Bible – Page 10

No Ordinary Servant, Part 3: God Himself

July 25, 2022 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

Part 1: The Surprise | Part 2: The Son of God

After his surprising opening sentence, Mark introduces us to John the Baptist, the prophet whom God has chosen to be the forerunner of the Messiah—whom we now know to be Jesus.

John is—unusual, to say the least. He’s very much in the mold of the Old Testament prophets—Amos, Micah, Hosea, Isaiah, and others—who denounce the corruption of Israel’s leaders and the mindlessness of the people. But despite—or perhaps because of—the edge on his behavior and his message, the people throng to hear him (Mk 1.5), responding positively to his call for repentance.

Mark introduces this character as a fulfillment of biblical prophecy himself—specifically, God’s last words to his people (Mal 3.1) before the four centuries of silence out of which Israel is now to emerge. John, he claims, is the promised messenger who will clear the way for God’s arrival.

Let’s not pass over that too quickly. He is preparing the way for whose arrival?

Malachi’s prophecy had said, “He will clear the way before Me”—meaning, not Malachi, but God himself; for “me” in this passage is identified at the opening of the book as “the LORD”—Yahweh—whose word to Israel Malachi is relating (Mal 1.1). The prophecy goes on to say, “the Lord [Adonai], whom ye seek, shall suddenly come to his temple” (Mal 3.1).

As if to double down on this claim, knowing that the hearers will reflexively resist believing it, Mark quotes a second prophecy, that of the highly respected prophet Isaiah:

The voice of one crying in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight (Mk 1.3, citing Is 40.3).

The choice of this Isaianic prophecy is significant for at least two reasons. First, it is the opening of the second major section of Isaiah’s prophecy, where the message turns from judgment for sin to future gracious restoration—a shift in tone that perfectly parallels the movement from Old Covenant to New. And second, the prophecy is that the Coming One is “the Lord,” as it appears in Mark. In the OT prophecy, the word LORD is in ALL CAPS, signifying that the Hebrew name here is not “Adonai,” “Lord,” but “YHWH,” “Yahweh”—not the title of sovereignty, but the personal name of the covenant God of Israel, the Creator of the world.

John is preparing the way for Yahweh, the Coming One.

So who is Jesus, the Christ?

He is not only “the Son of God,” a title that some sceptics twist to imply someone less than God himself; he is Yahweh, God himself, all that God is, ever has been, or ever will be (He 13.8).

Now Mark adds John’s testimony to that of the two OT prophets:

There cometh one mightier than I after me, the latchet of whose shoes I am not worthy to stoop down and unloose (Mk 1.7).

Well, if the coming One is Yahweh, he’s certainly greater than John; that should go without saying.

But it doesn’t.

Further, the Coming One is going to baptize in, or with, the Holy Spirit (Mk 1.8), acting in concert with the very Godhead.

With John the Baptist’s pronouncement narrated, Mark now recounts John’s baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River (Mk 1.9-11).

And here we see explicitly what has just been implied: the Godhead’s embrace of Jesus as one of their (his? its?) own:

He saw the heavens opened, and the Spirit like a dove descending upon him: And there came a voice from heaven, saying, Thou art my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased (Mk 1.10-11).

Father and Spirit act together to publicly recognize the Son and to announce his complete acceptance. Here again the relationship is expressed as sonship, but in context the full equality of the Son is clear.

This servant, it turns out, is God himself.

Photo by Praveen Thirumurugan on Unsplash

No Ordinary Servant, Part 2: The Son of God

July 21, 2022 by Dan Olinger 1 Comment

Part 1: The Surprise

How does Mark begin his Gospel, his telling of the story of this servant of God?

The very first sentence surprises us:

The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God (Mk 1.1).

To a Jewish reader, this would be astonishing.

We learn first that this man has a typical Jewish name: Joshua. No real surprise there.

But then we learn that he’s specially anointed: that’s what the title Christ means. It’s the Greek synonym for the Hebrew Messiah, “Anointed One.”

Now, this isn’t necessarily surprising in itself. In the Hebrew Scriptures—what we Christians call “the Old Testament”—lots of people were anointed as a sign that they were being set aside for a particular role:

The priests were anointed (Ex 28.41)—but they had to be descendants of Aaron, from the tribe of Levi, so Jesus, a descendant of Judah, couldn’t be one of those, or so it appears.
The prophets were sometimes anointed (1K 19.16); perhaps Jesus will be a prophet? Well, there have been lots of prophets, so while that would be interesting, it wouldn’t be astonishing.
The kings were anointed as well (1S 15.1; 16.12-13)—and Jesus is indeed from the tribe of Judah, David’s tribe (1Ch 2.3, 15), the tribe to whom Jacob had prophesied that “the scepter” belonged (Ge 49.10).

