Isaiah 43:16-21

Thus says the Lord,

who makes a way in the sea,

a path in the mighty waters,

who brings out chariot and horse,

army and warrior;

they lie down, they cannot rise,

they are extinguished, quenched like a wick:

Do not remember the former things,

or consider the things of old.

I am about to do a new thing;

now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?

I will make a way in the wilderness

and rivers in the desert.

The wild animals will honor me,

the jackals and the ostriches;

for I give water in the wilderness,

rivers in the desert,

to give drink to my chosen people,

the people whom I formed for myself

so that they might declare my praise.

It is said the Lord does not change, that he is the same yesterday, today and forever. Certainly, there is comfort there; God is viewed as steady, unmovable, trustworthy. We can recognize his movements in the present and the future because his actions find their antecedents in the past. Thus God can guarantee to Abram the imminence of the promised child because God is the one “who brought you up out of the land of Ur of the Chaldees,” or God can promise his continued presence with Israel as they enter Canaan by reminding them of God’s role in rescuing them from Egypt and provision in the desert. Even here, in this week’s reading, there are allusions to Israel’s sojourn in the wilderness. God’s words through Isaiah challenge this notion of changelessness when God says, “Do not remember the former things, or consider things of old. I am about to do a new thing…” They are borderline heretical in that they challenge the unchanging character of God. Should we not remember the former things, should we no longer remember God’s promises, do these not matter?

But it is impossible for God to be a heretic. These words are reminders that God does not always conform to contrived categories of divinity. God does indeed change; God affords itself the ability to be different, to try something new, to be something new. There is risk in change, it implies uncertainty, mystery but also potential. The second part of the quoted text reads, “I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” I wonder if we are more prone to meet the new thing in God with fear and rejection? Perhaps we would not notice it at all; it looks nothing like God, fulfills none of our expectations of divinity. Both were present at Jesus’ trial - the religious condemned Jesus because they feared this new thing of God; Pilot and the Romans mocked Jesus, they did not recognize God, he was just a man to them. I wonder if, when God made his intentions known to Isaiah, God knew what change would require of him? Did he know he would be a man, did he know man well enough to expect their fear and rejection? Was it surprising to God that his willingness to change would lead to his own death by the ones he changed for? Maybe the new thing is not fear, rejection and death - they are former things, things of old. Maybe the new thing is life after death, do we not perceive it?

Joshua 5:9-12

The Lord said to Joshua, "Today I have rolled away from you the disgrace of Egypt." And so that place is called Gilgal to this day.

While the Israelites were camped in Gilgal they kept the passover in the evening on the fourteenth day of the month in the plains of Jericho. On the day after the passover, on that very day, they ate the produce of the land, unleavened cakes and parched grain. The manna ceased on the day they ate the produce of the land, and the Israelites no longer had manna; they ate the crops of the land of Canaan that year.

The “disgrace” mentioned by God in Hebrew is “galoti,” an etymological pun on the place name “Gilgal.” It can be translated literally, “circle,” and in this context may provide a double meaning. First is the shame of slavery Israel endured at the hands of the Egyptians. The all encompassing disgrace and elision of identity that comes with slavery will now be replaced with a decisive action of self-discovery and communal purpose - invading a land and establishing their national identity within it. Second, the “circle of shame” refers to the flesh cut away through circumcision, a ritualistic precondition for maintaining a relationship with God. This is the event that immediately precedes this week’s reading. Israel, while in the desert, had not circumcised a generation. Now that they are at the edge of their wilderness, both literally and metaphorically, they cut away superfluidity and step into their new selves, ready for the challenge.

In their final act as new people, Israel participates in the Passover ritual. The Passover can only be taken by the circumcised, those marked for God; it is both an acknowledgement of their past and an act of hope for the future. The slaughter of the lamb a reminder of their own slaughter and subjugation and their salvation from it; the meager meal with unleavened bread a reminder of their sojourn in the desert, where they learned dependence on each other, Moses and God. The pairings of these two rituals, circumcision and Passover, serve as moments of Israel’s observance of Lent. This is their evaluation of themselves, their purification, so they can step out of their wilderness and into a new identity.

Genesis 15:1-12,17-18

The word of the Lord came to Abram in a vision, “Do not be afraid, Abram, I am your shield; your reward shall be very great.” But Abram said, “O Lord God, what will you give me, for I continue childless, and the heir of my house is Eliezer of Damascus?” And Abram said, “You have given me no offspring, and so a slave born in my house is to be my heir.” But the word of the Lord came to him, “This man shall not be your heir; no one but your very own issue shall be your heir.” He brought him outside and said, “Look toward heaven and count the stars, if you are able to count them.” Then he said to him, “So shall your descendants be.” And he believed the Lord; and the Lord reckoned it to him as righteousness.

Then he said to him, “I am the Lord who brought you from Ur of the Chaldeans, to give you this land to possess.” But he said, “O Lord God, how am I to know that I shall possess it?” He said to him, “Bring me a heifer three years old, a female goat three years old, a ram three years old, a turtledove, and a young pigeon.” He brought him all these and cut them in two, laying each half over against the other; but he did not cut the birds in two. And when birds of prey came down on the carcasses, Abram drove them away.

As the sun was going down, a deep sleep fell upon Abram, and a deep and terrifying darkness descended upon him.

When the sun had gone down and it was dark, a smoking fire pot and a flaming torch passed between these pieces. On that day the Lord made a covenant with Abram, saying, “To your descendants I give this land, from the river of Egypt to the great river, the river Euphrates.”

