
Since I post on Mondays and Thursdays, I’ll always be posting on Thanksgiving Day in the US.
I wrote a post about thankfulness on July 27, 2017, and last year I decided to post it every Thanksgiving.
It’s here.
Photo credit: Wikimedia
"If the Bible is true, then none of our fears are legitimate, none of our frustrations are permanent, and none of our opposition is significant."
We’ve all heard people say that God “told them” something.
Most of the time, they’re wrong.
I’m not saying that God can’t interact with our thought processes or, as some folks say, “lay [something] on my heart.” The Spirit who indwells us interacts with us all the time, convicting, teaching, directing, influencing our thinking and our actions.
But that’s very different from saying that God speaks to you, in your head.
I’d like to spend a post or two examining why I hit the off switch when someone tells me that God spoke to him.
As always, to evaluate this claim we have to go to the Scripture—which is replete with cases of God speaking to people.
God speaks all the time—
So why am I suspicious of people who claim that he has spoken to them today?
Because the same Bible that tells us of all these past revelatory acts of God has also told us that things have changed:
Long ago, at many times and in many ways, God spoke to our fathers by the prophets, 2 but in these last days he has spoken to us by his Son (Heb 1.1-2).
The writer of Hebrews, whoever she was ( :-) ), first notes what I’ve delineated extensively above: that God has spoken in many times, in many ways, through many different people.
But, the author says, things are different now.
Now God has spoken through his Son.
This passage is structured as a contrast: God’s revelation used to happen a certain way, but it doesn’t happen that way anymore. Today, God has spoken in Christ.
In Part 2, we’ll talk about how we’re supposed to hear today what he has spoken, and I’m going to try to convince you that the new way is better than the old way—by a lot.
See you then.
Last time we began our consideration of whether the Jonah story is fiction or non-fiction. We noted that the inspiration of Scripture doesn’t necessarily rule out the possibility that it’s fiction. And then we concluded, tentatively, that the evidence we’ve considered so far leans us toward non-fiction, but we have yet to consider a category of evidence that the story might be historical fiction, a fictional story made up about an actual historical character.
How do we know that historical fiction is, after, all, fiction?
Two possible ways: because the author tells us he’s fictionalized it, or because it contains things that we know didn’t happen.
The author of the book of Jonah gives us no hint that he’s fictionalizing.
Critics, then, note the unbelievable things in the story—as I listed them last time—as evidence that it’s fictionalized.
There’s no reliable record of anyone ever being swallowed by a whale, let alone surviving. (That James Bartley story is pretty suspect.)
How about the repentance of Nineveh? Well, in fact, that’s not much of a stretch. The passage doesn’t say that they became monotheistic, only that they were afraid of a foreigner’s tribal god and tried to appease him. That sort of thing happened all the time in the ancient world, where syncretistic religion was common. Douglas Stuart notes, “From Assyrian omen texts, we know of four circumstances that could move a people, and its king, to fasting and mourning: invasion by an enemy; a total solar eclipse; famine and a major outbreak of disease; and a major flood. We know that enemy nations, such as Urartu, had beaten the Assyrians in a number of military encounters in the time of Ashurdan III and that a major earthquake occurred in the reign of one of the kings with the name Ashurdan—but not for certain Ashurdan III. Moreover, on June 15, 763 bc in the tenth year of Ashurdan III, there was a total solar eclipse over Assyria” (New Bible Commentary on Jonah).
And what about the plant? Some plants do grow rapidly—we Southerners know all about kudzu—and in a very hot, dry wind (Jon 4.8), shriveling could happen in a hurry. Not outside the realm of possibility, but not common either.
But experienced Christians know what’s going on under the surface here.
The real issue isn’t the fish or the plant or the worm or the wind.
The real issue is that some people just reject the supernatural out of hand. Ax heads don’t float. You can’t feed 5000 people with 5 buns and 2 small fish. And people don’t rise from the dead.
And, in their mind, that’s that.
So Jonah never happened.
Well, I’ll grant you that I’ve never seen a miracle and that I’m pretty suspicious when other people claim that they have. It’s safe to say that they’re exceedingly rare.
In fact, even in biblical times, and even if you take the miracle claims at face value, they’re still pretty rare. With just 2 or 3 exceptions, all the recorded biblical miracles occurred in just 3 relatively brief periods of time:
That’s maybe 200 or 250 years out of 6000 years of earth’s history—assuming you’re a young-earth creationist, and a fan of Ussher’s dating at that. Right at 4.2% of history at the most, and if you hold to billions of years (I don’t), that 4.2% shrinks to practically zero.