Could Jesus be the coming king? That would be a much bigger surprise. There hasn’t been a king since just before Judah’s exile to Babylon, six centuries ago. (That would be like the year 1400—well before Columbus—to those of us living in the 21^st century.) But how can there be a king, with Rome dominating the entire known world? And much more significantly, how can there be a king, if God has cursed the royal line by telling Jehoiachin, the last Davidic king, that none of his descendants would ever sit on the throne of his father David (Je 22.24-30)?

OK, maybe Jesus is just a prophet, then. That’s reasonable, and it meets the terms of the verse’s language, and it will make a good story. Elijah was interesting, wasn’t he? And Elishah? And Jonah?

But then Mark explodes all of our expectations with three little words.

Jesus, the anointed one, is the son of God.

To a first-century Jew, what does that mean?

There’s the reference to the “sons of God” in Genesis 6.2, but the rabbis were all over the place in trying to interpret that. The book of Job refers to the “sons of God” presenting themselves before the Lord, apparently in heaven (Jb 1.6; 2.1)—is Jesus some kind of angel? And again in Job, God himself refers to the “sons of God” in parallel with the “morning stars” (Jb 38.7), which seems to imply some sort of heavenly body or being.

But this is all pretty confusing. What does it mean that Jesus is “the son of God”?

I’d suggest that the mind of the first-century Jew would go immediately (!) to a far more significant passage.

In the second Psalm, Yahweh / Adonai laughs (Ps 2.4) at the assembled rebellious kings of the earth (Ps 2.2) and tells them, “I’m going to set my own king on the hill of Zion” (Ps 2.6). And who is that king, the one preferred over all the kings of the earth? He himself speaks in verses 7-9:

⁷I will declare the decree: the LORD hath said unto me, Thou art my Son; this day have I begotten thee. ⁸Ask of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession. ⁹Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron; thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter’s vessel (Ps 2.7-9).

Yahweh has told the speaker, “You are my Son!”

This is a king, all right. But he’s not like any other king. He’s going to rule over the entire earth (Ps 2.8), and he’s going to be unopposed and unopposable (Ps 2.9).

And the Psalm continues,

Kiss the Son, lest he be angry, and ye perish from the way, when his wrath is kindled but a little. Blessed are all they that put their trust in him (Ps 2.12).

This absolute sovereign is one in whom all humans are urged to put their trust.

This is no mere human king, or even an angel.

This is no ordinary servant.

There’s more. Next time.

Photo by Praveen Thirumurugan on Unsplash

No Ordinary Servant, Part 1: The Surprise

July 18, 2022 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.

Everybody knows about the four Gospels.

And many commentators have, well, commentated on the fact that there are four of them.

Why four biographies of Jesus—especially when there’s so much overlap? Why the inefficiency? Why not just one Life of Christ, effectively a harmony of the Gospels?

You’ve probably heard at least one answer to that question.

Why would you read more than one biography of George Washington, or Steve Jobs, or Michael Jordan?

Because you get different perspectives from the various biographers.

Well, how many legitimate perspectives do you suppose there could be on the only person who has been—and is—both God and man?

I suppose we could ask, why only four Gospels?

Perhaps you’ve seen the Gospels distinguished by their perspective on Jesus:

Matthew presents him as Messiah, King of the Jews.
Mark presents him as the servant of God, diligently fulfilling his divine mission.
Luke presents him as the Son of Man.
John presents him as the Son of God.

While such classifications aren’t perfect—each of the Gospels is more complex than this—they do give us some help in noticing themes of the books; for example, Matthew is filled with citations of Messianic prophecy that is fulfilled in Christ.

One feature of Mark that speaks to Jesus’ role as servant is the frequent use of a little Greek word usually translated “immediately”; it occurs

19 times in Matthew;
11 times in Luke;
7 times in John;
and a whopping 43 times in Mark, which is by far the shortest of the Gospels.

In fact, it occurs more times in Mark’s first chapter than in all of Luke or in all of John.