In Old Testament narrative, the first words of major characters are significant. Their utterances can offer insight to their function in the story - character, motives, emotions. Abram’s response to God in this week’s reading is not his first words, but it is his first words directed at God. They are skeptical, and this is understandable. Twice already God has promised Abram that his descendants would become a great nation and that Abram would possess fertile land. The first promise required Abram to listen and obey a God he did not know and move his family to an unspecified land. Abram obeyed, silently, yet no heir appeared. Abram eventually settles a land, giving the best to his nephew, Lot. God appears and offers his second promise: land to settle and descendents that number the dust of the earth. But Abram did not wait for God to tell him to settle a land; Abram simply stopped moving. God retroactively confirmed Abram’s choice of land as the land of promise. Now with the land settled, Abram goes to war to rescue his nephew Lot and saves the king of Sodom and the king of Salem in the process. For this fight, Abram never consults God, nor does Abram seek God’s blessing, or even ask for strength. Abram fights and saves his nephew and his land through his own volition.

This context is necessary in understanding this week’s reading. The word of the Lord claims to be a shield to Abram, but from what enemy? Abram has shown himself perfectly capable in defending himself, his family and his land. Abram calls out the vacancy of God’s bombast; what, indeed, can God give to Abram that Abram does not already have? Abram does not need protection, or land. One thing he lacks, a promised child. Abram is accusatory - the reason a slave is to be Abram’s heir is because of the inaction of God. God’s response is similar to a promise already given, “Now lift up your eyes…I will make your descendants as the dust of the earth, so that if anyone can number the dust of the earth, then your descendents can also be numbered” (Gen. 13:14-16). I don’t know why this new assurance is more convincing than the first one, but Abram finds it convincing and so believes God, offering God another chance to make good on his promises.

God’s second assurance, “I am the Lord who brought you out of Ur of the Chaldees to possess this land,” is as dubious as the first. First, Abram was not brought out, as if he needed rescue - he was told to move. Second, the land Abram possessed, he possessed without counsel from God. Further, Abram is solely responsible for the maintenance of this land as shown in his ability to protect it, without the intervention of the Almighty. The scene that unfolds - the splitting of the animals - is known to be a ritual representation of what would happen should one break a covenant. God clearly wants to be responsible for Abram’s success and progeny. Perhaps he is annoyed that a man can so easily accomplish for himself what has been promised through divine intervention. There is ironic humor that in trying to prove a point, Abram must be the one to split the carcasses and he is the one who fights off the carion to protect their orientation. Is this theater so feeble, that it is threatened by birds of the heavens and requires the constant vigilance of the human to engage the magic? Perhaps Abram simply humors this God of promises. Three times he has been promised children yet none have been given him. No amount of theater will satisfy a promise left unfulfilled. There is a further irony that comes later in Abram’s story - though God is the only one to walk among the carcasses, implying that God solely bears responsibility for a promise broken, Abram and all the men associated with him bear the mutilations of the blade. Circumcision is another requirement of God, though he consistently refuses to fulfill his promises. Beware the promises of God, they will require everything.

Exodus 3:1-15

Moses was keeping the flock of his father-in-law Jethro, the priest of Midian; he led his flock beyond the wilderness, and came to Horeb, the mountain of God. There the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire out of a bush; he looked, and the bush was blazing, yet it was not consumed. Then Moses said, “I must turn aside and look at this great sight, and see why the bush is not burned up.” When the Lord saw that he had turned aside to see, God called to him out of the bush, “Moses, Moses!” And he said, “Here I am.” Then he said, “Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.” He said further, “I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.” And Moses hid his face, for he was afraid to look at God.

Then the Lord said, “I have observed the misery of my people who are in Egypt; I have heard their cry on account of their taskmasters. Indeed, I know their sufferings, and I have come down to deliver them from the Egyptians, and to bring them up out of that land to a good and broad land, a land flowing with milk and honey, to the country of the Canaanites, the Hittites, the Amorites, the Perizzites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites. The cry of the Israelites has now come to me; I have also seen how the Egyptians oppress them. So come, I will send you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt.” But Moses said to God, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” He said, “I will be with you; and this shall be the sign for you that it is I who sent you: when you have brought the people out of Egypt, you shall worship God on this mountain.”

But Moses said to God, “If I come to the Israelites and say to them, 'The God of your ancestors has sent me to you,' and they ask me, 'What is his name?' what shall I say to them?” God said to Moses, “I am who I am.” He said further, “Thus you shall say to the Israelites, 'I am has sent me to you.'” God also said to Moses, “Thus you shall say to the Israelites, 'The Lord, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, has sent me to you':

This is my name forever,

and this my title for all generations.”

The sight of a burning bush not being consumed would indeed be a curious sight, enough to turn aside and investigate. Even more strange would be a voice emanating from it, and stranger still would be the voice declaring itself to be the God of my ancestors. I don’t know how familiar Moses is with his family’s religious history, but this is a new mode of appearance by God. Historically, God has had no problem appearing in a man-like form - like with Abraham before the destruction of Sodom, or Jacob who wrestled God in the night - or as a disembodied voice that compels people to action. Here, God appears in a new way, elemental, the complement of Moses. His name, Moses, means drawn from the water and water follows him everywhere. Here he meets God as his opposite, the fire and he is terrified.

I wonder if Moses remembers the stories told about his ancestors, especially that first man, Adam, as he approaches this eerie tree. That first Garden was a holy place, inhabited by both God and man. There too a tree played a significant role in man’s fate; there too a presence within its branches lured them to partake. In the first case, man was invited to taste the forbidden and in so doing, they were turned out into the wilderness, a flame guarding another tree that promised life. Does Moses realize that perhaps he has stumbled upon that ancient tree and flame, that now, after millenia of wandering in the wilderness, he has found the source of life; that now man is being invited again into relationship with God? As with Adam, so with Moses: a test. Moses must go and bring the people, the exiled, back to the center of the garden. As the story unfolds, the people show themselves skeptical of the tree and the presence that inhabits it and are unwilling to re-enter the garden. Perhaps after so much time exiled, they no longer recognize this place of communion and so are unwilling to fully commit to residing there.

