now is the time

A text which I have thought a lot about since being in South Africa, Jesus' story of the rich man and Lazarus (Luke 16:19-31), came up again last Sunday in the sermon of Pastor Ntapo. Some of his key insights are below.

• The time for salvation is now. It is unwise to put off those difficult things in life which we must do. The rich man, in the pastor's words, "never took time to consider his life" because he was "caught up in the things of the world", caring more about his purple robes and fine feasts (v. 19) than the essence of life itself. Though the pastor himself did not say this, by implication that essence of life which the rich man should have considered was available to him in the person of Lazarus, that "poor man at his gate" (v. 20). By opening his eyes to see the poor man, "covered with sores" (v. 20), the rich man might have realized his own vulnerability and ultimate fate as one subject to death. He realized his own pain only after death, "tormented in Hades" (v. 23), when it was too late for him to amend his ways.
• The laws of God's creation are fixed. When the rich man finally realizes his own vulnerability, he wishes that Lazarus might be sent to him in Hades with water to cool his tongue (v. 24). "Father Abraham", the one to whom the rich man makes his request, denies it, in part on the basis that "between ["Abraham's bosom where Lazarus resides after death] and [Hades where the rich man resides after death] a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us" (v. 26). This point thus reaffirms the first point: the time that the Creator has set for human obedience is between birth and death--not after. This is a reality that we might want to protest but have absolutely no power to change. But realizing the order of creation, we do have the power to live life harmoniously, joyfully within it, in spite of life's struggles.
• A person remains in death what he or she was in life. Even if more chances to get life right, that is, after death, were available to us, they would come to nothing. Even torment in Hades could not change the rich man's behavior. He still imagined that he had the power to command Lazarus in the manner of many who are rich--he still imagined that Lazarus existed to serve him. Thus the rich man called out to Abraham, "send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames" (v. 24). This point is also related to the previous two: because the time is now by order of God, those who seek comfort in death in relation to others must seek it in life in relation to others. If the rich man in death now wants to see Lazarus, albeit from an assumed position of superiority, why would he not see him in life who "lay at his gate" (v. 20)? In order to relate to others in death, we must be related to them in life. If we shall live with them then, we will live with them now.

In summary, therefore, the emphasis lies in this life. All roads lead to the present. By the grace of God, righting the wrongs of the past now will secure for us a goodly future.

-Joe

as the head, so the body

The Christ hymn of the book of Colossians, 1:15-20, claims, once at the beginning and once at the end, that the “beloved Son” (1:13) is so close to “the Father” (1:12) that he is with the Father one God. First, in v. 15, it claims that the Son “is the image of the invisible God”; second, in v. 19, it claims that in the Son, “all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell.” These twin statements about the identity of God the Son are complemented by twin statements about the activity of God the Son as Creator and Savior. First, “in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers—all things have been created through him and for him” (v. 16); second, “through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven” (v. 20). Obviously, the work of the Son in creation and salvation in this second pair of statements is emphasized by the language of “all things”—first, the Son is the one through whom “all things” were created; second, the Son is the one through whom “all things” were reconciled to God. Moreover, in both cases, “all things” include that which is “in heaven and on earth” (v. 16, 20). In short, therefore, as reflected in this hymn, the early Christians claimed that Christ Jesus, the Son of the Father, one God from “before all things” (v. 17), is the Creator and Savior of the universe (or whatever is the biggest possible designation for “all things”).

Alongside these lofty claims, however, are two claims “from below.” That is, if the Son is God, the Invisible One, he is also simply “the head of the body, the church” (v. 18), the visible one. God, who is Spirit, who has no body in the form of God’s creation, is nonetheless, in Christ, the “head of the body, the church”, made up of many human members. A second claim “from below” is more shocking: the One in whom “all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell” is the same One through whom God “was pleased to reconcile to himself all things . . . by making peace through the blood of his cross” (v. 19-20). God, the eternal one, “before all things,” Creator not created, became in Christ the mortal one, beneath all things, rejected, crucified—“on the cross.” God, “before all things”, is “pleased” to work in no other way than “through the cross,” through God’s giving of God’s self to the world in creation and redemption. God, though “before all things,” is not a God who stands far off from all things, but enters into their condition in order to redeem them. God is pleased to dwell in the flesh, and to be glorified in it.

And how will God be glorified in the flesh?

If the dual claims “from above”—that the Son is God who creates and redeems all things—are related—then so too the claims “from below”—“the head of the body, the church” reconciles all things to God “by making peace through the blood of his cross” (vv. 18, 20). As the church proclaims in word and deed—in true worship—the identity and activity of the Son, it becomes like its “head.” The church that truly sings of its head will become like its head. The church that claims the identity of its head must take up the activity of its head, “making peace”—even at the cost of its own life, “through the blood of his cross.”

-Joe

to give or not to give

For the final lesson of our discipleship class this year, we studied Jesus’ parable of the ten bridesmaids, Matthew 25:1-13.

The parable gives out a key conclusion from the outset—of the ten bridesmaids, “five of them were foolish, and five were wise” (v. 2). Moreover, the text elaborates from the beginning the reason for their respective foolishness and wisdom: “When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them; but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps” (vv. 3-4). As a result, then, the suspense, the drama of the unfolding story, lies not in that five were wise and five were foolish, nor in the specific action that marks the line between wisdom and folly, but in why taking “flasks of oil with their lamps” should constitute wisdom. In order to answer that question, the reader will have to know more about the purpose for which the ten took lamps and did or did not take with them “flasks of oil”, which is the same as asking for whom did the bridesmaids take their lamps.

The second variant of that question, of course, is also stated from the outset—“Ten bridesmaids took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom” (v. 1). Indeed, to meet the bridegroom was the sole purpose for which the ten took their lamps. Having one purpose, five took “flasks of oil” with their lamps and five did not. Seeing that one purpose, we wonder why five brought no flasks of oil with their lamps, and understand why having oil with their lamps is the difference between wisdom and folly. Indeed, if the bridesmaids truly cared about their one purpose, or for the one for whom they were bridesmaids, they would have prepared themselves against all contingencies. Though they—not even the wise ones—did not expect the bridegroom to be “delayed”, five of the ten were nonetheless prepared to meet him “at midnight” when the “shout” of his arrival went up (vv. 5-6). Consequently, the wisdom of the five who were prepared (“those who were ready”, v. 10), though they slept like the rest (v. 5), consists not in their foreknowledge of the bridegroom’s time of arrival but in their knowing what they needed to complete the task for which they were called. That sole task—to accompany the bridegroom into “the wedding banquet”—requires enough oil-powered light to illumine the narrow way (Mt. 7:13-14) forward through darkness.

To have enough oil to show the way absolutely forbids, in this case, sharing what one has with others who have not; the oil in this parable is not bread for the hungry, water for the thirsty, clothes for the naked (cf. Mt. 25:31-46). The giving of oil in their flasks to those who brought no flasks with oil but could have is akin to “throwing your pearls before swine” who will only trample (Mt. 7:6), to attempting to do for others what they must do but have failed to do for themselves. To give, in this story, is to try to do for someone else what only that person can do for herself. To give here is to intercede where no intercession is possible, to intervene between a person and her bridegroom—her Lord—where no intervention can work. That the five who brought flasks of oil with their lamps perceive that to give to those who did not bring flasks of oil with their lamps is a dead-end is precisely what makes them wise. They know, that is, that the whole purpose for which they—and their fellow bridesmaids who brought no flasks of oil—exist as servants—to go with the bridegroom into the wedding banquet—will not succeed if they give their oil. It is better to have five lamps, burning oil, making enough light to see the task through than to forfeit the task itself by spreading the oil so thin among ten that all the lamps will go out before the bridegroom enters his glory.

This, then, is the knowledge that pertains to knowledge, the wisdom of wisdom: It is better to put a lot into a few than to put a little into many.

If we should follow the wisdom of the first half of this statement, we will enter the wedding banquet with the bridegroom. If we follow the second half, neither we—once thought wise, once prepared—nor the foolish will enter.

Let, therefore, those who bring flasks of oil with their lamps go with the bridegroom into his wedding banquet.

-Joe

deducing evangelism: an inductive Bible Study

Last night I presented to our Tuesday night Bible Study group a lesson I had done on evangelism at Bethany Bible School in February. Our text was Matthew 4:23-25, three verses directly preceding the sermon on the mount in chapters 5-7.

I chose the text to explore the meaning of evangelism because it is one of the places in the New Testament where the Greek word from which we get the word “evangelism” (or its relatives “evangel”, “evangelist”) occurs. In other words, I did not choose to explore the topic through texts commonly associated with the topic—for example, John 3:16, or a series of verses from Romans meant to illustrate humanity’s sinfulness and God’s response in Christ (e.g. Rom. 3:23, 6:23)—yet which do not contain the word or words from which we get “evangelism.” But by choosing a different starting point, we might gain a fresh perspective.

In the Matthew text, then, the word from which “evangelism” comes occurs in verse 23: Jesus went throughout Galilee, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news [Gk: euangelion] of the kingdom . . ..” Jesus’ “proclamation of the good news” is sandwiched between two of the text’s three key repetitions—the words “Galilee”, the place of Jesus’ activity, and “healing”, the third of the three verbs, in addition to “teaching” and “preaching the good news of the kingdom”, used to describe Jesus’ ministry. A third key repetition in the text occurs just after the word “healing”, that is, Jesus was “healing every disease and every sickness among the people” (v. 23). This basic description is repeated in v. 24 in inverted order: “they brought to him all the sick, those who were afflicted with various diseases and pains . . . and he healed them.” Following that, we find the second occurrence of “Galilee”; just as Jesus went about “Galilee” teaching, preaching, and healing, so now “great crowds followed him from Galilee”. This second time, however, Galilee does not stand alone, in geographic isolation, but is joined by “the Decapolis, Jerusalem, Judea, and from beyond the Jordan” as places whose people received the blessings of Jesus (v. 25).

Again, the three key repeated words in the text are:

Galilee

healing

diseases

Moreover, these are arranged in the following pattern:

Galilee

healing

diseases

diseases

healing

Galilee

This arrangement, known as a “chiasm”, or an A-B-C-C-B-A pattern, is common in biblical texts of both the Old and New Testaments.