Jesus comes immediately out of the water after his baptism (Mk 1.10);
then the Spirit immediately drives him into the wilderness (Mk 1.12);
then he immediately calls his disciples (Mk 1.20),
and immediately they follow him (Mk 1.18);
then he immediately begins teaching in the synagogue (Mk 1.21);
and immediately his fame begins to spread (Mk 1.28);
and he immediately goes to Simon’s house (Mk 1.29);
and they immediately tell him that Simon’s mother-in-law is sick (Mk 1.30);
and when he takes her hand, immediately the fever leaves (Mk 1.31);
and when he speaks to a leper, immediately the leprosy goes away (Mk 1.42),
and Jesus immediately sends him away (Mk 1.43).

And that’s just chapter 1. Whew.

Jesus is busy.

Later in the Gospel Jesus tells a story of a landowner who sends a series of servants to the tenant farmers to collect his rent. The tenant farmers kill each servant he sends. So he sends his son—and they kill him too (Mk 12.1-8).

This biographer of Jesus presents him as God’s Servant-Son, sent to accomplish a critical mission under the direction of his Master-Father. He hastens to do his Father’s will.

But in carrying out his Father’s mission, this servant surprises us.

He doesn’t really act like a servant. He acts like someone who’s not only in charge, but very comfortable with being in charge.

You would expect this perspective from John, who begins his Gospel by saying, “And the Word was God” (Jn 1.1). You would expect it from Matthew, who begins by quoting Isaiah, “They shall call his name Emmanuel” (Mt 1.23)—and then immediately and helpfully informs us, “which being interpreted is, God with us.” You would expect it from Luke, who begins by reporting Gabriel’s words to Mary—”He shall be great, and shall be called the Son of the Highest: and the Lord God shall give unto him the throne of his father David: And he shall reign over the house of Jacob for ever; and of his kingdom there shall be no end” (Lk 1.32-33).

But Mark? Mark, who’s telling us about Jesus the servant, constantly hurrying to his Master’s next assignment?

Mark?

Yes, Mark.

You see, this is no ordinary servant.

We’ll look into the details in the next post.

Photo by Praveen Thirumurugan on Unsplash

Outside the Camp, Part 3: What It Means

July 14, 2022 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

Part 1: The Background | Part 2: What It Meant

If the burning of the sin offering “outside the camp” meant that

Israel’s sin is so vile, so revolting, so contagious, so polluting, that its very offering cannot be burned where the other offerings—the peace offering, the thanksgiving offering—are. It’s as though the very smoke of the offering is contaminating;
Israel is called to reject its sin as it would reject its own sewage or its own murderers. Get rid of it. Get as far from it as you can;

then what does it mean that Jesus was executed similarly “outside the camp”?

We’ve noted that the author of Hebrews specifically ties the death of Christ outside the city of Jerusalem to the significance of the burning of the sin offering “outside the camp” (He 13.11-12). This is not a coincidental parallel; God wants us to regard the Crucifixion as a sin offering, with all the significance that an immolation outside the camp would bear in the Jewish mind.

So what can we conclude?

First, at Calvary Christ became unclean for us.

The Scripture directly states this truth:

The Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all (Is 53.6).
For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God (2Co 5.21).

We’ve all heard teaching about the physical suffering involved in Roman crucifixion, and I don’t want to minimize that for a moment. Crucifixion was designed to be the most painful way to die.

But I would suggest that Jesus’ physical pain throughout that experience, as extreme and agonizing as it was, was the least of his worries.

For that time, he was guilty of all the sin of all the people who had ever lived. What kind of pain did that cause to his utterly undefiled conscience?

“Every bitter thought, every evil deed,” indeed.

But there’s even more.

Second, at the cross Jesus the Eternal Son was rejected—

By his own people, for alleged uncleanness (Is 53.3-4; Lu 4.28-29; Jn 1.10-11; Mk 15.6-15)—

³He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief; and as one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not (Is 53.3).

¹⁰He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world did not know him. ¹¹He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him (Jn 1).

And by his own Father, for genuine uncleanness—as far from the Tabernacle, the visible manifestation of God’s presence with his beloved people, as he could possibly be.

Outside the camp.

Expelled. Rejected.

There could have been no greater pain, real or imagined.

“My God, my God! Why hast thou forsaken me?!”

I find it interesting that when Jesus cried these words, the bystanders thought he was calling for Elijah.

They didn’t recognize a line from their own hymnbook (Ps 22.1).

They didn’t recognize the name of their own God.

Yet he died for them.