But how “scientific” is it to say that they don’t happen at all? How “scientific” is a universal negative? How often have universal negatives been debunked?
I long ago decided that rationalism simply didn’t have a strong enough record to merit my faith. I see strong evidence that the Bible is not of ordinary human origin, and I’ve seen it vindicated any number of times, and so I freely confess that I’m inclined to believe it. So the events in Jonah aren’t an obstacle to me.
I think it happened.
Note: For a clear and concise discussion of the alleged fictional nature of Jonah, see Billy K. Smith and Frank S. Page, Amos, Obadiah, Jonah, New American Commentary Series (Nashville: Broadman & Holman, 1995), pp. 209-19, “Genre and Purpose.”
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The question that’s been asked about Jonah more than any other is a simple and straightforward one—
Did any of this ever happen, or not?
Is it fiction, or is it non-fiction?
Critics point out all kinds of allegedly laughable events in the story—
What nonsense, they say.
Well.
Let’s back waaaaay up and consider the question as carefully as we can in a blog post or two.
For starters, we should consider whether or not the question is important. Does it matter whether the story ever actually happened?
We know that the Bible contains fiction, from a fable recounted by an Israelite king (2K 14.9) to a story about a prodigal son told by Jesus himself (Lk 15.11-32). Supporters of historicity note that Jesus referred to the “fish story” (Mt 12.39-41), but we also know that literary allusion is a perfectly legitimate rhetorical device—so in theory Jesus could refer to the story of Jonah as a metaphor for his own death and resurrection without necessarily viewing it as a historical event. But I note that Jesus spoke of the men of Nineveh, who repented, condemning Jesus’ hearers because they (the men of Nineveh) had repented at the preaching of Jonah (Mt 12.41)—and that really wouldn’t make any sense if the Jonah event wasn’t actually historical.
We also know that there’s a genre we call “historical fiction,” in which stories are made up about real historical characters (e.g. Barabbas or Daniel) that are fictionalized. So the fact that Jonah is described elsewhere in the Bible as a historical figure (2K 14.25) doesn’t render it impossible in theory that the book of Jonah is a fictionalized account. As I’ve noted in my thoughts on the story of Job, sometimes you can’t answer this kind of question with absolute confidence.
But.
Having said that, I note that Jonah is independently verified in the biblical text as a historical character, and Jesus does use his experience with the fish as a figure of his own death and resurrection, and (for what it’s worth) the rabbinical traditions never seem to have entertained the idea that the story was fiction, so barring substantive evidence that it’s fiction, we ought to assume that it really happened.
What kind of evidence would that be? I think there are two kinds that we could consider.
The first is evidence that it conforms to some common fictional genre that was used at the time it might have been written—sometime between, say, around 789 BC, when Jereboam II began to reign (2K 14.25), and around 200 BC, when we know the book of Jonah was in the Septuagint. (That’s being very generous.)
Critics have suggested that it might be an allegory—but this document doesn’t seem to have the characteristics of an allegory. Whom do the various characters represent? Where are the multiple levels of meaning? Where is the object personification?
Another possibility is that it’s fable. But again, it doesn’t read like fable. For starters, it’s too long and complex. And the whale doesn’t talk, nor does the gourd or the worm.
Well, then, maybe it’s a parable. The moral lesson is there, all right. But it’s still too complicated, and the levels of meaning don’t seem to be there.
You know what it sounds like? It sounds like a narrative about an actual historical character. Our inclination to this point is to consider it non-fiction.
But I noted above that there are two kinds of evidence that a historical narrative is fictionalized. We need to consider the other type. We’ll get into that next time.
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Last time we looked at the recurring theme of “greatness” in this brief biblical book. This time I’d like to notice a couple more literary features.
Have you noticed the parallel structure?
Two episodes, in exact parallel.
And here’s the odd thing—while the unbelieving Gentiles are moving in the right direction, the allegedly believing prophet is moving in the opposite direction—against what he already clearly knows.
In chapter 1, Jonah seeks to “flee from the presence of the Lord” (Jon 1.3, 10) despite the fact that he knows that the Lord “made the sea and the dry land” (Jon 1.9), and despite the fact that he knows God can and will send a great storm in response to his disobedience.
In chapter 4, Jonah knows that the Lord’s nature is to show mercy to those who repent (Jon 4.2), yet he hardens his heart against the Lord’s will.
The irony is strong in this one.
Something else to notice—in the previous post I referred to Jonah as “the character for whom the book is named.” That may have struck you as awkward. Why not call him “the hero,” or “the main character,” or, to use the more academic term, “the protagonist”?