The vegetation is not the only significant part of the garden. It is there that the first man received his name and also gave names to all living things. Knowing the name of a thing implies that the thing is known wholly, completely. To know a thing intimately, to understand and see its soul is to know its name. This is why God let Adam name the animals, to see if they would respond to his utterances and prove to be like souls. But only Eve, made from Adam, could prove to be a good partner. Adam called her name and she responded. When man is exiled from the Garden, Adam and Eve leave together, a testament to the intimacy that characterizes man’s relationship with man; this intimacy, not even God can fully understand. In this second garden communion, God offers what has been so far refused: his own name. The significance of this vulnerability cannot be diminished. By giving his name, God is allowing people direct access to his soul. But this is required if God wants a relationship with man as man has with man. Forever, now, God’s fate is linked with Israel. Their success will be his success, their failures, his failures, their life, his life, their death, his death. I wonder if God realized that this first step of self-giving, this desire for intimacy, will not be the last required of him. When man desired knowledge, God told him it would require death. I wonder if God realized that the desire for a relationship with man is its own kind of forbidden fruit? Man is a selfish partner and will accept nothing short of God’s life. Does God realize that when he gives Moses his name that he would be willing to die for the love of man?

March 9, 2022

"I had hoped to have something for this week's Musings. At this time, however, what I had hoped to post is incomplete. I intend to finish and plan on posting this week's reading with next week's reading together if possible. My apologies, I hope everyone has a good week."

Deuteronomy 26:1-11

When you have come into the land that the Lord your God is giving you as an inheritance to possess, and you possess it, and settle in it, you shall take some of the first of all the fruit of the ground, which you harvest from the land that the Lord your God is giving you, and you shall put it in a basket and go to the place that the Lord your God will choose as a dwelling for his name. You shall go to the priest who is in office at that time, and say to him, "Today I declare to the Lord your God that I have come into the land that the Lord swore to our ancestors to give us." When the priest takes the basket from your hand and sets it down before the altar of the Lord your God, you shall make this response before the Lord your God: "A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien, few in number, and there he became a great nation, mighty and populous. When the Egyptians treated us harshly and afflicted us, by imposing hard labor on us, we cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors; the Lord heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression. The Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with a terrifying display of power, and with signs and wonders; and he brought us into this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. So now I bring the first of the fruit of the ground that you, O Lord, have given me." You shall set it down before the Lord your God and bow down before the Lord your God. Then you, together with the Levites and the aliens who reside among you, shall celebrate with all the bounty that the Lord your God has given to you and to your house.

The relationship of power in scenes of sacrifice is interesting. God, the provider of abundance, requires the return of the spoil. But he does not need it. The food, the fruit, the wealth of the earth is given back to God who does not hunger or thirst; nor does he have a body that needs nourishment. But the “gift of thanksgiving” is presented, left to rot on the table of the All Powerful while the hungry and the alien are required to celebrate the bounty of the Lord. Are the cries of the hungry indistinguishable from the celebrations of the satisfied?

Perhaps I should not be so cynical. Perhaps Yahweh knows the heart of man, that it is prone to boasting. Man needs a constant reminder that it is a creature dependent. I am a man, a product of earth and spirit, light and darkness, the relationships of my past, present and future, sound and taste and sensations of my body, food and drink, geographical location, thoughts and learning and new thoughts, the progeny of past parents innumerable. Remove any of these things or any other variables unmentioned that make my existence contingent and I cease to be myself. Pride is a disease that blinds and isolates; it systematically eliminates the variables necessary for being until nothing but the self remains. Sometimes I think just being myself would be better. A being unhindered, unattached, contingent upon nothing. Yet, as the necessary is jettisoned - family, friends, dreams, history, memory, feeling, tasting, seeing - darkness slowly closes in until finally there is nothing, not even Me. The feeling of protest that arises when we leave perfectly edible food on the table of a God who does not need it, banishes the fiction that we can be truly independent. And so we maintain a practice of humility; we hold our contingency in our hands and lay it before God and walk away knowing that the individual alone does not determine its existence. At any time, non-existence can just as easily impose itself as existence and we have no power to stop it.

But humanity offering God necessities as a show of humility and dependence is not the only activity that occurs at the altar - God appears before us with a sacrifice of his own. The Eucharist is perhaps an example of the most confounding element of the Christian religion. Here, the relationship of power and dependence is reversed; God provides the offering, man receives. The type of offering should be noted. Man brings offerings that merely represent elements of their dependence - a portion of the things upon which man depends for life. But God provides a singularly powerful offering and sustenance: his very own body. This is a sacrifice that can only occur once. God has only one body, and it is given to us week after week. God’s existence as God seems to have no importance to him; more important is providing himself to his creation, an act of humiliation that will never be matched. Yet we may try. Sometimes I kneel at the altar and stare at my cupped hands, awaiting the moment when God provides a portion of himself to me. When I give of myself to other people, this act reminds me that I am dependent in some way on them; that without them, a part of me would not exist, I would not exist. Is it the same between God and us? God voluntarily suffers the humiliation of being consumed by his creation every week, is this willingness to provide motivated by a sense of need? Does God remind himself that in providing himself to us, we are necessary for God’s existence?

Genesis 45:3-11, 15

Joseph said to his brothers, "I am Joseph. Is my father still alive?" But his brothers could not answer him, so dismayed were they at his presence.