We don’t hate our sin, or love our Savior, nearly enough.

The author of Hebrews makes a further application:

Therefore let us go to him outside the camp and bear the reproach he endured (He 13.13).

We are “in Christ” (Rom 8.1):

There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

The Father no longer rejects us, but the world does.

Let’s not be surprised by rejection for his sake.

Let’s bear his reproach (cf Heb 10.32-34).

When Satan tempts us, let’s respond, “I’m with him.”

When our culture takes his name in vain, when our coworkers and neighbors raise an eyebrow, when we face a choice between listening to our conscience or listening to our civil leaders, whatever the situation, whatever the sacrifice, let’s stand up, move swiftly and resolutely to his side, and say, “I’m with him.”

Christ, our sin offering, is sacrificed for us.

Why should we want anything else?

Photo by Bakhrom Tursunov on Unsplash

Outside the Camp, Part 2: What It Meant

July 11, 2022 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

Part 1: The Background

To understand the significance of Jesus’ death “outside the camp,” I’d like to probe a couple of questions, one in each of the next two posts:

What did it mean in the Mosaic economy to be “outside the camp”?
What, then, does it mean that Jesus was executed similarly “outside the camp”?

So first, what it meant originally.

The Old Testament uses the expression “outside the camp” 26 times in 25 verses (NASB95). Many of these occurrences refer to the disposition of the burnt and sin offerings, as noted in the previous post. But there are some other references as well—references that I think shed light on the meaning of the concept and thus help illuminate the significance of disposing of those two types of sacrifices in that way.

As you might expect, latrines were placed outside the camp (Dt 23.12-14). I speculated in the previous post whether there might be latrines in more central locations, appropriately distanced from nearby tents; but if the Israelites were following the Lord’s direction explicitly, they were walking half a mile or more every time they had to go to the bathroom.

Even today, when we set up a campsite, we designate an area for excretion that is away from the sleeping and eating areas. Why is that? For hygiene. There are substances in our excrement that can make us sick—coliforms most notoriously, but lots of other nasty stuff as well. You don’t want that junk in or near your living spaces.

There are other biblical instances of placing unclean things outside the camp. People with leprosy were forced to live away from their fellow citizens, because leprosy was communicable (Le 13.46; Nu 5.1-4). We read the specific instance of Moses’ sister Miriam being struck with leprosy and thus excluded (Nu 12.10-15), and centuries later King Uzziah suffered the same fate within the land of Israel (2Ch 26.21).

And it wasn’t just physical uncleanness; ceremonial uncleanness was isolated as well. In the wilderness, a group of Midianite prisoners of war were isolated (Nu 31.1-19), as was the family of the Canaanite believer Rahab during the conquest (Jos 6.23).

Being kept outside the camp might mean that you were unclean, a source of pollution.

But uncleanness doesn’t account for all the instances. An obviously different case is that the Tabernacle itself was moved outside the camp for a period of time after the golden-calf incident (Ex 32.30; 33.7). Surely the Tabernacle was not to be seen as unclean! So why the repositioning? I’d suggest that by worshiping the calf—which Aaron had identified as “the LORD,” Yahweh (Ex 32.5)—Israel had rejected the explicit commandments of Yahweh, even though not (in their minds) going after a different “god.” Moses reminded them of this fact by moving the Tabernacle outside the camp, as though they had expelled or rejected it.

This idea of rejection is confirmed, I think, by several instances of capital punishment being executed outside the camp. By Yahweh’s direct command, a man who had blasphemed The Name was executed outside the camp (Le 24.10-14). Similarly, again by direct divine command, a man who had violated the Sabbath was executed there as well. And in a much more familiar case, the deacon Stephen, the first Christian martyr, was driven outside the city by the Sanhedrin to be executed (Ac 6.15-7.1; 7.54-58).

This was an act of utter rejection.

I think we have a good foundation, then, for understanding what it meant for the sin offering to be slaughtered, then dragged outside the camp, and then consumed by fire.

Israel’s sin is so vile, so revolting, so contagious, so polluting, that its very offering cannot be burned where the other offerings—the peace offering, the thanksgiving offering—are. It’s as though the very smoke of the offering is contaminating.
Israel is called to reject its sin as it would reject its own sewage or its own murderers. Get rid of it. Get as far from it as you can.

Next time we’ll follow the application of the author of Hebrews to where it unavoidably leads us.