Identifying the repetitions helps us to narrow our focus on the text and moves us toward discovering its central meaning. Once we have identified them, we also begin to identify what lies around them and to what they might point.

For example, we now ask if there is any critical information in the text that lies between the first mention of “Galilee” and the first mention of “healing.” Indeed, this is the case: as noted above, there is the description of Jesus “teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom” (v. 23). This seems too important to miss. Likewise, we ask whether there is any critical information in the text between the second occurrences of “Galilee” and “healing”—and we find that “great crowds followed him”. This is also too important to leave out.

Consequently, if we were to visualize this text, we would need to represent all of this key information as we build toward a central meaning. We can do that as follows:

A Jesus went throughout Galilee

B teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom

C and healing

D every disease and every sickness among the people

D and they brought to him all the sick, those who were afflicted with various diseases and pains . . .

C and he healed them

B And great crowds followed him

A from Galilee . . .

By now the parallels (marked by corresponding letters) and the chiastic pattern of the text should be obvious. Even still, one piece of critical information is missing. As indicated by the two parts of the text marked “D” stacked directly one on top of the other, the text converges at a “center”. That center, heretofore not revealed, lies precisely between the two lines of information about the diseases that Jesus healed among the people. As a result of that healing of human diseases,

“his fame spread throughout all Syria”

or, “a report about him went out into all Syria” (v. 24).

This is, structurally, the central phrase of the text; therein also lies the text’s central meaning.

What might that meaning be? And what might it say about our understanding of evangelism?

Jesus is the model evangelist. “His fame” or “the report about him” spread seemingly independently of his person, or perhaps—in light of other gospel stories—in the opposite direction of his own intentions. Jesus did not show up on the scene, in “Galilee”, going about “teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming” himself—even though he was, in the words of the Christ hymn (Php 2:5-11), “in the form of God.” On the contrary, he “went about proclaiming the good news of the kingdom.” He did not consider that the kingdom was his own, but that it was the domain of his “Father in heaven” (Mt. 6:9). In other words, he “did not consider equality with God as something to be grasped”, but took upon himself the diseases of the people, having “emptied himself, taking the form of a slave”, a servant of the people. It was thus his compassion for the people, his passion with them, perhaps expressed most concretely in his ministry of healing (but also through his teaching and preaching)—not his exalting himself above them—that drew people to him. “The report about him spread” as a result of his “suffering with.” Forsaking pride or the praise of human beings, he gained their praise. Seeking first the kingdom of God and its righteousness, everything else was added to him as well (Mt. 6:33).

This does not imply, on the other hand, that everyone who came to him—“the great crowds that followed him from Galilee, the Decapolis, Jerusalem, Judea, and beyond the Jordan”—were drawn to his suffering. Many must have come with other motives; they were lured by the report of his power, perhaps wanting it for themselves, not to the source of his power. They desired the manifestations of his relationship to God rather than that obedient connection itself. They wanted the exaltation without the humility, the glory without the suffering, the resurrection without the cross. Knowing their hearts, “he taught them” (Mt. 5:1). Indeed, the “report about him”, “his fame”, which brought to him “great crowds of followers”, gives way directly, from three short verses at the close of chapter 4, to three full chapters—“the sermon on the mount”—of teaching his disciples and the crowds (5:1; 7:28) about the life of the kingdom.

If Jesus himself—true God and true man—prepares for us the way we are to follow, evangelism will take the course of:

• teaching and preaching the good news of the kingdom, not ourselves or our churches. In our time, the good news of the kingdom means also the person of Jesus himself, since the Father’s intention was that “his fame” would go out into all the world—the Messenger has become the Message, the Evangelist the Evangel.
• compassion, passion or suffering with others, not isolation from or exalting oneself above. It is our “suffering with” that also leads to healing of diseases of both spirit and flesh.
• ministries of word and deed, spiritual and physical. Sometimes the language of evangelism is synonymous with the language of “missions”, as if both terms signify proclamation in word. Sometimes, the language of “mission” goes along with evangelism as a corrective, in order to broaden the understanding of evangelism. In this sense, “mission” is meant to encompass ministries of deed, for example, in the direction of “relief and development” work. Neither pairing seems quite right in light of such texts as the present one. In the structure of the text, Jesus’ “good news of the kingdom” is literally between “preaching” and “healing”, therefore also holding together as one the world of the spirit and the world of the flesh.
• discipleship. Teaching about the way of Jesus or the kingdom of God should not be reserved for some later time in the life of a believer; all the words of Jesus have the power to both draw and instruct people. There are no evangelism texts, on the one hand, and discipleship texts, on the other. Neither is evangelism training in order to do narrow proclamation, nor discipleship training in how to do evangelism in the mode of narrow proclamation. Rather, evangelism-discipleship is, from the earliest stage, instruction in learning to follow Jesus/be led by his Spirit.

For the sake of the discussion . . .

-Joe

saving faith

Luke 17:11-19, the story of the ten lepers, is a text which has proved relevant to us repeatedly over the last two years—most recently, at last week’s discipleship class. As we studied the story together, one young man connected its meaning to a sermon I had preached in the church last month. Just as there are “three tenses” of salvation in the biblical witness, so in this text there are perhaps “three stages” of salvation. These three stages correspond to, or rather may be derived from, three distinct words in the Greek, translated “cleansed” (v. 14), “healed” (v. 15), and “saved” (“made well”, NRSV) (v. 19). That is, after the ten lepers cried out to Jesus for mercy, Jesus sent them to the priests, on the way to whom “they were made clean” (v. 14); seeing that “he was healed”, “one of them turned back, praising God with a loud voice, prostrated at Jesus’ feet” (v. 16); this one, because he returned to give thanks to Jesus for his cleansing and healing, was also pronounced “saved” (v. 19).

What this summary shows is that there is both a close relationship of meaning between the words “cleanse,” “heal”, and “save” and a distinction between the three. Their unity lies within the merciful will of God as revealed in Jesus, that is, that cleansing of the skin and healing of the body is within the salvation that God intends for God’s creation. Indeed, the cleansing and healing of the leper were critical factors resulting in his salvation; physical cleansing and healing are not separate from salvation but within it. Consequently, any “salvation” that undermines the needs of the body is not the salvation that Jesus brings.

Even so, the very emphasis of the unity of cleansing, healing, and salvation reveals their diversity. Indeed, though cleansing may lead to healing which leads to salvation—that they are parts of one process—that very “leading to” prioritizes “salvation” as something more than the body—even if not exclusive of. The distinction is as important as the unity. This is so because the goodness of God cannot be limited to the health of the flesh. In other words, the faith to live, the declaration of God’s goodness to and love for his creatures, continues in spite of the suffering of the flesh. Though Job was stricken, yet he said, “I know that my Redeemer lives” (19:25). Or Habakkuk:

“Though the fig tree does not blossom, and no fruit is on the vines; though the produce of the olive fails, and the fields yield no food; though the flock is cut off from the fold, and there is no herd in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord; I will exult in the God of my salvation” (3:17-18).

In spite of suffering in the flesh and famine in the physical world, these prophets perceived that life with God continues. “In the valley of the shadow of death” they perceived that they were not dead yet—that death was only that: a shadow (Psa 23:4). As long as they had breath, they had the love of God.

If the life that remained in the prophets in spite of suffering was enough to maintain hope in God, the life that remains for us in the resurrected Christ is surely enough to sustain us. Though the presence of suffering tests our hope no less than it did Job, we have the story even he did not. Even the flesh that died has been raised immortal, imperishable, incorruptible (1 Cor 15).

Just as the Samaritan leper kept the faith--thanking Jesus for his mercy--and so experienced salvation, so our faith of the same order will keep us for eternity.

-Joe

"Feed my sheep (don't count them)"

Though I have no way of verifying it, my memory tells me that I have heard a number of Pentecostal and Charismatic leaders over the past several years quote from--of all books--1 and 2 Chronicles. Aside from that, another observation of said church leaders is their obsession with numerical growth. They want to preside over a "big church", have so and so many new congregations planted by such and such a date, and have a new "3,000 seater" building built by such and such a date. Something else I suspect--more through second-hand reports than firsthand experience--is that the conception of discipleship that accompanies such goals is training people who "get saved" to themselves do basic evangelistic work. This basic evangelistic work, focused on "getting people saved", means giving a short presentation of the gospel of a sinful humanity redeemed by Christ's death and offering others an invitation to repent of their sin and welcome Jesus through a formulaic prayer. In other words, in this conception, discipleship is not, first and foremost, training in the life and words of Jesus, but grounding in a particular method of salvation.

This whole schema has been rehearsed and critiqued time and time again, and probably sounds familiar to those reading it here. Consequently, I do not wish to again offer that same tired critique--if only it were truly tired. It seems, however, based on the endurance of this conventional Christian understanding of salvation, that some words of alternative wisdom still need to be said. Which brings me to--of all places--1 Chronicles 21.

Pastor Ntapo recently referred to the story there, another version of which also appears in 2 Samuel 24, as evidence that what seems to be the prevailing ethos of Charismatic Christianity in southern Africa is out-of-step with a biblical faith centered in Jesus Christ. In the story, David, in the waning days of his reign over Israel, is "incited by Satan to count the people of Israel" (as an aside, it is interesting that in the narrative of 2 Samuel, it is God, not Satan, who is the subject who "incites" David) (1 Chr. 21:1//2 Sam. 24:1). Both versions of the story, in spite of their differences, condemn the action of David in counting his people. Indeed, it is David--the shepherd whom God appointed to lead God's "sheep" (v. 17)--upon whom responsibility rests for the sin of counting the people. It is David, the leader, the "pastor" of the flock, whose obsession with numbers leads to disaster for the sheep: "seventy thousand persons fell in Israel", casualties of the "pestilence" God sent as punishment for David's sin (21:12, 14).

If David was not to count the people, what should he have done? And if an obsession with numbers leads ultimately to destruction, what kind of an orientation leads to life?

