Glow
Commentary
During the time of the Reformation, John Foxe of England was impressed by the testimony of the early Christians. He gleaned the pages of early historical writings and wrote a book that has become a classic in the church, Foxe’s Book of Martyrs.
One story he tells is about an early church leader named Lawrence. Lawrence acted as a pastor for a church community. He also collected the offerings for the poor each week, and that led to his death.
A band of thieves found out that Lawrence received the offerings of the people from Sunday to Sunday, so one night, as he was out taking a stroll, they grabbed him and demanded the money. He told them that he did not have it, that he had already given it all to the poor. They did not believe him and told him they would give him a chance to find it. In three days, they would come to his house, and take from him the treasures of the church.
Three days later they did come. But Lawrence was not alone. The house was filled with the people of his congregation. When the thieves demanded the treasures of the church, Lawrence smiled. He opened wide his arms and gestured to those who sat around him. “Here’s the treasure of the church!” he said. “Here’s the treasure of God that shines in the world!”
Indeed. As Jesus said in another place, “You are the light of the world.” You can glow in the dark of this world, shining the light of the Transfigurationto those who desperately need it. This is the theme of the passages we read today.
Exodus 34:29-35
The narrative of Exodus 25-40 has three major sections. In chapters 25-31, preparations for the tabernacle are made, and detailed plans are formulated. Then comes the intruding and jarring incident of the golden calf (chapters 32–34), in which not only Israel’s loyalty to Yahweh but also Yahweh’s loyalty to Israel is tested. Finally, the architectural initiatives of Exodus 25–31 are resumed in the actual construction of the tabernacle and its dedication (chapters 35–40), almost as if the dark blot of the interlude had never happened.
Why all this emphasis on building the tent-like tabernacle? Why invest in a movable shrine rather than rally around some sacred hilltop (Mt. Sinai, for instance)? The answer is intrinsically related to the covenant-making event itself. If Israel is now the (reclaimed) possession of Yahweh, then Yahweh must take up visible residence among the people. The tabernacle is not a strange phenomenon of the natural order, like an unfailing spring or a volcanic vent or a residual meteor rock. Instead, it is the fabrication of a civilization that is intentionally on a journey, guided by an in-residence deity who travels with them. These people do not make pilgrimage to a shrine and then return to their homes; rather they move about in consort with the source of their identity residing within the center of their unwieldy sprawl.
Testimony of this is contained within the very architectural plans for the tabernacle. Although parts of the facility will be off-limits to most of the people (and thereby somewhat mysteriously remote), the basic design is virtually identical to that of the typical Israelite portable residence and the living space that surrounds it. First, the cooking fire of any family unit was found out in front of the tent. Second, there would be vessels for washing located near the door of the tent. Third, while many meals might be taken around the fire, some were more ordered and formal, and occurred in the initial spaces within the tent. These required atmospheric accoutrements like dishes, lamps for lighting, and the aromatic wafting of incense. Finally, the privacy of the intimate acts of marriage and family were reserved for the hidden recesses of the tent where visitors were not allowed.
This, then, became the plan for the tabernacle. Its courtyard was public space for meals with God and others of the community around the altar of burt offerings (see Leviticus 1–7). The laver or bronze basin held waters for washing and bodily purification. In the closest part of the tabernacle itself was found the hospitality area where Yahweh figuratively dined more formally with guests at the table, in the soft ambience created by the lamp and altar of incense. To the rear of the tabernacle, Yahweh reserved private space, yet had it fashioned with all of the symbolism of royalty. The ark of the covenant was essentially a portable throne upon which Yahweh was carried with the people, for its uppermost side was designated as the mercy seat. Furthermore, this throne was under the guard of two representative heavenly creatures simply called “cherubim.” In a manner akin to the sentries posted at the Garden of Eden in Genesis 3, these beings stood watch to ensure that the holiness of the deity was protected.
Thus, the tabernacle existed uniquely in its world, representing the physical home of the community’s deity as a residence within its own spatial and temporal context. Israel was not a people who needed to create representations of powers that it then idolized; instead, the very society in which it lived emanated from the identity of the chief citizen who lived at its heart.
It is in this context that the golden calf incident of Exodus 32–34 must be understood. Moses’ delay on the mountain, talking with Yahweh on behalf of the people, bred frustration and anxiety within the community. So, they begged Aaron for symbols around which to rally, and what emerged was a bull calf made of gold. The Israelites were probably not seeking to worship something other than the God who brought them out of Egypt so recently; rather they were trying to find a representation of that God within their cultural frame of reference, so that they could cajole (or manipulate) this deity into further meaningful actions, rather than wasting time in the seeming stall of their current lethargy. Since the bull calf was revered among the Egyptians for its ability to portray the liveliness of sentient power, it could well serve the Israelites in their quest to display national adolescent brash energy.
The problem for Yahweh, however, was twofold. First, the calf was an Egyptian symbol, and thus essentially blasphemous in light of Yahweh’s recent decisive victory over all aspects of Egyptian power and civilization. Second, the calf reflected brute strength in the natural order, and of a kind that could be controlled by human will. A bull was meant to be yoked and harnessed and guided by whips and goads. True, it was more powerful than its human driver, but at the same time it became a tool in service to the human will. For Yahweh to be represented in this manner undermined the significance of the divine defeat of Egypt and its culture, and appeared to turn Yahweh into a mighty, albeit controllable, source of energy serving the Israelite will.