Photo by Bakhrom Tursunov on Unsplash

Outside the Camp, Part 1: The Background

July 7, 2022 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

¹¹For the bodies of those animals whose blood is brought into the holy places by the high priest as a sacrifice for sin are burned outside the camp. ¹²So Jesus also suffered outside the gate in order to sanctify the people through his own blood (He 13).

There’s a book in the Christian Scriptures that is written specifically to a Jewish audience; it’s even named “Hebrews.” We don’t know who wrote it (I’m pretty sure Paul didn’t), and we don’t know exactly when it was written (though it appears to have been while the Temple was still in operation [He 10.11], and thus before AD 70) or where (though it was apparently written either from Rome or to Rome [He 13.24]). Even the name “To the Hebrews” was perhaps not original.

But it’s pretty obvious to any reader that it’s a thoroughly Jewish book. By one count there are 229 citations of or allusions to the Hebrew Scriptures in the book’s 13 chapters (that’s an average of 17 per chapter, if you’re counting), beginning in the book’s second verse, which alludes to Ps 2.8, and ending in the final paragraph (specifically He 13.20), which alludes to the eternal covenant mentioned in Ezk 37.26.

It’s a very Jewish book.

We shouldn’t be surprised, then, that if we want to understand the book, we need to understand the Hebrew Scriptures—what Christians call the Old Testament. The passage cited above is a clear example.

Jesus, the author tells us, “suffered outside the gate” in order to set us apart to God through his blood.

What does that mean?

Well, in the previous sentence the writer notes that in the Old Testament sacrificial system, the bodies of animals were “burned outside the camp”—and that Jesus’ death was a designed parallel to that practice.

There are important lessons for us in that parallel. We need to probe this passage by considering the OT practice.

The Hebrew sacrificial system is laid out for us in the book of Leviticus, the third book of the Law of Moses. We find there that the system included several types of sacrifices, which can be categorized in various ways. I like the following structure, which follows the organization of Leviticus itself:

Voluntary Sacrifices
- Burnt offerings (Le 1)
- Grain / drink offerings (Le 2)
- Peace offerings (Le 3)
Mandatory Sacrifices
- Sin offerings (Le 4-5.13)
- Trespass offerings (Le 5.14-7.38)

Each type of offering had different requirements—a different “recipe,” if you will. Two of these types are relevant to our passage in Hebrews:

The burnt offering, which the priests offered twice every day (Ex 29.38-43), was burned completely on the altar; every part of the animal was completely consumed (Le 1.9, 13, 17). Then the ashes were dumped “outside the camp” (Le 6.11).
The sin offering, which our passage specifically mentions (He 13.11), was handled differently; just the fat and the kidneys were burned on the altar (Le 4.8-10), while the rest of the carcass was burned “outside the camp” (Le 4.11-12).

Occasionally these two types of offerings were executed together; for example, at the priests’ consecration ceremony (Ex 29.10-14; Le 8-9) and on the annual Day of Atonement (Le 16).

Now, this is a lot of work. While Israel was in the wilderness, every single day for 40 years the priests had to cart the ashes of these sacrifices “outside the camp” and dump them—and, for sin offerings, burn them and ensure that they were completely consumed.

How far did they have to drag those carcasses?

Well, if there were 600,000 men in the army at both the beginning (Nu 1.46) and the end (Nu 26.51) of the 40 years in the wilderness, then it seems reasonable that the total number of people was around 2 million. How much area would tents for 2 million people cover? It’s hard to say; how far apart were the tents? Were there latrine facilities throughout the camp, and if so, how far from the tents did they need to be? Lots of variables. But it seems to me that such a group would need at least an area a mile in diameter—which means that from the center of the camp, where the Tabernacle was (Nu 2.2), it would be half a mile or more to the periphery, plus, undoubtedly, further distance to separate the “dump” from the residential tents.

Various animals could be sacrificed, including “herd” animals (Le 1.3, 4.3)—and a bull would weigh hundreds of pounds.

Half a mile. Twice a day.

This action must have considerable significance.

We’ll look at that next time.

Photo by Bakhrom Tursunov on Unsplash

On Korah … and His Sons, Part 2: Grace

July 4, 2022 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

Part 1: Judgment

Our story so far is riddled with judgment; it seems like fodder for the old allegation that the God of the Old Testament is a God of impatience, fury, judgment, and violence.

But there’s a reason that allegation has been long and thoroughly discredited.

Even in the telling of this story, there is grace.