Then Joseph said to his brothers, "Come closer to me." And they came closer. He said, "I am your brother, Joseph, whom you sold into Egypt. And now do not be distressed, or angry with yourselves, because you sold me here; for God sent me before you to preserve life. For the famine has been in the land these two years; and there are five more years in which there will be neither plowing nor harvest. God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant on earth, and to keep alive for you many survivors. So it was not you who sent me here, but God; he has made me a father to Pharaoh, and lord of all his house and ruler over all the land of Egypt. Hurry and go up to my father and say to him, 'Thus says your son Joseph, God has made me lord of all Egypt; come down to me, do not delay. You shall settle in the land of Goshen, and you shall be near me, you and your children and your children's children, as well as your flocks, your herds, and all that you have. I will provide for you there--since there are five more years of famine to come--so that you and your household, and all that you have, will not come to poverty.'"

And he kissed all his brothers and wept upon them; and after that his brothers talked with him.

This week’s reading presents a grand epiphany that ends a long narrative theme that began with Joseph’s father, Jacob. Beginning with Jacob and continuing until the end of Genesis (actually the text at hand), the major theme that drives the narrative is deception. Recognizing the continuity of this theme helps to enrich the Old Testament, including the Joseph story. Let’s quickly recount the moments of deception surrounding this family as an aid to appreciate Joseph’s words to his brothers:

Jacob: Cycles of deception begin with Jacob. He, of course tricks his brother (Esau) and father (Isaac) into giving him the birthright instead of the firstborn. Later, after working years for his wife-to-be Rachel, his father-in-law switches her for her sister, Leah, literally at the altar. Jacob, surprisingly, doesn't recognize the imposter under the veil (note the importance clothing has in deception) and marries Leah. The deceiver has been deceived. He has to work longer for Rachel, but eventually does indeed marry her. Time passes (as well as some connivings between the sister-wives) and Jacob gives his son Joseph a coat as a token of his favor. The other sons, jealous of the favoritism, tear the cloak off their brother, sell him into slavery, dip his precious cloak in animal’s blood and present the cloak to their father - evidence of a brutal (and efficient, there was no body recovered) mauling. Devastated, Jacob fades into the background of the story; but others will continue the deception.

Judah: While Joseph is traveling to Egypt, the narrative tells a seemingly disjointed tale about Judah and Tamar. It may be tempting to skip this story, but it is important. Thematically, it continues the thread of deception and informs the reader further of how the Joseph story will unfold. Judah, the one who sells his brother, is lured into sleeping with his daughter-in-law, deceived by the garments of a prostitute.

Joseph: Immediately after the episode concerning the wiley Tamar, Joseph is betrayed a second time. In a repetition of his first betrayal by his brothers, Potiphar’s wife tears the cloak off Joseph and presents it to her husband as evidence of assault, resulting in the slave being cast into a pit a second time.

The Cupbearer: Dreams can be deceptive; they need interpretation and are prone to instill hope and confidence, especially after witnessing a favorable interpretation. Unfortunately, the cupbearer is deceived by his overconfidence which was a premonition of his execution. Though helpful for Joseph who used this opportunity to sharpen his spiritual gift, perhaps we all should be more reticent to share our dreams with others.

The Pharaoh: The dreams that the Pharaoh had seem too obvious to be so confounding for his professional dream interpreters - especially the one about the sickly wheat eating the healthy wheat. Perhaps God is joining in on the fun, muddling the minds of the typically prescient in order to provide an opportunity for our hero to demonstrate his skills. Some may call God’s involvement in history providence; in this case, for sure some minor meddling is necessary. God is not above deception.

The Brothers/Simeon: After so much deception, surprisingly Joseph participates. Scene after scene depicts our hero manipulating his brothers. Granted, one would be cautious and Joseph would be excused to test his brother’s loyalty and honesty. When Joseph sees them coming he “disguises himself” (Genesis 42:7; remember the importance of clothing?), accuses them of being liars and spies and requires Simeon to remain behind as ransom to be released when they produce his younger brother, Benjamin. Simeon is an interesting choice. He, along with Levi, murder and raze an entire town after their prince sleeps with their sister, Dinah, and declares his love for her. They wait until the prince orders the circumcision of the entire male population (including himself), as a bride price, for their retribution (pretty sneaky, I have to say).

The Brothers - Again: Joseph is not quite done. When his brothers inevitably return for more food and to retrieve their brother, Benjamin returns with them. After seeing his true brother for the first time, Joseph tests his half-brothers’ loyalty by sending them away with food, but hiding his valuable silver goblet inside Benjamin’s saddle bag. They are recalled and when the planted evidence is revealed, Joseph hears the truth in his half-brothers’ anguish. Joseph is characterized as being successful in everything he does. Here, Joseph is successful in deception, the vice that caused all his worries.

Jacob: The scenes with Joseph and his brothers marks an increase in deception; they feel hurried, reflecting the frenetic concern of Joseph as he tests his brother’s loyalty and honesty. What makes the scene we read this week so satisfying, so beautiful as a moment of epiphany is this long history of deception. Generations of deception, in this moment, is suddenly and decisively broken by Joseph revealing the truth, “I am your brother!” In the same sentence as the revelation, Joseph asks after his father. He desperately wants the truth brought back to him, that his son is alive. Jacob receives the truth and is reunited, peering through the royal attire that obscures the identity of his son, Jacob finally recognizes Joseph. Genesis ends hopefully with Joseph reunited with his family in Egypt, safe and secure; no more lies, no more deceits haunt the man that began it all.