Perhaps David might have remembered Gideon, that judge who preceded him in the history of Israel, with whom the troops of his charge were "too many" to fight God's battles; rather, it was with "300", down from an original 32,000, that God delivered Israel from the Midianites (Jdg. 7). Perhaps David might have remembered his earlier life, he who found discomfort in the sophisticated armor and weaponry of Saul, choosing instead "five smooth stones and a sling"--by which he triumphed over a giant and put an entire army to flight (1 Sam. 17:38ff). Perhaps he might have "looked forward", as did his forefather Abraham (Jn. 8:56; Heb. 11:17-19), to the Christ who was crucified, rejected by the crowds for his refusal to fight with the weapons of flesh and blood--but exalted by his Father for "enduring to the end" (Mt. 24:13).

All this is not to say that numbers are a sign of unfaithfulness. It is to say that the seeking of numbers bears little resemblance to ministry in the mode of Christ. God will count the sheep; let us feed them with the words of eternal life (Jn 6:63, 68, 21:15-19).

-Joe

God’s justice, humans’ faith

For Wednesday’s discipleship class we studied Luke 18:1-8, often called the parable of “the persistent widow.”

The message of the text advances through four statements which may be divided into two sets of two. The first set is the repetition of the description of the “unjust judge”, the judge “in a certain city who neither feared God nor had respect for humans.” In its first appearance, the description is in the voice of Jesus the Narrator; in its second, it is the voice of the judge through Jesus the Actor (as Jesus plays the part of the judge). In both, the description is of a judge “who neither fears God nor has respect for humans” (vv. 2, 4). This is the characterization of the judge that we are not supposed to miss: no respect for God or humans; in short, he is, as Jesus calls him, “unjust” (v.6).

If the first set of repetitions is about the unjust judge, the second set of two is about the just judge, God. The first statement of the second set comes as Jesus’ question to his disciples: “Will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night?” (v. 7). The second statement, which repeats the critical information of the first, is Jesus’ emphatic answer to his own question: “I tell you, [God] will quickly grant justice to them” (v. 8). This, then, is the critical characterization of God: God grants justice—and “quickly” (v. 8).

Between the four statements of two sets lies the action on which the text turns—the action of “a widow” (vv. 3, 5). Because she kept “bothering” the unjust judge “for justice against [her] opponent”, the judge granted her justice. The unjust judge himself described the situation:

“ ‘Though I have no fear of God and no respect for humans, yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out by continually coming’” (v. 5).

The text continues, “And the Lord said, ‘Listen to what the unjust judge says. And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long in helping them? I tell you, he will quickly grant justice to them” (vv. 6-8).

There is an implicit comparison here in Jesus’ words between the widow and God’s “chosen ones who cry to him day and night” (v. 7). Though the widow was no one’s chosen, most certainly not that of the unjust judge to whom she continually cried, she received justice from the judge. How much more, then, will those whom the Judge loves receive justice? In fact, if God the Just is so predisposed towards his “chosen ones”, the absence of justice in human relationships must be a thing dependent upon the disposition of human beings—especially, as the parable seems to indicate, those humans who have been the victims of injustice. Though the widow, for example, may not have been responsible for the initial act of injustice that befell her, her incapacity to plead for justice is the cause of injustice’s continued reign. On the other hand, as the text teaches, her capacity to plead for justice—her perseverance through injustice—is that which restores to her her justice. Her perseverance is that which wins her respect precisely from a judge who does not “respect humans.” Though the unjust judge “for a while” did not have “a will” to grant the widow her justice, God has always a will to do so “quickly” (v. 4, 8). If, therefore, the lack of will is not God’s, the tarrying of justice in the lives of God’s people must owe to their own. God is looking for a people who care about justice enough to tell him about it. God is looking for a people with faith enough not to give up in the face of injustices.

And so, Jesus wants to know, “When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?” (v. 8)

-Joe

Peter, not James

During the Sunday school time before the worship service this week, Pastor Ntapo was leading the people in a reading of Acts 12, the account of Peter’s rescue from prison and perhaps imminent death at the hands of King Herod. Indeed, the story begins with the report that Herod had “laid violent hands upon some who belonged to the church”, even having “James, the brother of John, killed with the sword” (vv. 1-2). During this time, the text states, “while Peter was kept in prison, the church prayed fervently to God for him” (v. 5). From this basic introduction to the story, Pastor Ntapo deduced what was for me another unexpected gem of biblical interpretation within the context of South African Christianity and the spiritual realities a vast majority of its adherents encounter. No doubt responding to the perspective of African “traditional religion” that the ancestors of the home (sometimes called in the scholarly literature “the living dead”) exert an active influence over and maintain a “real presence” with their living descendants, Pastor Ntapo pointed out that the church in Acts “prayed fervently for Peter,” which is to say, and not for “James” whom Herod had already killed. “It does no good to pray for a dead person,” he said. “We can do nothing for them,” and by implication, apart from the will of God (known to us in scripture) they can do nothing for us. On the other hand, we can and should pray and intercede to God on behalf of those still alive—and expect, just as Peter was delivered, for the only living God to shower us with his grace.

-Joe

worse than the first

We have now completed six weeks of a discipleship class with our church, Harvest Time Ministries in Mandela Park, Mthatha. Last week, we studied Matthew 18:21-35, Jesus’ parable of “a king who wished to settle accounts with his slaves” (v. 23). As with the twin illustrations which we studied several weeks ago (Mt. 13:44-46), the parable of the king and his slaves is an illustration of what “the kingdom of heaven is like” (v. 23). And like the parable of the Good Samaritan which we also studied in recent weeks, so Jesus told the parable of the king and his slaves in response to a question; in the former, a lawyer, wishing “to justify himself”, had asked, “Who is my neighbor?” (Lk. 10:29); in the latter, Peter, one of the twelve, seeks to place limits on forgiveness: “Lord, if my brother sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” (v. 21). As the lawyer sought to limit the scope of love for neighbor—“to love those only who love you” (Mt. 5:46)—Peter here seemingly seeks a limit for the number of times a person may be forgiven. That this is Peter’s intention seems obvious from Jesus’ answer: “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy times seven”—a number so large, however one interprets it, so as to make forgiveness a perpetual state of mind throughout a person’s life, while rendering Peter’s “seven” paltry in comparison.

The story Jesus tells, then, to illustrate the forgiving spirit, or mercy (v. 33), hinges on the comparison between the action of the king who had a “will” to “settle accounts with his slaves” and one of his slaves who did not have a “will” (translated, NRSV, “But he refused”) to forgive his fellow slave (v. 30). Whereas the king forgave the debt of “the one who owed him ten thousand talents”, that very debtor will not forgive the debt of one who “owed him a hundred denarii”; forgiven much, he does not forgive, in reverse of the woman who showed Jesus hospitality in the home of Simon the Pharisee (Lk. 7:36-50). That the one forgiven much will not forgive is all the more scandalous in light of the identical pleas of both debtors in the story. The first debtor, the very slave forgiven who does not forgive, “falls on his knees before [the king]”, pleads for his lord’s “patience”, and promises to “pay” the debt. This very one forgiven, however, does not recognize himself in another, his fellow slave who owes him “five hundred denarii”. Indeed, though the forgiven’s debtor, like the forgiven, “falls down”, pleads for “patience” and promises to “pay”, he is not met with a “will” to forgive. The first debtor does not have the “compassion” (“pity”, NRSV) of his king (v. 27).

We, the readers/hearers of this story are rightly scandalized, for the king’s mercy has prepared us to expect a merciful response from the first debtor when he hears his own plea from one of his fellow slaves. Twice someone has “fallen down”, begged for “patience”, and pledged to “pay”; only once has someone received compassion. Something is wrong with this picture.

The other slaves in the story, the fellow slaves of both the first and second debtors, are, like us, unable to withhold their protest. When they see mercy not extended, they report to the king (v. 31). The king—perhaps like us, perhaps not—is unable to withhold action of his own. He summons the first slave, reminds him of the forgiveness that was his, and outlines what the debtor should have done in his own capacity as a lord (vv. 32-33). Yet until that one once forgiven much will live by the mercy he received, he will be “handed over” and “tortured”—“until he would pay his entire debt” (v. 34). Even here there is mercy. Not even now, as the first debtor did to his debtor, does the king “grab” the slave and “choke” him while demanding payment. The king even leaves open the possibility that the debt might somehow be paid and the unmerciful slave released from prison. But until that time—which also may never come—the slave must live with the prison he has built for himself. Once a debtor of “ten thousand talents”, the first slave, on account of his plea, “was released” and “forgiven”; his freedom was unconditional, on the basis of the king’s mercy, compassion in the face of human need—not on the basis of the debtor having to pay the original debt. Having been given the world, having moved from bad to good, the slave need now but walk in the mercy of his lord toward others—that is the only “payment” now required of him. If, however, he “refuses so great a salvation”, his latter condition will be worse than his first (Heb. 2:3; Mt. 12:43-45). Rejecting the life of mercy, he will have gone from bad through good to worse.

So it will be for us “if we do not forgive our brothers and sisters from our hearts” (v. 35).

-Joe

salvation: on tense and status

The book of Lamentations, 1:1-6, came up in the lectionary last week. I have never preached on Lamentations before, but the images the author uses to give voice to his despair fit within a broader theme I was encountering during the weekend. When discussing our Bible School with some friends recently, they were perplexed that most of our students would come from “Zionist” churches, the name typically used for African Independent Churches (AICs) in southern Africa. Although there is a range of spirituality within Zionism (not to be confused, by the way, with the movement of the same name with regard to the modern state of Israel), the dominant perception of outsiders is that it is sub-Christian, consisting of churches whose members “worship the dead” in line with ancestral traditions of Africa. Members of New Pentecostal or Charismatic churches often regard Zionists as “unsaved”. The problem with all this is not that certain Zionists do not in fact do what certain Charismatics say that they do; the problem is that often the language of “saved” and “unsaved” comes across as the attempt of the one who uses such categories to justify himself—something which can never be done not at the expense of others. A second problem, furthermore, is that this language of salvation is often intended by these who employ it within a very specific sense; if preaching or teaching, albeit thoroughly biblical and Christ-centered, does not lead directly to a short ceremony whereby one can “raise their hands” to accept Christ and be led in a prayer of repentance, it does not lead to salvation. Hence, one of our friends asked us whether “we ever discuss at our Bible School things like salvation”; my internal reaction was that, if we are not teaching salvation, we might as well pack our bags and leave South Africa. Indeed, salvation is the gospel, but the gospel is much bigger than many people understand.