To begin with, the fact that there can even be a rebellion is evidence of grace. God has pronounced judgment on this generation of Israelites because of their unbelief at Kadesh-barnea, but he hasn’t withdrawn from them either his presence or the promises he has made. They are still a nation, with laws and order and stable leadership. If they had gotten what they deserved, there would have been nothing to rebel against.

And that leadership, who have been directly attacked, do not lash out against the threat; they leave the decision to God (Nu 16.5)—even though they’re furious (Nu 16.15). Even the Lord, to whom belongs judgment, doesn’t lash out; his glory appears, giving all who see time to avert the judgment (Nu 16.19). And with judgment impending, Moses—of all people—intercedes for the lives of those in peril (Nu 16.22), and then tells everyone the way of escape (Nu 16.26).

After the outbreak of judgment against the rebels, God orders memorial in the altar plates, so that the people will be reminded of the danger that lurks down the road of rebellion (Nu 16.38).

And when the rebellion continues in spite of everything, Moses and Aaron intercede to stop the plague that is now raging.

Grace at every turn.

But still there’s more.

There’s a little line later in the book, one that seems like a throwaway—

“Notwithstanding the children of Korah died not” (Nu 26.11).

God allowed Korah’s line to continue.

And 500 years later, we hear from them again.

When Solomon instituted the Temple ceremonies, he retained the Levite orders; the descendants of Korah who had not died served in the temple. And what a service they had.

(I should say here that some scholars believe that these Temple workers were descended from a different Levite named Korah, based on 1Ch 9.19. I’m inclined to disagree, because 1) 1Ch 9.19 doesn’t require that this be a different Korah—in fact, “both” Korahs have a son named Ebiasaph [1Ch 6.37-38]); 2) The rebel Korah’s people were in fact Levites engaged to serve in the Tabernacle complex; and 3) There seems to be no reason for the Spirit to inspire the “throwaway line” about Korah’s children not dying if they’re just going to disappear from history at that point.)

The Korahites served as porters, bakers, and musicians—and the musicians wrote eleven of the Psalms: 42-49, 84-85, and 87-88.

And if you’ll look through these Psalms, you’ll find that they contain some of the most lyrical lines in the whole hymnbook—

Psalm 42:

1 As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God. 2 My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God? … 11 Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.

Psalm 45:

6 Thy throne, O God, is for ever and ever: the sceptre of thy kingdom is a right sceptre. 7 Thou lovest righteousness, and hatest wickedness: therefore God, thy God, hath anointed thee with the oil of gladness above thy fellows. 8 All thy garments smell of myrrh, and aloes, and cassia, out of the ivory palaces, whereby they have made thee glad.

Psalm 46:

1 God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. 2 Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; 3 Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. 4 There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God, the holy place of the tabernacles of the most High. 5 God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved: God shall help her, and that right early.

Psalm 48:

1 Great is the LORD, and greatly to be praised in the city of our God, in the mountain of his holiness. 2 Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth, is mount Zion, on the sides of the north, the city of the great King.

Psalm 84:

1 How amiable are thy tabernacles, O LORD of hosts! 2 My soul longeth, yea, even fainteth for the courts of the LORD: my heart and my flesh crieth out for the living God. 3 Yea, the sparrow hath found an house, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, even thine altars, O LORD of hosts, my King, and my God.

Psalm 85:

10 Mercy and truth are met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other.

Psalm 87:

3 Glorious things are spoken of thee, O city of God.

The rebels learned. And a gracious God restored to them a heritage.

We’re all rebels. But rebels can repent, and repentant rebels can thrive.

Photo credit: publishers of the 1890 Holman Bible, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

On Korah … and His Sons, Part 1: Judgment

June 30, 2022 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

The Old Testament book of Numbers is the story of the 40 years that the Israelites wandered in the Wilderness of Sinai. (I’ve written on the book’s larger significance here.) This whole period is of course a judgment for the nation’s unbelief at Kadesh-barnea; because Israel did not believe that God would give them the land he had promised to Abraham and his descendants, that unbelieving generation would die in the Wilderness, and their children, for whose lives they had feared, would take the land instead (Nu 13.26-14.35).

It’s no surprise, then, that we find individual acts of judgment popping up throughout the book. One of the most remarkable of those is what we call Korah’s rebellion; it’s notable for both the starkness of the judgment and the extravagance of the mercy that God extended.