Jeremiah 17:5-10

Thus says the Lord:

Cursed are those who trust in mere mortals and make mere flesh their strength, whose hearts turn away from the Lord. They shall be like a shrub in the desert, and shall not see when relief comes. They shall live in the parched places of the wilderness, in an uninhabited salt land. Blessed are those who trust in the Lord,whose trust is the Lord. They shall be like a tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream. It shall not fear when heat comes, and its leaves shall stay green; in the year of drought it is not anxious, and it does not cease to bear fruit. The heart is devious above all else; it is perverse– who can understand it? I the Lord test the mind and search the heart, to give to all according to their ways, according to the fruit of their doings. The reading this week has a specific context that should be considered - Jeremiah is warning the kingdom of Judah not to join in an alliance with Egypt in an attempt to avoid invasion by Babylon. He has good reason for caution. The kingdom of Israel made a similar alliance, but it did not help, Israel was invaded. Jeremiah does not want Judah to make a similar mistake. The prophet dresses his language in extremes and equates his words with the language of the divine; his words are God’s words and should not be questioned. Filled with stark condemnation and blessing, reminiscent of the giving of the Law in Deuteronomy, Jeremiah appeals to the national mythology that Israel and Judah are Yahweh’s people. This is the God who with terrible power led his people out of bondage and into their Promised Land. Yahweh led the way, sweeping their enemies away before them. Jeremiah could not bear the thought that after such a magnificent liberation from bondage in Egypt, Judah would have to turn to their former captors for salvation instead of God. For Jeremiah, Yahweh, not Egypt should be trusted for their salvation.

The modern reader should practice caution as well; there is danger in too liberally applying the hyperbolic language of the prophet to their life. Obviously there is some necessary trust that is the foundation of important relationships and systems. The encouragement to constantly find examples where we place trust in flesh over trust in the Lord too readily breeds skepticism and paranoia. Some religious leaders are quick to exploit these cultures of self-doubt and maintain cultures of doubt and paranoia to exert influence and power over people. Of course, the second part of the reading applies too. There is a need for reflection and introspection. Sometimes we can deceive ourselves. But there is not always an “Egypt” in our life that is standing in the way of our trust in God. Sometimes we can trust people, the “flesh,” and the Lord as well. They are not always mutually exclusive.

It would be nice to know whether we are trusting God, or are being deceived. Jeremiah offers some standards for evaluating one’s position. Again, reader beware of metaphorical language. Too easily can Jeremiah’s metaphors of strength imply success as indicative of trust in God. The wealthy, successful and prosperous are those who trusted God. Their wealth and prosperity are results, perhaps even rewards for their trust in the Lord. Conversely, the prophet’s metaphors of suffering apply to those who have trusted in their own strength, or the strength of others. The unfortunate, then, are cursed; they have no one to blame for their position than themselves. Unfortunately, Jeremiah’s metaphors of success and misfortune cannot be so easily applied. Reasons for success and misfortune cannot be so easily reduced to blind trust and magical thinking. God is neither concerned with our own success, nor is it our place to blame misfortune on the unfortunate.

Fortunately, there are other standards to gauge our trust in the Lord. Jesus recites them in the Gospel reading this week. The images of security Jesus conjures, if imagined arboreally as Jeremiah did, would not reflect the tree by a river of life. Jesus instead suggests the humble, the hungry and the humiliated are those who are closest to God. The proud, the nourished, the confident - those seemingly mighty and unshakeable trees - these have received their consolation already. Our hearts have deceived us indeed if we think that as a result of trusting in Jesus, we will receive strength, success, safety, prosperity. Trusting in the Lord requires something of us; Jeremiah’s metaphor has flipped. We should no longer count on security or success as proof of our trust in the Lord; rather, service, self-giving and the love of others, these are the standards of one who trusts in the Lord.

Jeremiah 1:4-10

The word of the Lord came to me saying,

"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,

and before you were born I consecrated you;

I appointed you a prophet to the nations."

Then I said, "Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy." But the Lord said to me,

"Do not say, 'I am only a boy';

for you shall go to all to whom I send you,

and you shall speak whatever I command you,

Do not be afraid of them,

for I am with you to deliver you,

says the Lord."

Then the Lord put out his hand and touched my mouth; and the Lord said to me,

"Now I have put my words in your mouth.

See, today I appoint you over nations and over kingdoms,

to pluck up and to pull down,

to destroy and to overthrow,

to build and to plant."

I am surprised by the ease of recognition the characters of the Bible have when God speaks to them. I usually imagine God’s word to be audible, though maybe internal; a whisper barely perceivable but when it speaks it dominates all thought. The Lord’s words to Jeremiah here seem especially intimate, and also threatening. This voice breaking through the silence tells Jeremiah that he was known even before his existence, that he is merely the personification of the thought of the maker. He is not an independent being, but a tool to be used. Which makes Jeremiah’s protest comical; age and ability matter not to God. God can simply imagine whatever he wants and thus you shall be. So God imagines the words and gives them to Jeremiah, warning him that the words come with immense power - responsibility over nations, the ability to destroy and create.

I would not want this responsibility. I once thought that receiving direct communication from God would be a good thing, a confirmation that he is present with me, participates in my life. The words he would speak to me would also, obviously, guarantee that I had also been on God’s mind since eternity. Even better, that I am an extension of God’s own imagination. There is no way I would ever be separated from him, find myself confined to hell. There is no destination for those who hear except to return to their source. This is a conceited, individualistic understanding of how God’s voice works. There is nothing approaching personal comfort for Jeremiah when he hears God’s voice or when God gives him the Word. I am sure Jeremiah felt instead panic, dread, an immense weight of responsibility that threatened to crush him beneath its weight. Naturally, he tries to avoid association with God; but he is the creature, created to serve the purpose designated for him. So he will carry the Word.