Under Moses’ leadership, his own tribe, the Levites, rallied to avenge Yahweh’s disgrace. Because of that action they were appointed to the honored position of keepers of the house of God. Meanwhile, Yahweh himself wished to break covenant with Israel and instead start over with Moses’ family; after all, Moses and Yahweh had become great partners and almost friends over the past few years, and especially through their time on the mountain. Moses argued against this divine turnabout, however, for two reasons. First, he reminded the great one that Yahweh had sealed this Suzerain-Vassal covenant with Israel, and it could not so easily be discarded or broken. Yahweh had deliberately invested Yahweh’s own destiny into this people, and while they might wrestle with the chafing fit of the new relationship, Yahweh no longer had a right to deny it. Second, Moses raised the card of shame. What would the nations say if Yahweh quit this project now? The peoples of the ancient near east had begun to tremble because of Yahweh’s decisive victory over Pharaoh; if the God of Israel was able so clearly and convincingly to topple the deities of Egypt and their power in both the natural and supernatural realms, what hope could there be for any other mere national interest or powers? But if Yahweh now suddenly left the Israelites to die in the wilderness, the nations around would see that this god was no more than a flash-bang, a one-hit-wonder, a dog with more bark than bite. Moses used Yahweh’s own covenant to make the deity toe the line and get back into bed with Israel on this honeymoon night.
All of this is affirmed in various ways through the text of these chapters. For instance, prior to the construction of the tabernacle, Moses sought to commune with Yahweh not only on the mountain but also in a small structure called the “Tent of Meeting,” which was located slightly outside the camp (Exodus 33:7–11). Once the tabernacle had been built, however, this designation of the “Tent of Meeting” was transferred to that newer edifice (Exodus 39:32–40:38). Furthermore, the term used to describe the grander “Tent of Meeting” is mishkan, which means place of dwelling. The same root is also found in the Hebrew term shakhen, which means neighbor (so the significance of Yahweh moving into the neighborhood), and again in the shekina (“presence”) cloud of glory that settled on the tabernacle as its divine occupant moved in.
Similarly, Moses was to chisel out two tablets of stone (Exodus 34:1, 4) on which Yahweh would inscribe the summary of the covenant stipulations (Exodus 34:27), which were identified as the Ten Commandments (Exodus 34:28). Most of our representations of the Ten Commandments today picture them as too large to fit on one stone surface, so two tablets are needed to contain all the words. Furthermore, since the first four commandments seem to focus on our relationship with God while the last six have the human social arena in purview, the Ten Commandments are typically arranged on the two stone tablets to reflect this division. This is not the intention of the ancient text, however. There were always two copies made of a Suzerain-Vassal covenant: one to remain with the subjected people in their homeland and the other to take up residence in the distant palace library of the king. What is unique about Israel’s situation is that the two copies of the covenant were to be kept in the very same place—within the ark of the covenant. While we might miss the significance of this because of our lack of sensitivity to the ancient customs, the impact on the Israelites would be nothing short of astounding—the king was planning to live in the same place as his people! Both copies of the covenant could be kept in the same receptacle (which also functioned as the king’s throne) because Israel’s monarch was not a distant absentee landlord. As went the fortunes of Israel, so went the identity of Yahweh, for Yahweh covenantally committed the divine mission to the fate of this nation.
This is why the tabernacle was more than a religious shrine for Israel. It was different than a mere ceremonial place for offerings. It was, in fact, the home of Yahweh at the center of the Israelite community. When the sun settled behind the horizon and the cooking fires were banked to save wood as the people traveled through the wilderness, one tent continued to have a light on all night. In the heart of the camp, the lamp glowed in the fellowship hall of the tabernacle; Yahweh kept vigil while the community slept. In the morning and evening, a meal could be taken with Yahweh (the sacrifices, burnt so that Yahweh might consume the divine portion by way of inhaling the smoke), and constantly the feasting room was made ready for the king to meet with his subjects.
This is also why Moses glowed with divine glory as mediator of the covenant. Among his fellow Israelites, he was merely another human. But when he spent time with Yahweh, all heaven bathed him with divine significance.
But what happened to Moses was essentially what was happening to Israel as well. She was becoming the betrothed of God, the wife of the Almighty, the community that lived with Yahweh.
What happened at Mt. Sinai? God formally claimed Israel as partner in whatever the divine mission was for planet Earth. Israel, in turn, owned Yahweh as divine king and Suzerain. In effect, Yahweh and Israel were married, and their starter home was built at the center of the camp. And from this dwelling, the glow of heaven enveloped God’s lover.
2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2
The letter we call 1 Corinthians was not well received by its original readers. Their relations with Paul apparently deteriorated rapidly after it arrived, and many more among them began to call into question Paul’s presumed ongoing authority. In response, Paul decided that he needed to make a personal visit, both to address the immoral behaviors to and renew his pastoral ties with the church as a whole. Paul’s return to Corinth was anything but triumphant, however, and actually turned out to be a bust. Later he would call it a “painful visit” (2 Corinthians 2:1).