We find the account in Numbers 16, a longer-than-usual chapter. We meet two relatively small groups of Israelites who believe that Moses and Aaron have taken more authority on themselves than they should have. The leader of one group is Korah, a Levite, and in fact a first cousin of Moses and Aaron (Ex 6.18, 20; Nu 16.1). The two leaders of the other group are Dathan and Abiram, members of the tribe of Reuben (Nu 16.1)—who, incidentally, was Jacob’s firstborn and rightful heir, but who lost the primogeniture for sleeping with his father’s concubine (Gn 35.22; 49.3-4). It’s easy to see how all three of those men would have been jealous of Moses’ authority— “why him and not us?”

Their charge is that Moses and Aaron haven taken this authority upon themselves illegitimately (Nu 16.3, 13). Evidently, they see as evidence of that the fact that Israel has not entered the Promised Land (Nu 16.14)—which seems weak evidence, given that the people themselves had refused to go in.

Moses’ response to the challenge is straightforward. Do Korah and his followers want to be priests alongside his cousin Aaron? Well, then, they should bring censers before the Lord alongside Aaron, and we’ll see what the Lord has to say about that (Nu 16.16-19).

And so they do. There are 250 men, each with a smoking censer, standing next to Moses and Aaron.

The glory of the Lord appears (Nu 16.19), and, remarkably, Moses begins to intercede for those facing judgment (Nu 16.22). And at the Lord’s command, Moses warns the whole congregation to get away from the rebels to avoid their fate (Nu 16.24-26).

As always, some believe the prophet, and others don’t. They act—or don’t act—in accordance with their belief, and unbelief brings consequences. In this case, the earth opens and swallows the rebels (Nu 16.31-33).

God orders the survivors to make metal plates from the rebels’ censers and to cover the altar with them (Nu 16.38). There will be a permanent reminder of the sin that brings judgment (Nu 16.40).

But this is not the end of the story.

Incredibly, rebellion continues. “All the congregation” accuses Moses of having killed good people (Nu 16.41).

Isn’t this ludicrous?! The earth opened up, for crying out loud. Shouldn’t that be an indication that Moses had supernatural backing? And “all the congregation” is unable to see what’s plainly before their eyes?!

Yikes.

And here comes the glory of the Lord, for the second time (Nu 16.42). A plague begins to spread among the people (Nu 16.46), and Moses sends Aaron out through the camp with a burning censer—a legitimate one (Nu 16.47).

“And he stood between the dead and the living, and the plague was stopped” (Nu 16.48).

This is not a pleasant episode in Israel’s history. I’m confident that none of us would want to have been there to see it.

But, as always, there is grace throughout this account, and even more grace to follow. We’ll consider that aspect of the story next time.

Photo credit: publishers of the 1890 Holman Bible, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Second King, Part 10: The Missing Piece

June 23, 2022 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

With Haman out of the picture, we all know the rest of the story. There’s still the problem of the unalterable date for the extermination of the Jews. Xerxes promotes Mordecai to Haman’s place (Es 8.2) and assigns him to solve the problem (Es 8.8). Mordecai’s solution is both simple and just: authorize the Jews to use deadly force if necessary to defend themselves (Es 8.11). With that decree, the earlier one largely loses its force, since government sanction of murder kind of loses its appeal if you’re not protected from the consequences.

There are apparently a good number who don’t use discretion on the matter, and they face the consequences of their actions. And the long-range consequence is that today the Jews have a holiday, Purim (“lots”), so-called for the casting of lots by which Haman determined on what day the genocide of the Jews would occur.

This is the story in broad strokes. But there’s something missing.

We’ve seen an awful lot of coincidences in this story.

Mordecai hears of the assassination plot.
One night the king can’t sleep.
His servant picks a random clay tablet from the archives.
Haman is standing outside as the tablet is read.
Haman assumes the king’s question is about him.
Haman doesn’t know Esther’s ethnicity.
The king completely misconstrues Haman’s actions toward Esther.

Are these all just coincidences? Are the Jews the luckiest people ever?

That’s just not reasonable.

It really seems as though someone is directing the progress of this plot. There’s intelligence behind it.

Whose intelligence? Esther’s? Mordecai’s?

That’s ridiculous. Esther couldn’t have predicted that she would be queen, and neither of them could have directed the servant to choose that particular tablet from the archives, or could have misdirected the king to interpret Haman’s motives completely inaccurately.

No, this intelligence is bigger than either of them, or both of them put together.

This is a divine providence.