Simple. Because he is none of those things. He not the main character; as I noted last time, he’s a foil. There I said that he’s a foil for the other prophets; in many ways the book of Jonah is a study in contrasts with all the other prophetic writings. But here I’ll note that within the book itself, he’s a foil as well—a foil for the true main character.
And who is that?
It’s not the fish.
And, perhaps contrary to our expectations, it’s not the king of Nineveh, as positive a character as he is. (And if you know anything about the Assyrians, you’re as surprised as I am that I just called an Assyrian king a “positive character.”)
Who’s the main character? Who’s the protagonist?
It’s God.
He the one doing all the things—
The book itself doesn’t note this, but we know from later history that this repentance was short-lived. It wasn’t long before the Assyrians were at it again, perpetrating cruelty and violence all across the region, crushing any who opposed them, extorting the wealth of their neighbors, being in general just the big bully of the known world.
And a bit more than a century later, God sent another prophet—Nahum—with a similar message of doom for Nineveh, and this threat would certainly be carried out; by the end of the century—605 BC, to be precise—near a town called Carchemish on what is now the Turkish-Syrian border, the Babylonian armies crushed the Assyrians, who in their desperation had even sought help from the Egyptians. And just like that, Assyria was history.
As I say, God knew all that, from the beginning of time.
But when Nineveh repented, ever so briefly and ever so imperfectly, God forgave them. And spared them.
That’s the kind of person he is.
You know, you are of much more worth than an Assyrian cow. Even though you can’t repent worth a nickel, God will forgive you, too.
That’s the kind of person he is.
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Every so often I’ve been posting my thoughts on reading various biblical books. There’s no formal plan; I just comment when I have something to say about a particular document. Along the way I’ve posted on Leviticus, Numbers, and Job—sometimes taking just one post, sometimes two. In this post and the next one, I’d like to notice some things about Jonah. (I note that so far these have all been Old Testament books. There’s no particular reason for that.)
Everybody knows the story of Jonah and the whale; we all learned about it in Sunday school. A lot of people note that the Bible doesn’t actually call it a whale—it calls it a “great fish” (“huge fish” NIV), and as we all know, whales aren’t fish.
Well, wait a minute. Of course it’s true that whales bear live young and breathe through a blowhole, while fish have scales (um, not instead of live young, but you know what I mean) and use gills to extract oxygen dissolved in water. Fair enough.
But the zoological taxonomic system, including its definitions of words like fish, was developed long after the Bible was written. (And accusing the Bible of “scientific error” for this is to apply an ex post facto law, which is specifically forbidden in the US Constitution, Article I, Section 9, Paragraph 3. So there.)
The Old Testament cultures called marine creatures “fish,” just as they called flying creatures “birds,” even if a specific flying creature (e.g. the bat [Lev 11.19]) was later to be classified with mammals, for very mammalian reasons.
So maybe it was a whale. Or maybe it was a really big fish of some kind—maybe even a special fish created just for the occasion. The point is that it was there at that moment, and that God had directed it to be. A “great fish.”
Speaking of which, have you ever noticed how often the word great is used in this short book?
This is a book of extremes. God does extreme things to see that his will is accomplished, and the characters respond extremely to what they see going on around them. God’s actions greatly humble a great city and its great people.
But the character for whom the book is named is the most extreme of all—oddly extreme. He goes to great lengths to disobey the great One whose message he is appointed to deliver. He delivers it with no compassion for his hearers—compassion that is clearly the motive of the One who sent him (Jon 4.11). Jonah’s actions and reactions are extreme, like those of the other characters, but they are ironically extreme—the opposite of what we expect.
Other prophets take on difficult assignments and deliver their messages in the spirit in which God sent them—and often no one listens to them (Isa 6.8-13; Jer 13.10-11; Ezk 2.3-7). Jonah delivers the message only when he is forced to—and the people repent en masse. And then, to our astonishment, Jonah is angry at their repentance, revealing himself to be an unreconstructed bigot.
Jonah is a foil for all the rest of the prophetic writings. He is the unprophet.
Have you ever heard it said that God can’t use a dirty vessel? Oh, yes he can. And with such a small and weak messenger, he can bring a great city, filled with great men, to great repentance, and he can show them great mercy.
He’s that great.
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In my work as a college professor I’ve taught a number of courses online, and I’ve designed a few online courses as well. I like the experience.
Because my university has encouraged my professional development in the field, I recently joined several colleagues at a conference addressing online coursework. Just the other day I received a newsletter from the sponsoring organization, and the lead article caught my attention. It’s about characteristics of leaders in rapidly changing fields, of which online education is certainly one.