After this debacle, Paul limped back to Ephesus confused and hurt, and wrote a severe letter of reproof that later caused him regret because of its caustic tone and content (2 Corinthians 7:8). Although we might wish to know more specifically what Paul said in that correspondence, no copies have survived. Still, Paul’s strongly worded pastoral medicine apparently worked, at least to a degree, for when Titus made his report after delivering the letter, he told of great and pervasive repentance and sorrow among the Corinthians (2 Corinthians 7:6–16). Humility was breeding healing and hope.
About the same time that Titus was back in Corinth, Paul apparently had a near-death experience during a preaching trip to Troas (2 Corinthians 1–2). This scare seems to have been the trigger which initiated Paul’s fourth letter, a letter of comfort and tenderness to the Corinthian congregation. Evidently, Paul needed to confirm the renewal of his relationship with the church lest, if he should die soon, the lingering memories of their interaction would only be pain and conflict. Paul’s last letter to Corinth survives as our 2 Corinthians.
It is a passionate, tender, personal and encouraging communication. Paul can hardly repeat the word “comfort” often enough in his opening paragraph (2 Corinthians 1:3–7). Then he reminisces nostalgically, telling of his travel plans, his apostolic authority and how it came to him, the difficulties he has faced over the years of dedicated service to God and the church, and the ministry of reconciliation that motivates him (2 Corinthians 1:12–7:16).
This is where our reading for today is found. In the middle of struggles and heartbreak and tensions and persecutions and unfulfilled expectations, Paul remains ever confident of the love and light of God radiating from heaven and pulsating through the even the compromised and stained Body of Christ, the church. His mind is quickly drawn to the intriguing story of Israel at Mount Sinai in the book of Exodus, and the glowing figure of Moses wandering between the dark vicissitudes of earth and the bright presence of Yahweh on the mountain. Down below, even the recently ecstatic former slaves have devolved into sinful squabbling masses. Yet Moses carries the glimmer of heaven into these dark shadows, and even the gloomy Israelites cannot take their eyes off him. Heaven begins to win the battle of light vs. darkness.
Luke 9:28-36, (37-43a)
Jesus glowed. Moses and Elijah came back to life. The voice of God thundered. We are all familiar with this story, aren’t we?
But let’s pay a little closer attention to the details as Luke recounts them. First, if we look at what Luke wrote before this, we realize that Jesus’ Transfiguration comes immediately on the heels of Peter’s great confession of Jesus’ identity. Only when Jesus’ disciples have begun to understand that their master is more than merely one among many itinerant rabbis, that he is truly the promised Messiah, will their ministry of leadership in the age of the church take shape. What happens on the mountain of Transfiguration is simply that the testimony of Peter, received by the other and affirmed by Jesus, is now modeled before the intimate three. What God placed in Peter’s heart to say publicly is suddenly displayed in living technicolor as heaven and earth kiss within the frame of Jesus’ body. This is clearly Luke’s understanding of the meaning of Jesus phrase “I tell you the truth, some who are standing here will not taste death before they see the kingdom of God” in verse 27, as prelude to this amazing event.
Second, it is important to note that Jesus does not give up his humanity while expressing his divinity, nor does he become unknown in his divinity so that his humanity is obliterated. The Transfiguration is one of the most impressive Christological moments in Jesus’ earthly life, when the fullness of deity becomes obviously human and the fullness of humanity becomes unquestionably divine. It is a mystery, of course, but it is the reason why the Nicene Creed (birthed out of the Councils of Nicaea in 325 and Chalcedon in 451) places the specific limits that it does to our understanding of the natures and person of Jesus.
Third, the appearances of Moses and Elijah are critically instructive. How were Peter, James and John to know the identity of these two figures who suddenly materialized before them? Probably Jesus told them, or the voice from heaven made it obvious. In any case, they knew, and we know that these two are the faces of the Bible in their times. Moses represented “the law.” He was the mediator of the Sinai covenant that was responsible for Israel’s national identity and missional purpose on behalf of Yahweh. Elijah, on the other hand, was “thep.” Elijah stood at the head of the prophetic line, whose teachings would make the Sinai Covenant a living constitution for the shape of Israel’s life. By the time of Jesus, only the “law” (that is, the first five books of today’s Hebrew Bible, those commonly identified as the Books of Moses or the Torah) and the “prophets” (the prophetically interpreted histories of Israel found in Samuel and Kings, and the great scrolls of Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the twelve) were received as authoritative scripture. The “writings” collection would not be finalized until decades later. So, Moses and Elijah are the fountainheads of the two acknowledged collections of divinely inspired scripture. Appearing with Jesus, as they do, Moses and Elijah confirm that the entire Word of God points to Jesus and is fulfilled in Jesus.
Fourth, Peter’s desire to turn the site into a new religious shrine, and Jesus’ refusal to allow that to happen, is a reminder of the gospel’s expression of Jesus’ journey. This is only a transitional point, not a conclusion to things. The necessary revelation is not that Jesus has fulfilled the law and the prophets, but that he is the fulfillment of the law and the prophets, something that is still underway.