I have not heard God’s voice in some time. I consider myself fortunate. I wonder if I would be able to recognize God’s voice? I wonder if I would understand that receiving God’s word can be an immense burden and not some conceited conformation of self-righteousness? Supposedly I am made in the image of God, that is enough for me. I would not also want to speak God’s words.

Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10

Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10

All the people of Israel gathered together into the square before the Water Gate. They told the scribe Ezra to bring the book of the law of Moses, which the Lord had given to Israel. Accordingly, the priest Ezra brought the law before the assembly, both men and women and all who could hear with understanding. This was on the first day of the seventh month. He read from it facing the square before the Water Gate from early morning until midday, in the presence of the men and the women and those who could understand; and the ears of all the people were attentive to the book of the law. And Ezra opened the book in the sight of all the people, for he was standing above all the people; and when he opened it, all the people stood up. Then Ezra blessed the Lord, the great God, and all the people answered, "Amen, Amen," lifting up their hands. Then they bowed their heads and worshiped the Lord with their faces to the ground. So they read from the book, from the law of God, with interpretation. They gave the sense, so that the people understood the reading.

And Nehemiah, who was the governor, and Ezra the priest and scribe, and the Levites who taught the people said to all the people, "This day is holy to the Lord your God; do not mourn or weep." For all the people wept when they heard the words of the law. Then he said to them, "Go your way, eat the fat and drink sweet wine and send portions of them to those for whom nothing is prepared, for this day is holy to our Lord; and do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength."

Qoheleth says God has set eternity in man’s heart. I wonder how eternity got there? I am inclined to think eternity entered the heart of man when God breathed into the mouth of Adam; the ruach of God did more than give life, it inspired a longing to return to its originator. The temptation of the serpent, the suggestion that eating the Fruit of Knowledge would make man “like God,” is made more seductive with man driven by the desire of the divine, the breath, the spirit, eternity compelling him to take, eat. The result, of course, is not reunification, at least not initially. Eternity is trapped within the heart of man, always seeking a manifestation of its source so that it can become whole again, if only for a time.

The early history of Israel, Genesis, records a fitful manifestation of God. God appears in visions and dreams; its purpose and meaning nebulous, vague. A voice that is heard and stirs fears of incalculable power and compels action, yet resists being known and is uncontrollable. Opportunities to be close to God, to know him, for the piece of eternity inside every man to feel whole again, are far between and marked by a frustrating distance from God. Each episode of appearance brings relief that is snatched away when God changes course, or leaves. Man cannot touch God, hold him close, or know him.

The Exodus changed everything. God manifested in power and wonder, saving his people from slavery and promising them life. At Mt. Sinai, God allowed a manifestation of his presence that was unprecedented: he gave his people the Law. More than a code of social conduct, these words, written on physical tablets, are artifacts of God’s eternal presence in the midst of its people. God gives a part of itself - the Eternal presents a piece of eternity to remain forever with those who carry his spirit. As long as those words remain on the tablets and as long as those tablets remain with the people, they will never be alone in the same way they once were. They can go and see this piece of God, its words; they can touch it, feel its shape. It will never leave them and they feel a little more whole.

But the tablets were stolen, the Law taken and with it the presence of God. The people disintegrate under the trauma of this violent rupture. Their God taken, themselves removed from their land, the words that brought them close to eternity fades from their minds. Eventually, the people returned to their land, though they thought they had forever left the Law, their only comfort in what they could remember. Their wonder, joy and relief in this week’s reading is palpable when Ezra appears on a raised dais before the people and presents the Law, in a theater reminiscent of Moses presenting the Law on the mount. The longing that grew to an unbearable ache, the desperate emptiness that haunted their memory, the desire for eternity that constantly beat in their chest finally satisfied by an upward flourish of the arms of the priest. God had returned to them.

But the Law is still just words, written in stone. These words will be repeated, remembered, retold, rewritten for generations. And just like words written in stone will fade after fingers inerable brush over them to feel connected to Eternity, so too the Law in the hearts of man. The epiphany to Israel was once a gift to provide wholeness. But any gift can be exploited, words can be twisted to reflect the needs of man instead of the person of God. The Law can be handled, used, controlled; the promise of life it gave quickly becomes a tool of death. A new epiphany is needed.

Isaiah 62:1-5

For Zion's sake I will not keep silent,

and for Jerusalem's sake I will not rest,

until her vindication shines out like the dawn,

and her salvation like a burning torch.

The nations shall see your vindication,

and all the kings your glory;

and you shall be called by a new name

that the mouth of the Lord will give.

You shall be a crown of beauty in the hand of the Lord,

and a royal diadem in the hand of your God.

You shall no more be termed Forsaken,

and your land shall no more be termed Desolate;

but you shall be called My Delight Is in Her,

and your land Married;

for the Lord delights in you,

and your land shall be married.

For as a young man marries a young woman,

so shall your builder marry you,

and as the bridegroom rejoices over the bride,

Though I did not comment on last week's reading (my apologies), I did read the passage. After reading last week's and this week's readings, a consistent thought arises in my mind - contradiction. We have just moved out of the season of Advent, a season of preparation and expectation. The expectation cultivated is that God will appear; arrive in a way that meets our expectations, confirm that he is indeed the God we have been expecting. Unfortunately, Christmas came and went and God did not appear as we expected. God did not appear as a warrior, or king, or conqueror. God did not arrive competent in politics, or revolution, or change. In no way could God have saved Israel in his infant state as was expected. Instead, he arrived as a baby - indistinguishable from any other child. The One who spoke creation into existence in Genesis, who controls the elements as in Exodus and Jonah, the God of Justice as with Abraham cannot speak, lays at the mercy of the elements in a manger and grasps not the scepter of judgment, but his mother’s finger. This is not the God we expect, this is the contradiction and the Epiphany. Perhaps when he grows and realizes his position, he will become the God we expect then.