Whereas the comments of many Christians tie salvation to a specific ceremony, pledge, or formula, the Bible consistently speaks of it as a way of life that never ends. Although it is the culture in “saved” churches here for every testimony to begin with the phrase, “I am saved”, the Bible speaks of salvation in the present and future tenses as well as the past. “In hope you were saved”. “Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.” “For if while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of his Son, much more surely, having been reconciled, will we be saved by his life” (Rom. 8:24; Php. 2:12; Rom. 5:10).

If salvation, therefore, has not one but at least three tenses, it follows that that which happened to us in the past must somehow work itself out in the present so as to be effective in the future. If that which happened in the past does not work itself out—within us to whom it has happened—it will not work in the end. If we do not work out that which we are, we will cease to be.

We will be, in the words of Lamentations, like “the city that once was full of people”, now “lonely” (1:1). Or like the nation, once “a princess among the provinces”, now a “vassal” (1:1). Or like “the roads to Zion”, once full of festival-goers, now deserted (1:4). Or like “the princes of Zion”, once well-fed, now “stags that find no pasture” (1:6).

If we do not intentionally seek to live the life of Jesus “daily” (Lk. 9:23), we can expect our status to change. Though God has taken the initiative to change our status from bad to good, from weak to powerful, from enemies to friends, we must—even now, every day—pray for the “clean heart,” the “right spirit”, the “joy of salvation”, lest we lose that which is most precious and become that which we do not want to be (Rom. 5:6-10; Ps. 51:10-12).

-Joe

keep in the mouth

After the service on Sunday, Tata Maka said “Ndiyanambitha”, a Xhosa word meaning “to chew, keep in the mouth, or relish”; he was relishing the message, so much so, he said, that he felt like going straightaway somewhere to be alone without even saying hello to people whom he might pass on the way. I thought immediately of Jesus’ command to the “seventy others” he “sent on ahead of him in pairs to every town and place where he himself intended to go” (Luke 10:1). I had always wondered why, specifically among the other commands, Jesus told them to “greet no one on the road” (10:4). Not greeting struck me as an act of coldness not befitting those who would follow Jesus. Tata Maka’s response helped me to wonder, however, if Jesus’ command to “not greet” is simply the proper response to a teaching deeply received. One must keep all else out of the mind—out of the mouth—until one has truly reflected upon, processed, indeed relished, that which has gone in.

-Joe

of water and spirit

One of the great treasures of cross-cultural encounter, one of my particular interests, is how my brothers and sisters interpret the Bible and what texts they use. On Sunday, for example, Pastor Ntapo made use of a puzzling text from one of the New Testament’s oft-neglected books, the letter of Jude.

“But when the archangel Michael contended with the devil and disputed about the body of Moses, he did not dare to bring a condemnation of slander against him, but said, ‘The Lord rebuke you!’ (Jude 1:9)

Pastor Ntapo’s particular interest in this verse, on this particular occasion, was not how it fit within the flow of Jude’s argument, but what information it might offer about the spiritual world which is hidden from human eyes. The former interpretive sensibility, that of reading verses within their literary contexts, is of primary importance for me. Pastor Ntapo, likewise, has demonstrated an ability to read the Bible that way. Nevertheless, our concern to read texts in context should not necessarily preclude our ability to glean other insights from individual verses’ particular words and phrases. In fact, there are many different contexts from which a person might see a verse: not only from a literary or historical perspective but also from the perspective of one’s personal experience of the things of God within a particular culture’s worldview. It may be, in fact, that understanding a particular living culture, being more of the worldview as those of the writers of certain biblical books, is the key to unlocking the meaning of obscure texts which strain the abilities of other interpretive methods.

Another interpretive method, however, which must be in play to evaluate a person’s use of texts is the canonical. Does the way in which a person uses a text, does the message he or she draws from it, accord with the witness of scripture as a whole, that is, with the canon of scripture? My assumption is that there is a main-track, a common vein, running throughout the otherwise diverse writings of the Bible. And for me that common vein, taking as authoritative what Jesus took as authoritative, is “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength; and your neighbor as yourself” (Deut. 6:4; Lev. 19:18; Mt. 22:34-40//Mk. 12:28-34//Lk. 10:25-37).

So what, then, of Pastor Ntapo’s use of Jude 1:9?

Initially, for Pastor Ntapo, the verse seemed to reveal an order for what happens to a person at his or her death. Just as the archangel Michael and the devil disputed over the body of Moses upon his death, so at our deaths two spiritual forces, one of God and one of the devil, will contend with one another for our very beings. And just as Michael had to rebuke the devil in order to secure Moses, so God’s rebuke of the devil will be the determining factor in our own entrance to heaven. If this all seems too speculative, however, the reason given for why our bodies must, like Moses’, hang in the balance at all, is only too relevant. Because Moses sinned, Pastor Ntapo explained, the devil, like God, had a claim on Moses’ life. To illustrate the nature of Moses’ sin—indeed our sin—Pastor Ntapo reminded us of the story of Moses’ disobedience with regard to securing water for his people in the wilderness (Num. 20:1-13). Moses’ sin was his failure to act, in the words of the pastor, “like God.” Whereas God told him to “command the rock before their eyes to yield its water,” Moses “lifted up his hand and struck the rock twice with his staff; water came out abundantly, and the congregation and their livestock drank” (20:8, 11).

In this case, it seems to me, the way in which Moses was supposed to be “like God” is not the same as the way in which, according to the serpent’s words, Adam and Eve would become “like God” (Gen. 3:5). Indeed, in the latter, becoming “like God” was a sin against God, the attempt of human beings to live not according to the design of their creator—“by every word that comes from the mouth of God”—but “by bread alone”—by their own methods of provision (Deut. 8:3; Mt. 4:4). Those methods of provision, Pastor Ntapo was implying, consist of using human strength, physical force, to secure blessings; like Moses, only striking the rock will bring water. By contrast, the power of God is through God’s Word—the power Moses might also have known had he spoken, by God’s command, to the rock. So, yes, though even Moses’ human strength brought forth water, it was not the water “from which one might drink and never thirst again” (Jn. 4:13-14).

In the end, what began as Pastor Ntapo’s interest to understand the hidden world became a clear exhortation for faithful living for his congregation. Just as the dispute over Moses’ body was the result of his own sin, so the patterns we set in life follow us into death. On the same principle, then, by God’s grace, through Jesus, by the peculiar power of his Word, we can drink even now the “water gushing up to eternal life” (Jn. 4:14).

-Joe

compassion in the story

Here is my latest column for the Anabaptist Network in South Africa.

-Joe

knowing and not knowing

The Friday session at last month’s conference at Bethany Bible School was on sexuality. For our inductive Bible study, we focused on Genesis 38:1-26, the story of Judah and Tamar.

A key verse in the story, bringing together a number of its key words and themes, is v. 16, Judah’s words to Tamar followed by the author’s explanation: “ ‘Come, let me come in to you,’ for he did not know that she was his daughter-in-law.”

Judah solicited Tamar, his “daughter-in-law”, for sex because he thought she was a prostitute, because “he did not know that she was his daughter-in-law.” Though this might seem like the text’s absolution of Judah, a justification for his “going in” to his daughter-in-law, it is, in fact, an indictment of him. Indeed, for even if Judah would not, as the text implies, have solicited his own daughter-in-law for sex, his hiring of a prostitute is a solicitation of someone else’s daughter for the same.

Indeed, the use of the title “daughter” or “daughter-in-law” is frequent in the text. The first usage of “daughter” occurs in v. 2, where Judah “saw the daughter of a certain Canaanite whose name was Shua; he married her and went in to her.” This last comment, that Judah “went in to her”, is the same approach that he takes later on, in v. 16, with his daughter-in-law (“Come, let me come in to you”), also described by the author in v. 19 (“So he gave them to her, and went in to her . . .”). In other words, just as Judah, as a younger man, once approached a “certain Canaanite’s daughter”, so he now, as an older man, approaches his own “daughter-in-law.” And, although he would never dream of defiling his own daughter-in-law—she who belongs to him, and he to her—he, by hiring a prostitute, is quite willing to defile someone else’s. Judah, in fact, makes his opinion quite clear as to what should happen to daughters who “play the whore” (v. 24); when he is told that Tamar is pregnant through prostitution, he wishes her to be “brought out and burned” (v. 24). Yet he does not see—until Tamar’s well-conceived scheme exposes his guilt—that it is he who is responsible for disgracing her, taking away her life. As a result, he is more worthy of the fire than she, as he himself is finally forced to admit: “she is more in the right than I” (v. 26).

To Judah’s credit, his admission of guilt leads to a change in behavior. After being exposed, the text states that “he did not lie with [Tamar] again, literally (Hebrew), that “he did not know her again” (v. 26). Judah’s “not knowing” of Tamar at the end of the story brings to mind both his previous “not-knowing” of her in the middle (v. 16) and that which Judah’s late son, Onan, knew with regard to Tamar. Onan, that is, knew, according to the levirate law of the Israelites (Deut. 25:5-10), that the children born to Tamar through his seed would not be his own; instead they would belong to his late brother, Er, who had first married Tamar but died before giving her children. The children would not honor the name "Onan” but “Er”. Therefore, though it was the responsibility of Onan, the next-of-kin to the deceased, to raise up children for his brother’s widow (to give her, just as Judah once gave the daughter of Shua her own “Er”, “Protector”), he “spilled his semen on the ground whenever he went in to his brother’s wife” (v. 9). Though it was what Onan “knew” that led him to “spoil his seed”, it did not prevent him from “knowing” his brother’s widow. Though the purpose of him marrying her was to produce children, he engaged in the act of procreation without allowing it. He used the widow for sex without allowing her to enjoy its fruits.

Onan’s knowing of Tamar led directly to Tamar’s being disowned. For, after “the Lord killed him” because “the thing that he did was displeasing to the Lord” (v. 10), Judah begins to fear that the source of Onan’s death, like his brother Er before him, is Tamar, the one whom they both married. Though the text is certain that the brothers died because of their own sin, Judah fears that his sons have died because of Tamar. As a result, though he owes Tamar his next-born, Shelah, he sends Tamar away from his household—though through marriage she now belongs to Judah’s family—and back to her “father’s house” to “sit as a widow” (vv. 11-12). Though, through marriage to his sons, Judah once claimed Tamar as his daughter, he now sends her back to where she came from. Judah once knew her as his daughter; his dismissal of her, though veiled with the excuse that Shelah is not yet of age, is really to say, “I never knew you.” Realizing that Judah has never intended to give her Shelah, Tamar moves from “sitting” as a widow to “sitting” on the road to Timnah as a prostitute when she hears that her father-in-law will be going that way (v. 14); she is desperate to produce children for Judah’s line. It is here that Judah meets her and asks her for sex—for “he did not know that she was his daughter-in-law” (v. 16). Thus the cycle is complete: what the son set in motion by knowing the father completes by not-knowing—the disowning of Tamar.