Fifth, the voice from heaven is an external confirmation that this is more than just and dream or hallucinogenic vision. This encounter has substance, and it has a purpose. Now that the three have seen more fully who Jesus is, they carry with them an added responsibility to treat him with appropriate respect, and to safeguard the mission that he is on. Increased knowledge brings heightened responsibility.
Sixth, immediately after the “mountaintop” exhilaration of the Transfiguration, life takes a rather grim turn. They head down the mountain with warm joy in our hearts, only to feel the crush of real life in the valley below. Down here the demons rule. Down here the world is torn by evil. Down here there are pains and torments. Down here the kingdom has not yet become prominent. Moreover, the disciples who were not on the mountain with Jesus are weak and helpless. They do not have any power in themselves to change things. Jesus, of course, has the power, but his range of influence is limited by his conjoined divine and human natures, so that he cannot be everywhere at once. He is able immediately to cast out the demon and heal the boy, restoring one small beachhead of the kingdom here. Even so, the other disciples, and those who come to the radiance of the glory of God through them, must still be taught. The Transfiguration is a turning point, a transitional statement. It points to the need for Jesus to finish his work so that its effects might be transferred into the expanding army of grace that would be generalled by these officers in training.
Application
Here and throughout the New Testament, there is a strong message that our world is very dark, and that Jesus is the light of God penetrating earth’s blackness and bleakness, and that the Christian church is the lingering glow of divine radiance pushing the transformations of heaven a little further through recessed corners of shame and pain. How are we glowing today?
Think of the ancient legend first told by Christians living in the catacombs under the streets of Rome which pictures the day when Jesus went back to glory after finishing all his work on earth. The angel Gabriel meets Jesus in heaven and welcomes him home. “Lord,” he says, “Who have you left behind to carry on your work?”
Jesus tells him about the disciples, the little band of fishermen and farmers and housewives.
“But Lord,” says Gabriel, “what if they fail you?! What if they lose heart or drop out?! What if things get too rough for them, and they let you down?!”
Well, says Jesus, then all I have done will come to nothing!
“But don’t you have a backup plan?!” Gabriel asks. “Isn’t there something else to keep it going, to finish your work?”
No, says Jesus, there is no backup plan. The church is it. There is nothing else.
“Nothing else?” says Gabriel. “But what if they fail?!”
And the early Christians knew Jesus’ answer. “They won’t fail, Gabriel,” he said. “They won’t fail!”
Isn’t that a marvelous thing?! Here are the Christians of Rome, dug into the earth like gophers, tunneling out of sight because of the terrors of Nero up above. They are nothing in that world! They are poor and despised and insignificant! Yet they know the promise of Jesus: “You won’t fail! You’re my people, and you won’t fail!”
Moses glows, reflecting the radiance of Yahweh. Christians glow in the reflective glory of Christ. Jesus glows and goes down the mountain into the darkness of our world where all heaven flashes out at his touch and his word. And we who spend time with Jesus today illuminate the corners of our neighborhoods.
Alternative Application (2 Corinthians 3:12--4:2)
There is a marvelous little story tucked away in the pages of Edward Gibbon’s seven-volume work, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. It tells of a humble little monk named Telemachus living out in the farming regions of Asia.
Telemachus had no great ambitions in life. He loved his little garden and tilled it through the changing seasons. But one day in the year 391 he felt a sense of urgency, a call of God’s direction in his life. Although he did not know why, he felt that God wanted him to go to Rome, the heart and soul of the empire. In fact, the feelings of such a call frightened him, but he went anyway, praying along the way for God’s direction.
When he finally got to the city, it was in an uproar! The armies of Rome had just come home from the battlefield in victory, and the crowds were turning out for a great celebration. They flowed through the streets like a tidal wave, and Telemachus was caught in their frenzy and carried into the Coliseum.
He had never seen a gladiator contest before, but now his heart sickened. Down in the arena men hacked at each other with swords and clubs. The crowds roared at the sight of blood and urged their favorites on to the death.
Telemachus could not stand it. He knew it was wrong; this wasn’t the way God wanted people to live or to die. So little Telemachus worked his way through the crowds to the wall down by the arena. “In the name of Christ, forbear!” he shouted.
Nobody heard him, so he crawled up onto the wall and shouted again: “In the name of Christ, forbear!” This time the few who heard him only laughed. But Telemachus was not to be ignored. He jumped into the arena and ran through the sands toward the gladiators. “In the name of Christ, forbear!”
The crowds laughed at the silly little man and threw stones at him. Telemachus, however, was on a mission. He threw himself between two gladiators to stop their fighting. “In the name of Christ, forbear!” he cried.
They hacked him apart! They cut his body from shoulder to stomach, and he fell onto the sand with the blood running out of his life.
The gladiators were stunned and stopped to watch him die. Then the crowds fell back in silence, and, for a moment, no one in the coliseum moved. Telemachus’ final words rang in their memories: “In the name of Christ, forbear!” At last, they moved, slowly at first, but growing in numbers. The masses of Rome filed out of the coliseum that day, and the historian Theodoret reports that never again was a gladiator contest held there! All because of the witness and the testimony of a single Christian who had the glow-in-the-dark power of grace and God’s goodness.