But—and I don’t know if you’ve noticed this—there’s no God in this book. That is, he’s never mentioned.

Mordecai gets close when he tells Esther that she may have come to the kingdom for such a time as this (Es 4.14), but that’s an implication, not a specification.

God’s not mentioned. Anywhere.

But if you don’t see him in this story, you’re not paying attention.

And that means that this story has significance even for people who don’t celebrate Purim.

We all face difficulties of various kinds, even threats. And when we do, we want a visible—and powerful, and loud—Deliverer. We want intervention. We want action. We want a beatdown.

But God doesn’t need to do all that. He can deliver us in any way he chooses, and these days those ways don’t include voices from heaven or angelic armies. Sometimes he just keeps somebody awake. Sometimes he just lets somebody overhear something. Sometimes somebody just picks out exactly the right random thing.

Even when God is silent, he is there, and he is at work, including caring for his people.

He’s the real King.

Photo credit: Xerxes’ tomb; dynamosquito from France, CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Second King, Part 9: What Goes Around

June 20, 2022 by Dan Olinger 1 Comment

Haman’s confidence at last night’s banquet has disappeared. Now he knows that one of the Jews he has convinced the king to execute—Mordecai—is an honored court official, and that as his wife has so helpfully pointed out, at some point in the next eleven months before the determined day of genocide, he’s going to be in a very difficult situation.

But for tonight, at least, he’s a guest of the king and queen, and there will be feasting. Might as well eat, drink, and be merry, even if at some point we die. Everybody dies eventually, right?

I’m speculating here. The writer has ended chapter 6 with a sense of foreboding; in the movie version there would be ominous music over that last sentence of the chapter. Whether Haman shares that sense of foreboding isn’t stated.

At this feast, as at the previous one, the king demonstrates that he knows this whole thing isn’t about eating or social interaction. He asks his queen again, “What is it that you want? I am willing, eager to give you whatever you might ask” (Es 7.2).

When he had asked her that question the previous night, she had simply put him off for a day, most likely to build anticipation and thus to heighten the shock of what she was going to reveal.

Now it’s time.

She asks the king to deliver her and her people from extinction (Es 7.3-4).

I note that even at this point, she does not mention the word “Jews.” It’s likely that Haman still doesn’t know her ethnicity; he may still have no idea how much trouble he’s in at this moment.

Xerxes is puzzled. Who in his right mind would seek to exterminate the Queen—and all her people? What madness is this? Don’t these morons know who they’re dealing with?

So he asks (Es 7.5). Whoever the criminals are, they will be neutralized.

And now, in one brief sentence (Es 7.6) it all comes crashing down.

It’s Haman.

This has to be the fastest transition from Clueless to Uh-Oh in the history of ever.

The king, realizing that he has been betrayed by his highest-ranking official, and likely not knowing that Haman had no idea he was endangering the Queen, storms in a rage out into the garden, likely in an effort to compose himself. Haman, now able to smell the aroma of cooked goose, moves to the Queen to beg for his life.

We know that it was customary in biblical times to eat at a low table or off a mat on the floor. The diners would recline on one side, propped up on an elbow. This was the procedure at the Last Supper, for example, when John the apostle reclined on Jesus’ breast (Jn 13.23). With that in mind, I suspect that Haman jumped to his feet, walked over to where the Queen was reclining (KJV calls it a “bed”; most modern versions call it a “couch”), and then threw himself down into a position of supplication. Angry because a Jew would not bow to him, he now ironically bows willingly at the feet of another Jew.

The king, presumably having composed himself, returns to the room to find Haman and the Queen both reclined in proximity to one another, and Haman clearly highly agitated and active, and he assumes that he’s witnessing a sexual assault (Es 7.8).

Yikes.

The king is now completely wrong twice over about Haman’s intentions. Haman had no intention of endangering the Queen in his attack on Mordecai, and of course he has no intention of assaulting the Queen with anything more than appeals for his life.

But the very act of pleading for his life has now ensured that it is forfeit.

What rotten luck.

A court official helpfully informs the king that there’s an instrument of execution ready—in Haman’s back yard, in fact. Apparently Haman had colleagues at court who were not his friends.

Off—and up—he goes.

Justice.

But we recall that even with Haman dead, the genocide proclamation is still in force and unalterable. We have a loose end to tie up.

Next time.

Part 10: The Missing Piece

Photo credit: Xerxes’ tomb; dynamosquito from France, CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

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