But the contradiction continues in this reading of the Epiphany. The passage from Isaiah this week reads like wedding vows. These wedding vows are supposedly spoken by God, directed to his bride, Israel. I cannot pretend to know how wedding ceremonies were conducted in Israel at the time, perhaps like modern American wedding ceremonies, there is a moment parties exchange promises to each other; this is that moment for God. Except, God is not really present, the Advent hasn’t happened yet. So he doesn’t have to look his bride in the eye and suffer the grief that comes with making promises you are not entirely sure can be maintained. Unfortunately, Israel must wait centuries for any hope of these promises to be fulfilled. God has his moment to reaffirm his promises to his people in the Gospel reading. The God-man is present at a wedding when the wine runs dry. His mother hints that now is the time for the reveal - by performing a miracle, Jesus would reveal himself as God to his people, initiating a cascade of fulfilled promises long left languishing. Jesus rebukes his mother - “what does this matter to you or to me?” The God-man is loathe to provide even a symbolic gesture of solidarity with his bride. He claims, “it is not my time.” To which I wonder - if not then, now! If not now, when?! But though he seems to refuse the opportunity, he performs the miracle anyway, only in secret; he does not want people to know who he is. The Epiphany is not now.

Perhaps the God-man was hesitant to so visibly confirm his identity because God never made the promises promoted by the prophets; perhaps these are simply hopeful words of desperate men who wish God were a certain way. We should have learned from the first contradiction - our expectation that God would appear in power and vengeance vs. his real appearance as a helpless child. Maybe the work of the Epiphany is to undo all of our expectations of God. I don’t know how to distinguish between good expectations and false. I find myself asking the question, “Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect another?” I’ll be asking myself that question consistently this Epiphany; at least I know not to expect a straight answer.

Jeremiah 31:7-14

Thus says the Lord:

Sing aloud with gladness for Jacob,

and raise shouts for the chief of the nations;

proclaim, give praise, and say,

"Save, O Lord, your people,

the remnant of Israel."

See, I am going to bring them from the land of the north,

and gather them from the farthest parts of the earth,

among them the blind and the lame, those with child and

those in labor, together;

a great company, they shall return here.

With weeping they shall come,

and with consolations I will lead them back,

I will let them walk by brooks of water,

in a straight path in which they shall not stumble;

for I have become a father to Israel,

and Ephraim is my firstborn.

Hear the word of the Lord, O nations,

and declare it in the coastlands far away;

say, "He who scattered Israel will gather him,

and will keep him as a shepherd a flock."

For the Lord has ransomed Jacob,

and has redeemed him from hands too strong for him.

They shall come and sing aloud on the height of Zion,

and they shall be radiant over the goodness of the Lord,

over the grain, the wine, and the oil,

and over the young of the flock and the herd;

their life shall become like a watered garden,

and they shall never languish again.

Then shall the young women rejoice in the dance,

and the young men and the old shall be merry.

I will turn their mourning into joy,

I will comfort them, and give them gladness for sorrow.

I will give the priests their fill of fatness,

and my people shall be satisfied with my bounty,

says the Lord.

We are leaving the season of Advent, a time to prepare for the appearance of God and the fulfillment of his promises to Israel. The language of the prophets during Advent would have us expect God to appear in wonder and power: “Do not fear, O Zion; do not let your hands grow weak. The Lord, your God, is in your midst, a warrior who gives victory” (Zephania), “Take off the garment of your sorrow and affliction, O Jerusalem, and put on forever the beauty of the glory from God. Put on the robe of the righteousness that comes from God; put on your head the diadem of the glory of the Everlasting; for God will show your splendor everywhere under heaven. For God will give you evermore the name, ‘Righteous Peace, Godly Glory’…For God has ordered that every high mountain and the everlasting hills be made low and the valleys filled up, to make level ground, so that Israel may walk safely in the glory of God” (Baruch). Victory over enemies, a return to the promised land, apocalyptic landscape that emphasizes the centrality and importance of God’s people.

But Christmas morning has come and gone and our expectations have not been satisfied. There have been no enemies destroyed, no vengeance enacted. I received no garment of glory that radiates God’s goodness to the world; mountains, hills and valleys remain that obscure God’s city, disturbed nought by the slightest tremble of the earth. The mundanity of the day is maddening - life remains as it was yesterday, last week, last month, last year, etc; all the way back to the first Christmas morning. Even then, nothing exceptional characterized that first Christmas morning. A poor family makes their way to a tiny town upon the order of the empire. The woman is pregnant  but they cannot find shelter with their companions; instead, they spend the night in a stable where the woman gives birth to a baby. Their only visitors are the dingy shepherds who use the stables to keep their livestock. This is a simple story, one many women have lived. The importance of that birth is easy to miss, ignored because we did not expect God to appear in this way. If I were there, I would have missed it; I would have missed the chance to meet God because I refuse to believe that God would be like me.

The Christmas story provides a counter narrative to the prophets. God may have once been willing to be perceived as powerful, controlling, distant, destructive, and dangerous. The prophets, understanding God to be this way, expect God to remain this way. Their language reflects the expectation of future action to match the image of God they understand, including the language of this week’s reading. Somewhere though God changed, upending any past experience we had of him, forcing us to reorient our expectations of who God is and how he acts in the world. The first Christmas morning served as a warning - if we expect God to be like the prophets, we will miss him. No doubt I need to assess my own expectations of God for this year. If Christmas has taught me anything, it’s that I should expect to find God in the simple, the mundane. Honestly, it does not sound very hopeful, yet - but I don’t want to miss God again.