One story he tells is about an early church leader named Lawrence. Lawrence acted as a pastor for a church community. He also collected the offerings for the poor each week, and that led to his death.
A band of thieves found out that Lawrence received the offerings of the people from Sunday to Sunday, so one night, as he was out taking a stroll, they grabbed him and demanded the money. He told them that he did not have it, that he had already given it all to the poor. They did not believe him and told him they would give him a chance to find it. In three days, they would come to his house, and take from him the treasures of the church.
Three days later they did come. But Lawrence was not alone. The house was filled with the people of his congregation. When the thieves demanded the treasures of the church, Lawrence smiled. He opened wide his arms and gestured to those who sat around him. “Here’s the treasure of the church!” he said. “Here’s the treasure of God that shines in the world!”
Indeed. As Jesus said in another place, “You are the light of the world.” You can glow in the dark of this world, shining the light of the Transfigurationto those who desperately need it. This is the theme of the passages we read today.
Exodus 34:29-35
The narrative of Exodus 25-40 has three major sections. In chapters 25-31, preparations for the tabernacle are made, and detailed plans are formulated. Then comes the intruding and jarring incident of the golden calf (chapters 32–34), in which not only Israel’s loyalty to Yahweh but also Yahweh’s loyalty to Israel is tested. Finally, the architectural initiatives of Exodus 25–31 are resumed in the actual construction of the tabernacle and its dedication (chapters 35–40), almost as if the dark blot of the interlude had never happened.
Why all this emphasis on building the tent-like tabernacle? Why invest in a movable shrine rather than rally around some sacred hilltop (Mt. Sinai, for instance)? The answer is intrinsically related to the covenant-making event itself. If Israel is now the (reclaimed) possession of Yahweh, then Yahweh must take up visible residence among the people. The tabernacle is not a strange phenomenon of the natural order, like an unfailing spring or a volcanic vent or a residual meteor rock. Instead, it is the fabrication of a civilization that is intentionally on a journey, guided by an in-residence deity who travels with them. These people do not make pilgrimage to a shrine and then return to their homes; rather they move about in consort with the source of their identity residing within the center of their unwieldy sprawl.
Testimony of this is contained within the very architectural plans for the tabernacle. Although parts of the facility will be off-limits to most of the people (and thereby somewhat mysteriously remote), the basic design is virtually identical to that of the typical Israelite portable residence and the living space that surrounds it. First, the cooking fire of any family unit was found out in front of the tent. Second, there would be vessels for washing located near the door of the tent. Third, while many meals might be taken around the fire, some were more ordered and formal, and occurred in the initial spaces within the tent. These required atmospheric accoutrements like dishes, lamps for lighting, and the aromatic wafting of incense. Finally, the privacy of the intimate acts of marriage and family were reserved for the hidden recesses of the tent where visitors were not allowed.
This, then, became the plan for the tabernacle. Its courtyard was public space for meals with God and others of the community around the altar of burt offerings (see Leviticus 1–7). The laver or bronze basin held waters for washing and bodily purification. In the closest part of the tabernacle itself was found the hospitality area where Yahweh figuratively dined more formally with guests at the table, in the soft ambience created by the lamp and altar of incense. To the rear of the tabernacle, Yahweh reserved private space, yet had it fashioned with all of the symbolism of royalty. The ark of the covenant was essentially a portable throne upon which Yahweh was carried with the people, for its uppermost side was designated as the mercy seat. Furthermore, this throne was under the guard of two representative heavenly creatures simply called “cherubim.” In a manner akin to the sentries posted at the Garden of Eden in Genesis 3, these beings stood watch to ensure that the holiness of the deity was protected.
Thus, the tabernacle existed uniquely in its world, representing the physical home of the community’s deity as a residence within its own spatial and temporal context. Israel was not a people who needed to create representations of powers that it then idolized; instead, the very society in which it lived emanated from the identity of the chief citizen who lived at its heart.
It is in this context that the golden calf incident of Exodus 32–34 must be understood. Moses’ delay on the mountain, talking with Yahweh on behalf of the people, bred frustration and anxiety within the community. So, they begged Aaron for symbols around which to rally, and what emerged was a bull calf made of gold. The Israelites were probably not seeking to worship something other than the God who brought them out of Egypt so recently; rather they were trying to find a representation of that God within their cultural frame of reference, so that they could cajole (or manipulate) this deity into further meaningful actions, rather than wasting time in the seeming stall of their current lethargy. Since the bull calf was revered among the Egyptians for its ability to portray the liveliness of sentient power, it could well serve the Israelites in their quest to display national adolescent brash energy.
The problem for Yahweh, however, was twofold. First, the calf was an Egyptian symbol, and thus essentially blasphemous in light of Yahweh’s recent decisive victory over all aspects of Egyptian power and civilization. Second, the calf reflected brute strength in the natural order, and of a kind that could be controlled by human will. A bull was meant to be yoked and harnessed and guided by whips and goads. True, it was more powerful than its human driver, but at the same time it became a tool in service to the human will. For Yahweh to be represented in this manner undermined the significance of the divine defeat of Egypt and its culture, and appeared to turn Yahweh into a mighty, albeit controllable, source of energy serving the Israelite will.