Yet even here, at their moment of greatest disgrace, does the redemption of Judah and Tamar begin. For the conception of their proscribed union exposes the sin of her father-in-law and restores to her her dignity as his daughter. Ashamed of his actions, Judah pronounces the one he once assumed guilty for the death of his sons now “more righteous than I.” He also “does not know her again” and, therefore, knows her again as his daughter.

-Joe

for the sake of joy

For our discipleship class with Harvest Time Ministries last Wednesday, we studied Matthew 13:44-46, two illustrations-parables Jesus used to describe what “the kingdom of heaven is like” (vv. 44, 45). In gathering the basic information from the text, the line “in his joy” emerged as a key to unlocking the message for the day. “In his joy” refers to a human being who, after finding and hiding a treasure in a field, “in his joy” went and sold “all that he had and bought it” (v. 44). Because the human being, exactly like the “merchant” in the second illustration in Jesus’ pairing, sold “all that he had” in order to get the “treasure”—or, as in the second illustration, the “one pearl of great value”—we the readers/listeners are left to wonder what was so significant about that treasure or that one pearl of great value. Why did the human being, why did the merchant, sell “all that he had” in order to acquire only “one” thing? Indeed, it seems that the human being had many things, perhaps many of them also of great value. Why then did he forsake such great treasure for the treasure he did not yet have?

It seems that the answer is because of “his joy”. Though he had many things, the sale of which was enough to acquire a thing of “great value”, the many things did not bring him joy. Though many is more than one, the many things he possessed could not bring him the joy that the one thing he “found” did. Therefore, “in his joy”, he went and sold “all that he had.”

“The kingdom of heaven is like this.”

When we “find” it, when we experience the presence of God, through his Word, in Jesus, the glory of earthly possessions begins to fade. Their value is not “great” in light of God’s value. The joy they bring is not joy in light of God’s joy. For that joy, the human being will sell all that he has.

Who then are disciples? First and foremost, disciples are people of joy, people who have an all-consuming passion, love, hunger for God and his righteousness—no matter the cost (cf. Mt. 5:6, 6:33; Heb. 12:2).

-Joe

giving up, giving back

Luke 14:25-33 contains some of the truly “hard sayings” of Jesus. In particular I note two parallel statements in three sentences which frame the stories Jesus tells to illustrate the meaning of following him (discipleship). Those statements, two sentences at the beginning and one at the end of the text, are:

“Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple” (vv. 26-27).

“So therefore, none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions (v. 33).

The main reason for seeing these statements as parallel, of course, is that they both pronounce requirements for following Jesus, framed in the negative. “Whoever . . . does not hate father and mother . . .”, “Whoever does not carry the cross . . . cannot be . . .”, “ . . . none of you can become my disciple if you do not give up . . ..” What one cannot be, of course, without doing what Jesus commands is—in all three sentences—his “disciple.”

If, therefore, we see them as parallel, then we also begin to see the connection between those different “things” which Jesus tells the “large crowds traveling with him” (v. 25) that they must forsake. In other words, there is some connection between “hating” family members and “giving up” possessions. Indeed, though we may more readily accept—in theory if not in practice—that we should give up material possessions on which we have become dependent to our destruction, we are less likely to regard our beloved family members as possessions to be given up. We are very likely, in fact, to see our loving duty as precisely not to give them up, to keep them close, to protect them at all costs. In other words, even if we do not regard family members as possessions, we are inclined to treat them as such. We treat “father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself” as possessions. We regard our relationships with others as things to be possessed, held on to, maintained at all costs. Jesus calls us to “give them up”, release them, set them free.

Good relationships progress because they are free. The best relationships are those which we did not expect, those in which we found ourselves loving a person we did not set out to love. This does not mean that we set out not to love them; it simply means that we had no intention for the relationship itself, no expectations of where it might lead. We began to relate to a person free of requirements, pressures molding the relationship into a preconceived form. The moment we awake, however, to the goodness of relationship, is the moment we begin to possess it. The experience of love creates the desire to love more, and the desire to love more—beyond where we have even now loved—becomes the expectation toward which we strive to steer the relationship. The relationship becomes a thing possessed, an object of our control.

Because the goodness of relationship is the gift of God—pure grace, that which we did not expect, that which we could not create—our attempts to control it will destroy it. That which is created free cannot live possessed. Jesus says we must “give it up”, release it from our control, forfeit our expectations of it. The good news, however, is that our “giving it up” is really “giving it back”—into the hands of the loving God. God wants us, like Abraham with Isaac, to give up that which is most precious; God knows that is the only way we will remain in love.

-Joe

“a little cloud”

In his parting words last week to three churches which had gathered for a weekend of study and fellowship in the Northern Cape, Pastor Ntapo of Harvest Time Ministries in Mthatha referenced the story of Elijah following his showdown with the prophets of Baal on Mount Carmel (1 Kings 18). At Elijah’s command, his servant finally spots rising from the sea “a little cloud no bigger than a person’s hand” (1 Kings 18:44). It was, of course, from that same “little” cloud that “the heavens grew black with clouds and wind; there was a heavy rain” (18:45). The cloud was, for Pastor Ntapo, a sign of the way in which godly relationships grow—starting small, they grow to bring refreshing rain to a drought-stricken land. Whether or not that word was signifying a growing cloud of relationship between the three specific churches gathered on that day, it does signify for Pastor Ntapo the relationship that has been forged over the last four years between his congregation and Mennonites, represented by us. That relationship, like the cloud, at first seemed insignificant—scarcely visible to those outside and growing beyond the comprehension of those within—but is now above the horizon. Like Elijah, we have heard the “sound of rushing rain” (18:41), and we’re trusting God to bring the “heavy rain” in God’s own time.

-Joe

salvation with fear

This past weekend our church hosted special services on the occasion of a visit from another church which has a member who has found fellowship with our congregation while he works in Mthatha.  Pastor Ntapo picked the theme for the weekend: “work out your own salvation with fear and trembling”—Paul’s words to the Philippians (2:12).

I preached at the first service on Saturday.  I chose to focus on how the two key words in Paul’s sentence—salvation and fear—are related.  What does salvation have to do with fear, and especially since Paul, in other places, seems to contrast the two?  If salvation is freedom from fear, as it appears to be, for example, in Galatians 4-5, then how does fear help one “work out salvation”?

Paul often talked about salvation as freedom from the law (Rom. 8).  By this, however, Paul did not mean the end of all law but of that law which restricts one’s ability to love God and neighbor as one’s self (Gal 5:14).  Indeed, Paul, as well as other New Testament writers (and Jesus), continued to conceive of that which Christ brought in terms of law—“a new commandment”, “fulfillment of the law, not abolishment”, “the law of Christ” (Jn. 13:34, 15:12; Mt. 5:17; Gal. 6:2; Rom. 8:2).  The freedom from the law of which Paul spoke was from human interpretations of law in the cause of oppression.

Consequently, just as there are two kinds of law—that which God has revealed for the sake of God’s love and human interpretation of that law for the sake of self-interest—there are two kinds of fear.  There is the fear of punishment for disobeying the prescription of human interpretation, and there is the fear of God.  There is the fear of humans and the fear of God.

Perhaps a third fear arises from this tension.  It is the fear of being scorned, ostracized, punished by one’s fellow human beings for obeying the law of God.  This fear is the fear of humans because humans fear rejection, isolation, death.  This fear is also the fear of God because obedience to God’s love for the sake of all leads to rejection by some.  It’s the fear of Jesus who healed on the sabbath, delighting the weak, infuriating the powerful.  It’s the fear of a young African mother who forgoes costly rituals for her deceased mother, infuriating her uncles, in order to provide for her small child.

In order to “endure such scorn from evil men” (Heb. 12:3), to exercise freedom in the den of bondage, one needs the experience of God working within—of God’s Spirit working with our spirit, “working out our own salvation with fear and trembling” (Rom. 8:16; Php. 2:12).

-Joe

mercy’s victory

On Sunday I preached on 2 Kings 6:8-23, the story of the prophet Elisha’s showdown with the army of Aram. This was not a story, upon coming upon it several years ago, that I remembered from my childhood Bible story books. Yet it deserves to be better-known than it seems to be.

The story seems to express in narrative form what the Psalmist proclaimed: “A king is not saved by his great army; a warrior is not delivered by his great strength. The war horse is a vain hope for victory, and by its great strength it cannot save” (Ps. 33:16-17).

Indeed, the text makes much of horses, chariots, and armies. Two of the appearances of these in the text have to do with weapons of “blood and flesh”, to borrow the language of Ephesians 6. A third has to do with the weapons of the spirit—the “horses and chariots of fire” which the servant of Elisha saw were “more” than “the army with horses and chariots” which surrounded the Israelite city of Dothan.

The king of Aram is keen to use the horses and chariots of flesh; the prophet Elisha fights with the “sword of the spirit”—prayer. When Elisha repeatedly foils the king of Aram’s plans to attack Israel, the king of Aram responds by escalating his military escapades. Even though the king’s earlier military strategies have failed because of Elisha’s interventions in the spirit—his officers tell him that “it is Elisha, the prophet in Israel, who tells the king of Israel the words that you speak in your bedchamber”—the king is not deterred from attempting to take Elisha by force. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, the king does not consider that more military might will not now bring his enemies under his feet. He dispatches “horses and chariots and a great army” to Dothan to put an end to Elisha’s prophesying.

As before, his latest attempt is foiled. Elisha prays. The Aramean army is struck blind. Elisha leads them to Samaria, the seat of power in the Northern Israelite kingdom. He prays again. The Lord opens their eyes, “and they saw that they were inside Samaria.” By his might the king of Aram had hoped to put his enemies under his feet; now his army finds itself within the grasp of his adversary, the king of Israel.

