10:11-14 (15-18) 19-25)
This is clearly at the heart of Hebrews, and the author’s intent as he keeps writing about (Old Testament) scripture, the sacrifices, and ceremonies of the past, and the coming of Jesus. God is clearly the source and authority of life, according to all biblical literature, including this treatise. And God has interrupted human history in two major ways: first through the events of the exodus and Sinai covenant that created Israel as a missional nation, and then second in the unusual and unrepeatable incarnation of deity into the person of Jesus Christ. All the literature of the Bible is gathered around these two redemptive events and their implications. For this reason, the Pentateuch and the gospels are the critical elements shaping the biblical religion. They are not codes of law or wise ethical teachings from a distinguished school of thought; they are the documents articulating an unusual intrusion of divine will into the human arena for the threefold purpose of actively transforming lives by redemptive transactions, teaching the Creator’s original worldview, and establishing a missional community which will live out and disseminate those perspectives.
Appended to these central documents are the ongoing declarations of guidance provided by divinely authorized and spiritually attuned spokespersons, who called others to remember the redemptive events and their significance and challenged them to live as if these things matter. In the Old Testament expression of biblical religion, these persons are identified as “prophets” — those who speak on behalf of God; in the New Testament, they are called “apostles” — those who are sent by God.
Finally, accreted to these collections are a few other writings that became recognized by the faith community for their depth of spiritual insight, or for their helpful clarification of recurring issues. Whether by divine determination or political maneuvering or the whims of history (or even, perhaps some combination of all of these), the resulting literary product came to its current shape, and is known as the Bible. It cannot be fully understood apart from its assumptions about divine revelation. Yet at the same time, it does not presume to be merely a trans-historical injection of supernatural mysteries into the human arena, for the use of those who alone are inducted into secret societies where the mind of God is supposedly explored.
If the Bible is to have any ongoing religious value, its two historical nodes of divine redemptive activity must be taken seriously, as the writer of Hebrews constantly asserts. Stripped of the exodus/Sinai covenant, or of the redemptive divinity of Jesus, the Bible makes little sense. Suddenly its moral codes are no better than others that have been formed and articulated at various points throughout history; its pilgrimage images are little different from other quests for significance and the sacred; and its personalities become only another bunch of interesting heroes and drifters who give moral lessons through their flawed frolicking.
But if there is a God, and if that God wished to reclaim, by creatorial right, a relationship with those brought into being as an extension of the divine fellowship and heavenly energy, the Bible makes a good deal of sense. It is a collection of covenant documents which trace the divine redemptive mission through two stages: its early history in locating a transformed community at the crossroads of human society in order to be seen and desired, and its later expression through an expanding and transforming presence in every culture, that tells the story of God along with the other tales of life. These two manifestations of divine redemptive activity are inextricably intertwined. Yet the latter supersedes the former, according to Hebrews (and the rest of the New Testament along with it). For just as a thing and its shadow cannot be separated, God’s intents and dealing with the world through ancient Israel and through Jesus are irreducibly linked. Yet also, just as the shadow is produced by the thing that substantively norms its size, shape and motion, and not the other way around, it is only through God’s second great redemptive act that the first one is more fully understood. The Old Testament may not give us a clear picture of Jesus, but when Jesus comes, what happened in the Old Testament is suddenly more fully understood. The shadow testifies to the substance, while the substance give reason for the shadow.
Like the rest of literature, the Bible can be ignored or misread or improperly used. But like the best of literature, when allowed to speak from its own frame of reference and respected as a collection of documents that are inherently seeking to enhance human life rather than deviously attempting to exploit it, the Bible is truly, in a very powerful and exciting way, the Word of God.