Under Moses’ leadership, his own tribe, the Levites, rallied to avenge Yahweh’s disgrace. Because of that action they were appointed to the honored position of keepers of the house of God. Meanwhile, Yahweh himself wished to break covenant with Israel and instead start over with Moses’ family; after all, Moses and Yahweh had become great partners and almost friends over the past few years, and especially through their time on the mountain. Moses argued against this divine turnabout, however, for two reasons. First, he reminded the great one that Yahweh had sealed this Suzerain-Vassal covenant with Israel, and it could not so easily be discarded or broken. Yahweh had deliberately invested Yahweh’s own destiny into this people, and while they might wrestle with the chafing fit of the new relationship, Yahweh no longer had a right to deny it. Second, Moses raised the card of shame. What would the nations say if Yahweh quit this project now? The peoples of the ancient near east had begun to tremble because of Yahweh’s decisive victory over Pharaoh; if the God of Israel was able so clearly and convincingly to topple the deities of Egypt and their power in both the natural and supernatural realms, what hope could there be for any other mere national interest or powers? But if Yahweh now suddenly left the Israelites to die in the wilderness, the nations around would see that this god was no more than a flash-bang, a one-hit-wonder, a dog with more bark than bite. Moses used Yahweh’s own covenant to make the deity toe the line and get back into bed with Israel on this honeymoon night.
All of this is affirmed in various ways through the text of these chapters. For instance, prior to the construction of the tabernacle, Moses sought to commune with Yahweh not only on the mountain but also in a small structure called the “Tent of Meeting,” which was located slightly outside the camp (Exodus 33:7–11). Once the tabernacle had been built, however, this designation of the “Tent of Meeting” was transferred to that newer edifice (Exodus 39:32–40:38). Furthermore, the term used to describe the grander “Tent of Meeting” is mishkan, which means place of dwelling. The same root is also found in the Hebrew term shakhen, which means neighbor (so the significance of Yahweh moving into the neighborhood), and again in the shekina (“presence”) cloud of glory that settled on the tabernacle as its divine occupant moved in.
Similarly, Moses was to chisel out two tablets of stone (Exodus 34:1, 4) on which Yahweh would inscribe the summary of the covenant stipulations (Exodus 34:27), which were identified as the Ten Commandments (Exodus 34:28). Most of our representations of the Ten Commandments today picture them as too large to fit on one stone surface, so two tablets are needed to contain all the words. Furthermore, since the first four commandments seem to focus on our relationship with God while the last six have the human social arena in purview, the Ten Commandments are typically arranged on the two stone tablets to reflect this division. This is not the intention of the ancient text, however. There were always two copies made of a Suzerain-Vassal covenant: one to remain with the subjected people in their homeland and the other to take up residence in the distant palace library of the king. What is unique about Israel’s situation is that the two copies of the covenant were to be kept in the very same place—within the ark of the covenant. While we might miss the significance of this because of our lack of sensitivity to the ancient customs, the impact on the Israelites would be nothing short of astounding—the king was planning to live in the same place as his people! Both copies of the covenant could be kept in the same receptacle (which also functioned as the king’s throne) because Israel’s monarch was not a distant absentee landlord. As went the fortunes of Israel, so went the identity of Yahweh, for Yahweh covenantally committed the divine mission to the fate of this nation.
This is why the tabernacle was more than a religious shrine for Israel. It was different than a mere ceremonial place for offerings. It was, in fact, the home of Yahweh at the center of the Israelite community. When the sun settled behind the horizon and the cooking fires were banked to save wood as the people traveled through the wilderness, one tent continued to have a light on all night. In the heart of the camp, the lamp glowed in the fellowship hall of the tabernacle; Yahweh kept vigil while the community slept. In the morning and evening, a meal could be taken with Yahweh (the sacrifices, burnt so that Yahweh might consume the divine portion by way of inhaling the smoke), and constantly the feasting room was made ready for the king to meet with his subjects.
This is also why Moses glowed with divine glory as mediator of the covenant. Among his fellow Israelites, he was merely another human. But when he spent time with Yahweh, all heaven bathed him with divine significance.
But what happened to Moses was essentially what was happening to Israel as well. She was becoming the betrothed of God, the wife of the Almighty, the community that lived with Yahweh.
What happened at Mt. Sinai? God formally claimed Israel as partner in whatever the divine mission was for planet Earth. Israel, in turn, owned Yahweh as divine king and Suzerain. In effect, Yahweh and Israel were married, and their starter home was built at the center of the camp. And from this dwelling, the glow of heaven enveloped God’s lover.
2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2
The letter we call 1 Corinthians was not well received by its original readers. Their relations with Paul apparently deteriorated rapidly after it arrived, and many more among them began to call into question Paul’s presumed ongoing authority. In response, Paul decided that he needed to make a personal visit, both to address the immoral behaviors to and renew his pastoral ties with the church as a whole. Paul’s return to Corinth was anything but triumphant, however, and actually turned out to be a bust. Later he would call it a “painful visit” (2 Corinthians 2:1).