If the Arameans expected the king of Israel to do unto them as they did unto others, this indeed would have been a time for fear. If they had understood, however, that the God of Israel is not a man, they might have expected that mercy which they received through the words of the prophet.

“Set food and water before them so that they may eat and drink; and let them go to their master" (v. 22).

“The war horse was a vain hope for victory” for the king of Aram. Far from victory, in fact, it was his defeat. Only the God who led him there, against whom his plans were laid, could bring his army out—by mercy, for the sake of God’s merciful name (see Ex. 34:5-6).

-Joe

Glory of glories

More than a year ago, I recorded some discoveries I had made on the transfiguration story from the gospels (Mk. 9:2-8; Mt. 17:1-8; Lk. 9:28-36) in conversation with African traditional religion. That entry reflected preparation I had done for teaching the story at Bethany Bible School. Finally, in May, that opportunity came to pass. I used the story as the Bible Study text for my lesson on the synoptic gospels, Matthew, Mark, and Luke.

The story is a good one for getting at some of the thematic differences between the gospels. Taking Mark as the narrative baseline for the synoptic tradition in general, one can see through the transfiguration story the distinct ways in which Matthew and Luke built upon the story. Matthew, for example, adds to Mark’s account the description of Jesus coming to the disciples, touching them, and telling them not to fear after they have witnessed the dramatic scene, entered the cloud, and heard the voice. Jesus comforts the disciples because they have fallen “on their faces” in response to the cloud and the voice. This is the second usage of “face” in the text; the first occurs at the outset of the story when Jesus’ “face” begins to shine a brilliant white. Whereas in Mark it is Jesus’ clothes which turn white, Matthew adds also that Jesus’ face shines. In doing so, Matthew intensifies the comparison between Jesus and his prophetic predecessor, Moses, whose face also used to shine when communing directly with God. Matthew’s intensification of the comparison between Jesus and Moses is commensurate with his gospel’s broader emphasis of Jesus the Law Giver/Teacher who gives the new law which fulfills the law that was given to Moses.

Luke’s account, on the other hand, reveals his own emphases. Jesus is transfigured while he is “praying”, something he did regularly according to Luke. Moreover, the city of “Jerusalem” again figures in this story as it does throughout Luke. Luke alone informs the reader of what specifically Moses and Elijah were talking about with Jesus: the exodus that he was about to accomplish “from Jerusalem.”

It is also from Luke that I was able to make my major connection between the world of the text and the traditional thought-world of my Xhosa audience. As pointed out in my earlier entry, an African reader might quickly notice in this story what a westerner might not, namely, that Jesus is communicating with his dead ancestors. Traditional African Religion was/is based upon communication with the ancestors. The story then might be read as a justification of communication with the dead.

It is not always or perhaps often appropriate to make comparisons between Jewish religion pre-Christ and African religion pre-Christ. There are significant differences, the main one being that Jewish faith was oriented toward the one God, Yahweh, to the exclusion of other gods, whereas African religion was oriented functionally toward many spiritual mediators or “gods” in spite of the fact that a concept of the one Creator God did also exist. Still, for the purpose of proclaiming a text, in this case the transfiguration story, it works to place Moses and Elijah in place of the ancestors of African traditions. Indeed, in this story, Moses and Elijah appear personally to the disciples whom Jesus had led with him up the mountain--as a deceased African grandfather might appear to his progeny in a dream. Peter’s response to the sight, likewise, is functionally equivalent to the decisions many African Christians have made with Christ—put him alongside, not necessarily in place of or even higher than, the other spiritual authorities in one’s life (we must also say that westerners have not often placed Christ in a superior position to the particular “powers and principalities” of their cultures).

But back to Luke. What of his contribution to the story? Luke, alone among the synoptic evangelists, dwells with suspense upon the characters that turn out to be Moses and Elijah. That is, Luke initially does not say, as Matthew and Mark do, that “there appeared with him Moses with Elijah” but rather, simply, “two men”. Who are these two men? Only then does Luke answer: Moses and Elijah. Going on: “they appeared in glory and were speaking about his exodus which he was about to accomplish from Jerusalem”. Luke returns to the appearance of glory once more thereafter: “Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep, but because they stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him.” Whereas in the first appearance of glory to the disciples, glory includes three—Moses, Elijah, and Jesus—in the second appearance of glory only one remains. He alone is glorious; Moses and Elijah are again, merely, “men.”

Of course, this is also how all of the synoptic evangelists conclude the narrative. The voice with the cloud acclaims “my beloved Son; listen to him” after which only one—"Jesus alone”—remains.

The ancestors used to look glorious to our eyes. But when Jesus came, we saw true glory.

-Joe

if and are

I’ve had opportunity recently to revisit the story of Jesus’ temptation (Lk. 4:1-13).

In particular, I noticed the manner in which the devil approaches Jesus in the temptation story in comparison to the way in which the “voice from heaven” approaches him at his baptism, the story which directly precedes the temptation in the gospel tradition.

The “voice” says to Jesus, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased” (Lk. 3:21). The devil says to Jesus, “If you are the Son of God”, followed by a series of requests he makes of Jesus.

God says “You are.” The devil says “If you are.”

God says “you are” my child. The devil says “If you are” God’s child, you must prove yourself according to a certain set of criteria.

The criteria which the tempter says we must fulfill in order to be a child of God comes from outside the child of God. They come from the expectations and demands that others have for us. Such expectations and demands may be the right course for us—if, and only if, they are confirmation of what the Spirit of God has already, beforehand, prior to, said to us. You are a child of God because of what God has put in you.

-Joe

the forbearance of God

As I prepared to teach the Gospel of Luke at our May conference of Bethany Bible School, and then as we marked Ascension and Pentecost in the last weeks, I was struck by the significance of the city of Jerusalem in the text. Indeed, as I mentioned in my last entry, the word "Jerusalem" occurs 30 times in 24 chapters in Luke, compared with 10/16 and 12/28 in Mark and Matthew respectively. Fittingly, Jerusalem is central to Luke's accounts of the ascension in the gospel and its sequel, the book of Acts. As it says, Jesus "ordered [the apostles] not to leave Jerusalem" after his ascension into heaven, "but to wait there for the promise of the Father" (Acts 1:4). Staying, or waiting in Jerusalem was the prerequisite for the disciples' reception of the Holy Spirit (Acts 2).

Why was it necessary for the disciples to wait in Jerusalem? We might simply answer that the disciples were still struggling with their fear of the authorities ("fear of the Jews" as John put it, 20:19) and therefore could not--apart from a miracle--have begun any ministry in Jesus' name. Still we must ask, why Jerusalem? Matthew's gospel, for example, closes in Galilee. It is from there--indeed from "the mountain to which Jesus had directed them" (28:16)--that Jesus gives the apostles directions for an upcoming ministry to "all nations." To summarize:

In Matthew, the disciples' ministry to "all nations" under the "authority" of Jesus departs from Galilee; in Luke, the disciples' ministry, eventuating in "all nations" or "to the ends of the earth" (Lk. 24:47; Acts 1:8), in the "power" of the Holy Spirit "begin[s] from Jerusalem" (Acts 1:8; Lk. 24:47).

To all nations. Power of God (Jesus, Holy Spirit). Place of Departure.

These are the common ingredients. The difference is in the place of departure. Matthew assumes that power was conferred on the mount of ascension. Luke emphasizes that power was conferred in Jerusalem. So the question remains: Why Jerusalem? Why has Luke bequeathed to us, his readers, the Jerusalem part of the narrative? What are we to understand?

My working hypothesis is that Luke, via Jerusalem, is emphasizing the long-suffering of God. Jerusalem, the religious center of Israel's faith, the location of the house of God, must be given every last chance to "recognize the time of [its] visitation from God" (Lk. 19:44). Jerusalem, the embodiment of the Jewish people, must be given every opportunity to acknowledge Jesus as its own anointed "Leader and Savior" (Acts 5:31). It is only then, after God has extended every chance, fulfilled every promise to his people, that God can turn his face to the nations. Not without suffering does God turn away from those whom he called. Even beyond the cross, the place of God's suffering for his own, is God found extending his mercy to Jerusalem. The resurrection, ascension, Pentecost, the apostolic ministry bring a second chance--a third, a fourth, a fifth. The apostles preach first, again, "in Jerusalem"--then Judea, Samaria, and the ends of the earth (Acts 1:8). In fact, even when Paul, God's "chosen instrument to bring his name before Gentiles and kings" (Acts 9:15), ventures throughout the earth preaching the good news of Jesus Christ, he goes first to the Jewish houses of worship. After, in various cases, some Jews reject his message (while others welcome it) and Paul vows "from now on only to go to the Gentiles," he nonetheless returns to the synagogues; Paul cannot give up on his brethren. Indeed, the last picture of Paul's life is of him trying to convince the Jews in Rome about Jesus. So ends Luke's narrative, the story of God's promises extended to the nations--but always, forever, with reference and with concern, for the Jews (Acts 13:46, 14:1, 17:1-2, 17, 18:5-11, 8-10, 28:17ff.).

If this message is for God's first chosen, those whom he first called to be his witnesses upon the earth, it is also for his second chosen--for whomever, from every nation, tribe, and language, has chosen to live by the faith of God's Messiah. Not without suffering does God abandon his wayward people. Patiently God persists, "not wanting any to perish but all to come to repentance" (1 Pt. 3:9, 15).

-Joe

fear and fears

Last week I reported on some of my method and content for teaching the Gospel of Matthew at our Bethany Bible School conference earlier this month. Now for Mark.

Mark's gospel is the one with which I have been the most familiar, having taken a course on it in seminary. And, if I had to choose one gospel with which to be most familiar, I would choose Mark, for knowing Mark allows one to know the basic structure of the Jesus-story; Mark's frame is the one which Matthew and Luke most likely built upon in giving us their own account of Jesus' life.

Even so, I needed to revisit Mark afresh to pump new life into my ability to teach it. This time around I particularly noticed Mark's narrative comments about the "sea" in Jesus' ministry. Jesus is always on or around the sea (of Galilee): teaching "beside the sea", from the boat while a great crowd listens to him from the land (3:7-9; 4:1); going across the sea to the "other side", where he delivered the man from Gerasa who had a "legion" of demons, and fed the five thousand in a "desert place" (5:1-21; 6:30-44); on the sea, preaching peace to the storm, and later, "walking on the sea", revealing himself as the presence of God to his disciples ("Do not fear--I AM") (6:50) (4:35-41; 6:47-52).