I was struck by the fact that these characteristics are solidly grounded in biblical principles, even though a great many researchers in the field—most likely a great majority of them—have no commitment whatsoever to the Bible as authoritative.
Here’s the list, with my comments embedded in italics:
This concept is a direct consequence of the image of God in man, which includes dominion. The Bible reminds us that we will be held personally accountable for our exercise of that dominion. Jesus identifies the second great commandment as loving our neighbor as ourselves.
Through general revelation we learn about God by observing the entire cosmos and all that it contains, as well as current and past events and developments, or providence.
Our personhood in the image of God includes our emotional makeup. Although our emotions are tainted by sin and thus are not authoritative or reliable, they still reflect God’s image in a limited way and thus are worthy objects of study.
As God is truth, we are to speak and hear the truth.
We just talked about that, didn’t we?
Of course. Living a lie, or hypocrisy, the Scripture roundly condemns, as it violates the character of God.
Thankfulness is a key element of proper worship, as demonstrated in the Psalms and often elsewhere. As God receives our thanks, so we should imitate him by receiving the thanks of others.
We are fearfully and wonderfully made, and believers are gifted and empowered for service. God has providentially placed us where we can glorify him by accomplishing his will. Despite the fact that this point likely springs from a humanistic mindset, it is still grounded on biblical truth.
As Ecclesiastes notes.
Nope. Not this one. Truth is not relative, and our perceptions are not in fact reality in all cases. There is absolute truth, which springs from outside of us, and we are successful only as we recognize and orient ourselves toward it.
Not the primary source, of course. But humans are designed to help and provide for one another, under the guiding hand of their Creator.
That’s pretty much a direct quotation of Heb 13.5.
Within the church that is certainly true.
In the providence of God for his people, that is exactly the outcome (Gen 50.20).
Again, in the providence of God, certainly.
The Scripture is clear that all humans are in the image of God (Gen 1.26-27) and that the image persists even in fallen humans (Gen 9.6; Jam 3.9). Everyone has God’s Word written on his heart (Rom 2.15). I think this has at least 2 consequences:
The opportunities are endless.
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Gossip runs deep in our culture. There are TV shows and magazines and websites completely dedicated to talk about what famous person is doing this or that, and we all know the story gets more reads if the news is bad. Nothing gets clicks like a nice juicy scandal. And it doesn’t stop with famous people; if a scandal strikes the ordinary joe, it likely won’t be long until he’s famous too.
This isn’t new; even in the Victorian era there were society columns in the newspaper, and long before that there was a graffito in Rome depicting a crucified man with a donkey’s head and proclaiming that “Alexamenos worships his god.”
Gossip is deeply rooted in our natures. We like to tell stories, and we like to be the one with the latest Information, so everyone will look up to us. My story’s better than yours, you see. I win.
No, actually, you don’t. Nobody does. And here’s why.
All of us who believe are members of a body, the church (1Co 12.13). Just as your finger wants to help your eye when there’s a foreign body in there irritating it—and the finger’s not irritated at all—just so, when one member of the body suffers, the whole body suffers (1Co 12.26).
That’s true in the universal body of Christ; if some Christian does something outstandingly stupid, then the social value of my standing as a believer is going to be reduced, even if I had nothing to do with it. But it’s especially so in the local assembly; if a member of your church goes to prison, his church membership may well be published on the local news, and the reputation of every member of that church is damaged, whether rightfully or not. Perhaps you’ve seen that happen; I have.
So far, I haven’t really been talking about gossip; news reports of a local crime are in the public interest. I’m simply making the point that believers are all connected and interdependent.
So now let’s bring gossip into the picture.
A key purpose of the assembly, the local body, is for believers to gather, look one another in the face, and exercise their gifts on behalf of the others in the assembly. In a healthy church, you’ll have the kind of relationship with a few other members that allows you to share your struggles, to hear of the struggles of others, and to be of help as you are gifted to do so. When a church member is struggling with a particular sin, he’s not designed to struggle alone; he needs brethren to come alongside to pray for and encourage him (Ga 6.1-2)—and perhaps to rebuke and exhort him as well (2Ti 4.2).
Now, suppose you’re struggling with pornography, and you need help, badly. What kind of person are you going to seek help from? Well, obviously, somebody who’s going to keep your confidence.
Somebody who’s not a gossip.
Now, suppose your church is a hotbed of gossip. Every juicy little bit of news spreads like wildfire; everybody knows, but nobody’s going to tell anybody else, except “just this once.”