After this debacle, Paul limped back to Ephesus confused and hurt, and wrote a severe letter of reproof that later caused him regret because of its caustic tone and content (2 Corinthians 7:8). Although we might wish to know more specifically what Paul said in that correspondence, no copies have survived. Still, Paul’s strongly worded pastoral medicine apparently worked, at least to a degree, for when Titus made his report after delivering the letter, he told of great and pervasive repentance and sorrow among the Corinthians (2 Corinthians 7:6–16). Humility was breeding healing and hope.
About the same time that Titus was back in Corinth, Paul apparently had a near-death experience during a preaching trip to Troas (2 Corinthians 1–2). This scare seems to have been the trigger which initiated Paul’s fourth letter, a letter of comfort and tenderness to the Corinthian congregation. Evidently, Paul needed to confirm the renewal of his relationship with the church lest, if he should die soon, the lingering memories of their interaction would only be pain and conflict. Paul’s last letter to Corinth survives as our 2 Corinthians.
It is a passionate, tender, personal and encouraging communication. Paul can hardly repeat the word “comfort” often enough in his opening paragraph (2 Corinthians 1:3–7). Then he reminisces nostalgically, telling of his travel plans, his apostolic authority and how it came to him, the difficulties he has faced over the years of dedicated service to God and the church, and the ministry of reconciliation that motivates him (2 Corinthians 1:12–7:16).
This is where our reading for today is found. In the middle of struggles and heartbreak and tensions and persecutions and unfulfilled expectations, Paul remains ever confident of the love and light of God radiating from heaven and pulsating through the even the compromised and stained Body of Christ, the church. His mind is quickly drawn to the intriguing story of Israel at Mount Sinai in the book of Exodus, and the glowing figure of Moses wandering between the dark vicissitudes of earth and the bright presence of Yahweh on the mountain. Down below, even the recently ecstatic former slaves have devolved into sinful squabbling masses. Yet Moses carries the glimmer of heaven into these dark shadows, and even the gloomy Israelites cannot take their eyes off him. Heaven begins to win the battle of light vs. darkness.
Luke 9:28-36, (37-43a)
Jesus glowed. Moses and Elijah came back to life. The voice of God thundered. We are all familiar with this story, aren’t we?
But let’s pay a little closer attention to the details as Luke recounts them. First, if we look at what Luke wrote before this, we realize that Jesus’ Transfiguration comes immediately on the heels of Peter’s great confession of Jesus’ identity. Only when Jesus’ disciples have begun to understand that their master is more than merely one among many itinerant rabbis, that he is truly the promised Messiah, will their ministry of leadership in the age of the church take shape. What happens on the mountain of Transfiguration is simply that the testimony of Peter, received by the other and affirmed by Jesus, is now modeled before the intimate three. What God placed in Peter’s heart to say publicly is suddenly displayed in living technicolor as heaven and earth kiss within the frame of Jesus’ body. This is clearly Luke’s understanding of the meaning of Jesus phrase “I tell you the truth, some who are standing here will not taste death before they see the kingdom of God” in verse 27, as prelude to this amazing event.
Second, it is important to note that Jesus does not give up his humanity while expressing his divinity, nor does he become unknown in his divinity so that his humanity is obliterated. The Transfiguration is one of the most impressive Christological moments in Jesus’ earthly life, when the fullness of deity becomes obviously human and the fullness of humanity becomes unquestionably divine. It is a mystery, of course, but it is the reason why the Nicene Creed (birthed out of the Councils of Nicaea in 325 and Chalcedon in 451) places the specific limits that it does to our understanding of the natures and person of Jesus.
Third, the appearances of Moses and Elijah are critically instructive. How were Peter, James and John to know the identity of these two figures who suddenly materialized before them? Probably Jesus told them, or the voice from heaven made it obvious. In any case, they knew, and we know that these two are the faces of the Bible in their times. Moses represented “the law.” He was the mediator of the Sinai covenant that was responsible for Israel’s national identity and missional purpose on behalf of Yahweh. Elijah, on the other hand, was “thep.” Elijah stood at the head of the prophetic line, whose teachings would make the Sinai Covenant a living constitution for the shape of Israel’s life. By the time of Jesus, only the “law” (that is, the first five books of today’s Hebrew Bible, those commonly identified as the Books of Moses or the Torah) and the “prophets” (the prophetically interpreted histories of Israel found in Samuel and Kings, and the great scrolls of Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the twelve) were received as authoritative scripture. The “writings” collection would not be finalized until decades later. So, Moses and Elijah are the fountainheads of the two acknowledged collections of divinely inspired scripture. Appearing with Jesus, as they do, Moses and Elijah confirm that the entire Word of God points to Jesus and is fulfilled in Jesus.
Fourth, Peter’s desire to turn the site into a new religious shrine, and Jesus’ refusal to allow that to happen, is a reminder of the gospel’s expression of Jesus’ journey. This is only a transitional point, not a conclusion to things. The necessary revelation is not that Jesus has fulfilled the law and the prophets, but that he is the fulfillment of the law and the prophets, something that is still underway.