Why does it seem that Mark was so keen on emphasizing that the Jesus story took place on or around the sea? We might say simply that this is so because the Jesus story did take place beside the sea, and Mark was simply reporting the facts. But something more is going on. Each gospel writer did frame the Jesus story in his own way. We noted how Matthew emphasizes Jesus' teachings in five main sections, each encapsulated by a common narrative refrain. Luke chose to emphasize, even though the early part of Jesus' ministry also takes place in Galilee, that Jesus' ministry took place "on the way to Jerusalem" (from 9:51 onward). The word "Jerusalem" occurs 30 times in Luke, compared with only 10 and 12 respectively for Mark and Matthew. This is all to emphasize that Mark framed his own story about Jesus around the sea; that was the detail he particularly wanted to highlight about Jesus' ministry. So again we ask, why? And so I asked my students.

"What is the significance of the sea?"

"The sea is like the kingdom of God," said one man. "You go to the sea and it takes away everything. Everything [sin, impurity, etc.] gets washed away in the sea."

"The sea is like God," said one old woman.

"How?" I inquired.

"It is sort of scary."

The sea is scary as God is scary--this would be the old woman's logic. I think that many western Christians would deny such a statement with their words. At least I think they wouldn't come out with such a statement as innocently, unashamedly as this woman seemed to do so. Indeed, God for us is supposed to be gentle, comforting, a shepherd who carries us on his shoulders rather than one who keeps us in line with his staff. Scariness, or fear, is supposed to be the enemy of God who is love, whose "perfect love casts out fear" (1 Jn. 4:18).

If, however, I am honest with myself, God is still scary to me. I also experience the comforting God, the God who casts out my fear and leaves joy in its place. But I am not so mature as to have left behind the scary God. We might say that scary is not the right word, and it wouldn't be my first choice. Let us use instead "fear", which is a biblical word and which we might rationalize can mean something more along the lines of that which inspires awe. Yet even that awe is not without fright, for it is the awe of an experience of something so immense that it could utterly overcome, consume the one who stands in its presence. Not unlike a human being before the sea. The sea is big to us in a manner like God is big to us. The woman's point is well-made.

I also think this is Mark's point. The sea, in broad biblical perspective, is that untameable force which was tamed by God. The order of creation came about by God separating the waters, assigning them their place in order that dry land could appear, then produce, then sustain human life. The waters were there, the great, dark "deep", before God said "Let there be light" and began to make a world (Gen. 1). The waters indeed seem before all things, except the One who is not a thing. We might think that the sea is God, if God had not revealed himself, as he did to Job, as the one who said to the sea, " 'Thus far shall you come, and no farther, and here shall your proud waves be stopped' " (Job 38:11).

All this points us to a reality that something greater than the sea is with us, someone greater, in fact, than all powers and principalities of this world. If that is the case, we need not fear, as Jesus commanded his disciples in the midst of the storm on the sea; we need not fear, that is, the sea and all powers because "I AM", "God is with us" (Mk. 6:50).

But must we fear the One who is greater than the sea?

I think we must. I think, in fact, it is the only way to live joyfully, peacefully, lovingly, in a world which fears the world. The world is now betraying us, as we have betrayed it. Natural disasters increase, sweeping humans away, as our climate changes. We are told we are on the brink of chaos. We can no longer trust the world. Our misplaced trust is now exposed. Yet if God is our Fear (Gen. 31:42, 53), the fears of the world will not destroy us. If God is our Fear, we will not cling to our lives as if no other life exists. If scarcity increases, we will share what we have with others in faith that God will provide. We will "not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul; rather fear him who can destroy both body and soul in hell" (Mt. 10:28). Jesus said that. And it is that fear which he meant to be our comfort.

-Joe

literal metaphors

At the weekly meeting of our Bible Study/Fellowship Group on Tuesday, we read the stories of the Tower of Babel (Gen. 11:1-9) and the coming of the Holy Spirit (Acts 2:1-21) in preparation for Pentecost. Of course, the two are often paired together because of their focus on language; whereas language was confused at Babel, people at Pentecost heard clearly the disciples "speaking about God's deeds of power in [their] own languages" (2:11). In the Babel story, one language becomes many; at Pentecost, many languages--though not eliminated--become one, united in their capacity to communicate the message of the gospel.

That interpretation is well-enough known. For the present I am interested in another discussion that arose when reading the Babel account: literal versus metaphorical reading of scripture.

One man from among us, a pastor, contended that the stories "at the beginning of Genesis" must be "taken with a pinch of salt", that is, they cannot be taken as literal, which is to say, "historically true". Two others present, one man and one woman, both successful in the modern world but raised in traditional, African villages, contended that the stories are literal or can be taken that way. Anna and I did not really enter the fray; I have found that in discussions such as this, language, words, and meaning fails between people--much like it did at Babel itself. But then, in using such a phrase as "like it did at Babel itself", am I suggesting that the story is literal?

Such a phrase illustrates the point at hand precisely. In speaking as if the events of Babel really happened, I take the story at face-value before probing the hidden depths of its meaning. Or, in other words, I take the story first as a story. The first step in the re-telling of any story--be it a narration of events which happened to one person in the course of one's day or one of Aesop's fables--is to know the story. The first step is to remember the events, put them in order, gather them up. The first step is not to decide whether the story really could have taken place according to other criteria. The first step is to respect the integrity of the storyteller--to take her at her words, to consider that he is giving you a trustworthy account of something. From there, of course, we may discern that the story sounds more like a joke than a report or whatever. But first we must simply listen.

My problem with the interpretation of the pastor is that he had none beyond his contention that the story was metaphorical. It was as if his theories about the stories and texts of the Bible were themselves the message of the Bible rather than what the stories themselves reveal. I much prefer the literalism of the Africans in the room since their literalism--whatever that word even means--leads them to the theological meaning of the story, to revelation, to the moment when God shows God's character, mind, and heart (metaphorically-speaking!) to his people. And they were led to the meaning of the story.

The woman started off the discussion by puzzling about the humans' pretension of building a tower "with its top in the heavens" (11:4).

"In the heavens!?" she gasped. "Did they really think they could reach the heavens?"

Pastor: "Well, you have to take the stories at the beginning of Genesis with a pinch of salt."

Silence.

Perhaps the discussion then continued in other directions for awhile. Eventually the man spoke, returning again to the detail about the height of the tower.

"I think that God intervened because he knew that they would not be able to build the tower without it falling down and killing them. He confused their language so that they would stop building it. It was for their own good."

I thought his interpretation beautiful. He arrived at a profound insight about God. He got there by following the story--then using his imagination. His interpretation was, on one hand, hyper-literal. He did not choose to follow, for example, that the people would be ruined by their pride, by their desire to "make a name for themselves" (11:4), the embodiment of which was the tower, but the tower itself, literally toppling under its own height upon them. It was first from the tower's destructive potential--not first from the destructive potential of what the tower might be said to stand for--that God saved the people. Yet it was God who saved the people from their own destructive ingenuity. That is the common message of the story, the message which might unite both modern and pre-modern interpreters of this text.

We see also then that the issue is not really literal versus metaphorical readings of scripture; the point is that the literal and the metaphorical are the same. I am no longer sure of their difference. Even less am I sure that one can find God by setting out to read the text as metaphorical literature. But one will find God by reading, simply, the story.

-Joe

You might find themes pertinent to this discussion in this fine article from The Mennonite.

the righteouness that exceeds

Last Saturday's topic at our Bethany Bible School conference was the synoptic gospels, or Matthew, Mark, and Luke. My preparation for teaching had been, first and foremost, to read through each gospel again and note the particular flow of each. For Matthew, I focused in on the content of Jesus' five major teaching sections, all so-marked by narrative comments, at the beginning, that "Jesus began to teach his disciples" (and "the crowds") and, at the end, "after Jesus had finished . . .." These sections are:

• 5:1-7:29 The Sermon on the Mount
• 10:1-11:1 Jesus teaches the twelve before sending them out with his authority
• 13:1-53 Jesus speaks in parables about the "kingdom of heaven"
• 18:1-19:1 Teachings about forgiveness/mercy
• 23:1-26:1 Final teachings before his passion

Based on these five sections, I came up with the following summary statement of Matthew's story in order to guide my teaching.

Jesus brings near the kingdom of heaven. Those who welcome the kingdom of heaven will receive it; those who reject it will not. The kingdom of heaven is the rule of mercy and forgiveness.

Based on this, if I had to pick one verse to summarize Matthew's story, it would be 5:20:

"Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."

I ultimately settled on this verse because it seems to include the main thrust of the five main teaching sections as well as an important feature of the material outside these sections--Jesus' confrontations with the scribes and Pharisees. I had wanted to use a more positive verse, for example, 5:7, "Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy"--and this was a close second. Still, Jesus' conflict with the scribes and Pharisees reveals the way of mercy which defines the life, or "righteousness", of the kingdom of heaven that Jesus brings near. Jesus' interpretation of "the law and the prophets" (5:17), contra that of the scribes and Pharisees, is that God calls "sinners and tax collectors" to be God's people and approves the work of healing the sick on the day of rest, the Sabbath (9:10-13; 12:9-14). Or, as Jesus puts it in a phrase recorded among the gospels only in Matthew, God "desires mercy, not sacrifice" (9:13; 12:7). Another way that I would say this is that the sacrifice that God requires is mercy.

In illustrating these themes, I had quoted Jesus' words to the religious leaders of his day--"the chief priests and the elders of the people" (21:23, 45) and "the Pharisees" (21:45)--that "the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you" (21:31). One man, seemingly surprised by this statement--as if hearing it for the first time--asked what it was that the Pharisees could have done that even the prostitutes would enter the kingdom of heaven before them. Why would Jesus speak to them in this way?

Another woman asked me to elaborate on the beatitude, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven" (5:3).