Who’s going to seek help in an environment like that?
Not me. And not you, either. We’re going to struggle on in silence and desperation, and we’re never going to get the help we need. And consequently, victory will never come, and the whole body spirals downward to defeat, frustration, and collapse.
Gossip kills ministry. It kills the church. It makes a mockery of Christianity.
I came to realize this many years ago when as a young and foolish man I made a disparaging comment to a friend about a mutual acquaintance. He replied that I was destroying opportunities for ministry—because now he knew that I talked out of school, and as a result he would never come to me for help with anything he was struggling with.
He hit me with both barrels, and I will always be grateful to him for it. He changed my way of thinking and consequently, I’m confident, he changed the course of my life and ministry.
You’re not here to promote yourself; you’re here to serve God’s people.
So shut up and serve.
It’s October 31—the day my Presbyterian friends call Reformation Day, but pretty much everybody else calls Halloween. Some
Christians think it’s OK to celebrate Halloween, and others don’t. I’m not going to enter that discussion in this post, but I do want to use the occasion to do a little biblical investigation.
In our culture Halloween is typically associated with fear—haunted houses, goblins, and so on. I suppose an outside observer would find it odd that we humans like to be scared, as long as we know it’s safe—and for some, even because we know it’s not safe.
More seriously, I see a lot of fear in the world around me, fear that seems to come from every direction. In politics, fear of the other guy winning. In health, fear of this or that environmental concern. In parenting, fear of this or that factor hurting my child. Any number of my newsfeed friends comment on a post with a single word: “Scary!”
I’d like to lay out a theology of fear from a single biblical book.
Deuteronomy is at the heart of Scripture. It’s the climax of the Constitution that God himself drew up for his chosen nation. Scholars have noticed that it’s in a specific legal form common in its day, called a “suzerainty covenant.” It establishes a relationship between an emperor and his people, laying out the terms of the relationship—and this covenant is unusually gracious to the conquered people. It puts the lie to the nonsense about the “angry God of the Old Testament.”
And it talks a lot about fear. This very common Hebrew word appears 39 times in 32 chapters in the book—31 times as a verb, 6 times as an adjective, and twice as a noun. And its usage pattern is very interesting.
Did you know that the book says both that we should fear, and that we shouldn’t?
The difference is in the objects.
Here’s what God’s people shouldn’t fear—
So there’s no need for us to be afraid of our circumstances, or the people who stand in opposition to us.
Hmm. That’s pretty much everything that we fear, isn’t it?
Don’t be afraid.
Not about politics, not about health, not about the environment, not about people.
Let me anticipate an objection. I’m not suggesting that these things aren’t significant, or that they aren’t important. A nation’s political leadership can make life miserable (Pr 28.15), and disease is so devastating that Jesus was moved to heal it (Mk 1.41), and God has given us responsibility to care for creation (Gn 1.28), and sin causes unimaginable grief to God himself.
But we shouldn’t be afraid. We have a heavenly Father, and he is working his plan, and he cares for us (Lk 12.22-32).
God even told his people that the very people they were afraid of were going to be afraid of them (Dt 2.4, 25; 11.25; 28.10). How about that.
But perhaps surprisingly, we’re not supposed to be fearless.
Here’s what God’s people should fear—
There’s only one entry on that list. But Deuteronomy emphasizes this fact far more than the fact that we shouldn’t fear anything else. It gives us lots of information about fearing God—
How should we fear him?
Why should we fear him?
My natural tendency is to get all this just exactly backwards. I fear temporary and empty stuff, and I find my heart lacking in fear toward the only one who matters.
But here’s the thing.
Fearing God isn’t like fearing everything else. It’s liberating; it’s beneficial; it’s joyous. It’s what we were designed to do.
It fits.
Oh that they had
such a heart as this always,
to fear me and to keep all my commandments,
that it might go well with them and with their descendants forever! (Dt
5.29)
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Part 1: The Question | Part 2: Toward an Answer
If God’s omniscience and immutability rule out a change of mind, then why does the Scripture relate incidents in which he “repents”? I’ve suggested that the biblical authors are using literary devices to demonstrate important points about God—theological points. If you’ll run down the list of those incidents, you should be able to state the point that the author is making in each case—
So what do all these verses about God’s repenting teach us?
Two things.
First, he’s wise, and his plans always come to pass. He never loses. We can trust in the ultimate success of his plans. He’s great.
And second, he loves us and listens to us, and he is moved to action on our behalf. Our prayers matter; go ahead and ask. He’s good.
Great. And good.
There is none like him.
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