Fifth, the voice from heaven is an external confirmation that this is more than just and dream or hallucinogenic vision. This encounter has substance, and it has a purpose. Now that the three have seen more fully who Jesus is, they carry with them an added responsibility to treat him with appropriate respect, and to safeguard the mission that he is on. Increased knowledge brings heightened responsibility.
Sixth, immediately after the “mountaintop” exhilaration of the Transfiguration, life takes a rather grim turn. They head down the mountain with warm joy in our hearts, only to feel the crush of real life in the valley below. Down here the demons rule. Down here the world is torn by evil. Down here there are pains and torments. Down here the kingdom has not yet become prominent. Moreover, the disciples who were not on the mountain with Jesus are weak and helpless. They do not have any power in themselves to change things. Jesus, of course, has the power, but his range of influence is limited by his conjoined divine and human natures, so that he cannot be everywhere at once. He is able immediately to cast out the demon and heal the boy, restoring one small beachhead of the kingdom here. Even so, the other disciples, and those who come to the radiance of the glory of God through them, must still be taught. The Transfiguration is a turning point, a transitional statement. It points to the need for Jesus to finish his work so that its effects might be transferred into the expanding army of grace that would be generalled by these officers in training.
Application
Here and throughout the New Testament, there is a strong message that our world is very dark, and that Jesus is the light of God penetrating earth’s blackness and bleakness, and that the Christian church is the lingering glow of divine radiance pushing the transformations of heaven a little further through recessed corners of shame and pain. How are we glowing today?
Think of the ancient legend first told by Christians living in the catacombs under the streets of Rome which pictures the day when Jesus went back to glory after finishing all his work on earth. The angel Gabriel meets Jesus in heaven and welcomes him home. “Lord,” he says, “Who have you left behind to carry on your work?”
Jesus tells him about the disciples, the little band of fishermen and farmers and housewives.
“But Lord,” says Gabriel, “what if they fail you?! What if they lose heart or drop out?! What if things get too rough for them, and they let you down?!”
Well, says Jesus, then all I have done will come to nothing!
“But don’t you have a backup plan?!” Gabriel asks. “Isn’t there something else to keep it going, to finish your work?”
No, says Jesus, there is no backup plan. The church is it. There is nothing else.
“Nothing else?” says Gabriel. “But what if they fail?!”
And the early Christians knew Jesus’ answer. “They won’t fail, Gabriel,” he said. “They won’t fail!”
Isn’t that a marvelous thing?! Here are the Christians of Rome, dug into the earth like gophers, tunneling out of sight because of the terrors of Nero up above. They are nothing in that world! They are poor and despised and insignificant! Yet they know the promise of Jesus: “You won’t fail! You’re my people, and you won’t fail!”
Moses glows, reflecting the radiance of Yahweh. Christians glow in the reflective glory of Christ. Jesus glows and goes down the mountain into the darkness of our world where all heaven flashes out at his touch and his word. And we who spend time with Jesus today illuminate the corners of our neighborhoods.
Alternative Application (2 Corinthians 3:12--4:2)
There is a marvelous little story tucked away in the pages of Edward Gibbon’s seven-volume work, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. It tells of a humble little monk named Telemachus living out in the farming regions of Asia.
Telemachus had no great ambitions in life. He loved his little garden and tilled it through the changing seasons. But one day in the year 391 he felt a sense of urgency, a call of God’s direction in his life. Although he did not know why, he felt that God wanted him to go to Rome, the heart and soul of the empire. In fact, the feelings of such a call frightened him, but he went anyway, praying along the way for God’s direction.
When he finally got to the city, it was in an uproar! The armies of Rome had just come home from the battlefield in victory, and the crowds were turning out for a great celebration. They flowed through the streets like a tidal wave, and Telemachus was caught in their frenzy and carried into the Coliseum.
He had never seen a gladiator contest before, but now his heart sickened. Down in the arena men hacked at each other with swords and clubs. The crowds roared at the sight of blood and urged their favorites on to the death.
Telemachus could not stand it. He knew it was wrong; this wasn’t the way God wanted people to live or to die. So little Telemachus worked his way through the crowds to the wall down by the arena. “In the name of Christ, forbear!” he shouted.
Nobody heard him, so he crawled up onto the wall and shouted again: “In the name of Christ, forbear!” This time the few who heard him only laughed. But Telemachus was not to be ignored. He jumped into the arena and ran through the sands toward the gladiators. “In the name of Christ, forbear!”
The crowds laughed at the silly little man and threw stones at him. Telemachus, however, was on a mission. He threw himself between two gladiators to stop their fighting. “In the name of Christ, forbear!” he cried.
They hacked him apart! They cut his body from shoulder to stomach, and he fell onto the sand with the blood running out of his life.
The gladiators were stunned and stopped to watch him die. Then the crowds fell back in silence, and, for a moment, no one in the coliseum moved. Telemachus’ final words rang in their memories: “In the name of Christ, forbear!” At last, they moved, slowly at first, but growing in numbers. The masses of Rome filed out of the coliseum that day, and the historian Theodoret reports that never again was a gladiator contest held there! All because of the witness and the testimony of a single Christian who had the glow-in-the-dark power of grace and God’s goodness.