I did attempt an answer to both questions, which probably will not sound here as it did on Saturday. I do think that the two questions are closely related. The Pharisees, to use other terminology from Jesus, were "last" in the kingdom of heaven, not "first" (19:30; 20:16), because they lacked mercy for their fellow human beings. And they lacked mercy because they were not "poor in spirit", or humble of spirit. They lived as though any righteousness that they enjoyed came from their own fulfillment of the law rather than from a hungering and thirsting for the righteousness that comes from and is God (5:6). The humble know that they need God as their flesh needs food and drink. With God as their goal, the hunger of the humble never ceases, for God is not a human being; God is always beyond. The humble seek God's praise.

By contrast, the proud seek the praise of human beings. Their goal is to be seen as righteous in the eyes of a community of like-minded individuals. If the community could fulfill their need of righteousness, the hungering of the proud would come to an end. For a time, perhaps, it does, as the proud take time to bask in the glory of their most recent achievement. Yet when the community's attention turns to an even later, more glorious achievement of another, the proud one recognizes that his hunger has not really been satisfied. He is still hungry.

Eventually, hopefully, the proud may realize that the community can never fulfill their desire for righteousness. Perhaps they realize, like the "poor in spirit", that the only way to be "filled" is always to "hunger"--for the righteousness that comes from God.

-Joe

"in his chest"

Inspired from my reading of the prophetic literature earlier this year, I have since alluded in a few sermons to Jeremiah's description of his vocation: "If I say, 'I will not mention him, or speak any more in his name,' then within me there is something like a burning fire shut up in my bones; I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot" (20:9). My paraphrase has been that the prophet, being one who is given the words of God, has no choice but to give also to others what God has given him. The prophet's particular mode of sharing--of not being selfish--is with words. If the prophet should keep those words to himself, within, those words will become death for him. The prophet will become sick, the prophet may die, if the prophet does not carry out the task to which he has been called.

Also three weeks ago, in Philipstown, a man from the church confirmed those words to me after the service. I had introduced the Isaiah text I was preaching on with something like the above introduction to the prophets generally. Responding to that, this man had said that he used always to be sick until he responded to God's call to begin preaching. He now enjoys full health.

The man's experience--we might call it the prophetic experience--has been well-testified throughout Africa by both Christians and non-Christians. In terms of the latter, the way of a person being called to be a traditional healer, a sangoma in southern Africa, is to become ill. The affliction, sent by the person's ancestors, will subside only when he or she consents to take up the practice. Christians too, although the most-committed ones disavow all practices related to the sangoma and seeking oracles from the dead, often interpret illness as a call to something new. Our pastor, for example, knows that he has a particular, nagging condition "in his chest" that will not go away until he finally makes the decision to go full-time in ministry.

Examples such as these might, at the very least, make westerners pause to consider whether certain illnesses suffered in one's body are, in any way, related to something amiss in one's spirit. Short of inciting a too-easy, one-to-one correlation between a person's sin and her sickness, this wisdom of Africa might at least cause us to re-examine ourselves before God.

-Joe

canon within the canon

I thought I would take stock of my use of scripture on this blog. On the sidebar, I have added a list of those labels to my posts which are a direct citation of a text or the name of a book of the Bible (If you're looking for reflection on a particular text, perhaps you will find something of interest using this tool). In doing so, I also decided to tabulate which texts and parts of the Bible I have used most to date in this "scripture diary" of sorts. Though the frequency of certain texts is partially related to the fact that I often follow the Revised Common Lectionary, it is nevertheless interesting to check how I am using the Bible and if I am giving adequate attention to all parts of the scriptural canon. So, here are the results so far of this blog's "canon within the canon" for a few different categories.

Testament Comparison
1. New Testament 41 labels
2. Old Testament 18 labels

Divisions Within Scripture
1. Gospels and Acts 27
2. Prophets 11
3. Letters of Paul 10
4. Torah/Pentateuch 5
5. Other New Testament Letters 3
6. Old Testament "Writings" 2
6. Apocalyptic 2

Individual Books (two labels or more)
1. Luke 11
2. John 8
3. Ephesians 4
3. Genesis 4
5. Isaiah 3
5. James 3
5. Mark 3
5. Matthew 3
9. 1 Corinthians 2
9. 2 Samuel 2
9. Amos 2
9. Galatians 2
9. Leviticus 2
9. Revelation 2

The concept of a personal "canon within the canon" interests me. What is yours?

-Joe

streaming up the mountain

I had the privilege of preaching the sermon at Grace Community Church in Philipstown, Northern Cape, on Sunday. I chose Isaiah 2:2-4 to complement the themes of our weekend seminars on the church as the community of Christ's peace.

As I warmed up, I began to relish the metaphors in the text, specifically, the image of the nations "streaming"--"like a river that runs down to the sea and never stops" is how I put it--to "the Lord's house" (v. 2). Afterward, our colleagues pointed out to me a tantalizing paradox in the image--the nations streaming like a river up the high mountain on which the Lord's house stands.

Can a river flow up a mountain? A geological impossibility is paired with a theological certainty. The nations at war with one another will beat their weapons into agricultural tools. In our day, as well as in the days of Isaiah and, 800 years later, the early church (whose leaders cited this scripture in their writings more than any other), peace may seem as much an impossibility as a river flowing up.

Yet the "God of Jacob" is there. He himself "will teach us his ways that we may walk in his paths" (v. 3). "He himself is our peace", as Paul later put it, "who has made the two one and has broken down the dividing wall of hostility between us" (Eph. 2:14). He did this "in his flesh", that is, through the resurrection of Jesus from the dead (Eph 2:14, see also 1:20), another impossibility made certain.

What is impossible for humans is possible for God (Mk. 10:27; 11:23-24).

-Joe

on following

One of my favorite songs sung in the South African independent-church context is Somlandela, "We will follow Jesus". A second verse to the tune is the dialogue between Jesus and Peter in John 21:15ff. Simon nikaYona, uyandithanda na?/Ewe Nkosi yam, ndiyakuthanda, "Simon, son of John, do you love me?/Yes, Lord, I love you". I enjoyed the opportunity yesterday to join the preaching of that text to the song.

Jesus' third resurrection appearance to his disciples, recorded in John 21, is, in my reading, a story about a crossroads in the disciple's life (here represented by Simon Peter) between the old life (before Christ) and the new (in Christ). In reading the text this week, a pivotal revelation for me was the fleeting quality of Jesus' resurrection appearances to his disciples. After his resurrection from the dead, he did not simply stay with his disciples; rather he appeared, disappeared, and reappeared to them over the course of forty days leading up to his ascension (Acts 1:3). His time with them was broken. As a result, in between appearances, his disciples must have yet been prone to doubt whether they had in fact seen the risen Jesus or, as Luke puts it, merely "a ghost" (24:37). Was Jesus' resurrection appearance a unique experience within the disciples' spiritual worldview, or did it fit established categories? The fleeting quality of the resurrection appearances left room for the disciples to question whether Jesus was uniquely alive--in a quality different from others who had died--despite having had "many convincing proofs" that he was indeed the "firstborn from among the dead" (Acts 1:3; Rev. 1:5).

This, then, is the critical context for the story--the disciples lingering doubt. From there, we see the options open to Peter. How will he live with his doubt? Will Peter continue to go the way of Jesus, the way he began after his encounter with Jesus three years earlier by the Sea of Galilee (Lk. 5:1-11)? Or will he go back to his pre-Jesus life?

Peter, perhaps fed up with this fleeting Jesus, weary from the emotional swings of friendship lost and regained, chooses his pre-Jesus existence. "I am going fishing", he announces to his companion disciples. "We will go with you," they say. Without their former leader, the disciples will follow Peter. They will follow him into the old way of living. No more "fishers of people" (Mk. 1:17); fishers again only of fish. Except that, just as the first time Peter met Jesus, no fish were forthcoming (Lk. 5:5). "They went out and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing" (v. 3).

This is the perfect set-up for Jesus to reappear to the disciples. He stands "on the beach" and calls to the disciples on the sea. He tells them, as he did when they first met, where to cast the net in order that they might catch some fish. Again an overwhelming catch ensues. The disciples would be truly dim indeed if they did not now recognize the man on the beach as their Lord.

Peter, to his credit, recognizes Jesus and makes his move back toward him. First he puts on some clothes in order to swim back to land to meet Jesus--"for he was naked".

This has long bemused me. Why would one put on their clothes in order to swim? Why also was Peter naked in the boat?

I asked the congregation. Pastor Ntapo: "I can guess that Peter was naked in the old life." Peter, having decided to again seek security apart from this fleeting, seemingly undependable Jesus, ironically finds himself more exposed. He will put on his clothes and go back to Jesus. He will "clothe himself with the Lord Jesus Christ" (Rom. 13:14; Gal. 3:27; Col. 3:10) So too will those who have chosen to follow Peter from new to old and back again. They row back to land "in the boat".

When they return, they find that a meal has been prepared for them. A charcoal fire is there with fish on it and some bread. This is not the fish the disciples have just caught; it is already on the fire for them. The disciples will simply add to the fire what Jesus has already put there. The "fleeting Jesus" is still who he always was: Israel's Provider, giving bread and meat to his beloved in the desert.

But Jesus' love for his disciples is a tough love; Peter feels "hurt" because Jesus has asked him three times whether he loves him. As Jesus was being condemned to death, Peter denied Jesus three times. Jesus now wants to know--three times--whether Peter truly loves him. And "yes" alone will not do; Peter must feed Jesus' sheep. Peter has other disciples willing to follow him wherever he goes.

"I am going fishing." "We will go with you". "I am going back to the old life." "We will go with you."

Does Peter love Jesus enough to care for his sheep? Jesus says, "Follow me" (v. 19). "Do as I do". "Feed my sheep".

There is a danger in singing songs of extreme commitment--"Somlandel', Somlandel' UYesu/Somlandel' yonke iindawo, "We will follow, We will follow Jesus/We will follow everywhere [he goes]--if we do not intend to take the steps.

Jesus told Peter, "When you were younger you used to fasten your own belt and go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go" (v. 18).

Persecutions and trouble, trials and tribulations are bound to come. Suffering is in the world. Our lives are not our own. Going alone, "going fishing" again, is no recipe for success. We are slaves--either to the world or to Christ. If anything is sure, it is that someone else "will take you where you do not wish to go". But only in Christ is the slavery freedom (Rom. 6:16ff., compare with Gal. 4-5; Mt. 6:24).

I'm still working on that one.

-Joe