December 16, 2021

Advent III Table Talk

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December 8, 2021

Advent II Table Talk

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December 1, 2021

Advent 1 Table Talk

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Blog Update

For the season of Advent, the video blogs discussing the Advent readings recorded with Father Ben and others will serve as the blog posts. Written posts will resume after Advent.

2 Samuel 23:1-7

These are the last words of David:

The oracle of David, son of Jesse,

the oracle of the man whom God exalted,

the anointed of the God of Jacob,

the favorite of the Strong One of Israel:

The spirit of the Lord speaks through me,

his word is upon my tongue.

The God of Israel has spoken,

the Rock of Israel has said to me:

One who rules over people justly,

ruling in the fear of God,

is like the light of morning,

like the sun rising on a cloudless morning,

gleaming from the rain on the grassy land.

Is not my house like this with God?

For he has made with me an everlasting covenant,

ordered in all things and secure.

Will he not cause to prosper

all my help and my desire?

But the godless are all like thorns that are thrown away;

for they cannot be picked up with the hand;

to touch them one uses an iron bar

or the shaft of a spear.

And they are entirely consumed in fire on the spot.

Astonishing that these are the last words of this king. How utterly obtuse that the final retrospection of his own life is filled with such self-righteous conceit. He calls himself God’s “exalted one,” the “Anointed One.” Does he not remember Saul? Saul too was anointed, exalted, declared so by the pious and genuflective David himself. This anointed was cast aside, as inexplicably as he was chosen, for another - David. Does he think himself better than Saul? Could not God cast him aside as easily? He calls himself the “favorite” of God. In this he is correct. Only the favorite could undermine, betray, pillage, destroy, rape and murder and escape with his life. Only the favorite could do these things and still assume, at the end, that he is the favorite.

David speaks of ruling justly; these words spontaneously burst from him, as if he is a fountain of prosperity and life due to his proximity to God. His kingdom, his house, is warm, sunny, a place where life springs eternal. For whom? Michal, the woman who loved David, was used as a political pawn to position the aspirational royal within the current king’s court. She helps him escape the raging Saul and is consequently given to another man. When David is ready to return to Israel as king, after taking several wives and accumulating power, only then is Michal returned - summoned in an encore role as political pawn. Her husband wept along the road as she was taken from her family to the king. Does Michal experience justice? When David refuses her children, is he justified? Does Uzzah experience justice when he dies because of his king’s presumption? Is Ish-bosheth’s assasination, disemboweled in his sleep, justified because David is the true king? Is the king justified to take a married woman for himself, or is this a benefit of power? What of her husband, Uriah, who is betrayed by his king, his commander and his fellow soldiers who stand by while he is overwhelmed by the enemy? Is justice dispensed? What of Tamar, David’s daughter? She is raped by her brother. He in turn is murdered by his brother, then this brother is caught up and hanged by his own hair in a tree. Do these experience justice? Does justice look like the women David left in his palace to be raped, one by one, in full view of the kingdom and God by his son, while he turns his back and flees for his life? When Rizpah, the concubine of Saul, watched her seven children be given over to Israel’s enemy by the usurper king David; when she watched as they fell from the gibbet; when she remained, battling birds and beasts until nothing but bone remained of her beloved, was she ruled justly? Are these the members of the house of God? Or are these the godless, the thorns whose only destination is the fire and destruction? How could this king be trusted to make such a distinction?

The book of Samuel began hinting that God would be found in the humble, the chastised, the barren. Throughout the narrative, humbled, secondary characters have offered subtle words of warning to the over-confident: “look not to the appearance, God looks at the heart,” says God to Samuel; “I know your insolence and the wickedness of your heart,” says Eliab to David. Samuel ends with a king’s blustering words of confidence, power and perfect justice. But we should be skeptical that God can be found here instead of in all the people who had been used and discarded as means to this glorious end.

Where is God and how do we know? The inquiry haunts us still. David would like us to think that God is with him. But his proximity to God fosters a hunger for power and glory that renders him blind to the suffering that was required, protects him from observing the injustice, pain and death left in his wake. There is another who speaks last words, who claims himself King. This one too is exalted, anointed by God. His proximity offers no parallel to the glory, honor and power accumulated by David; instead, this Anointed One dies among thieves, betrayed by his friends, convicted of blasphemy, wearing as a crown on his head the thorns David so confidently sings should be gathered and thrown into the fire. God is here. Do we see him?

1 Samuel 1:4-20

On the day when Elkanah sacrificed, he would give portions to his wife Peninnah and to all her sons and daughters; but to Hannah he gave a double portion, because he loved her, though the Lord had closed her womb. Her rival used to provoke her severely, to irritate her, because the Lord had closed her womb. So it went on year by year; as often as she went up to the house of the Lord, she used to provoke her. Therefore Hannah wept and would not eat. Her husband Elkanah said to her, “Hannah, why do you weep? Why do you not eat? Why is your heart sad? Am I not more to you than ten sons?”

After they had eaten and drunk at Shiloh, Hannah rose and presented herself before the Lord. Now Eli the priest was sitting on the seat beside the doorpost of the temple of the Lord. She was deeply distressed and prayed to the Lord, and wept bitterly. She made this vow: “O Lord of hosts, if only you will look on the misery of your servant, and remember me, and not forget your servant, but will give to your servant a male child, then I will set him before you as a nazirite until the day of his death. He shall drink neither wine nor intoxicants, and no razor shall touch his head.”

As she continued praying before the Lord, Eli observed her mouth. Hannah was praying silently; only her lips moved, but her voice was not heard; therefore Eli thought she was drunk. So Eli said to her, “How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself? Put away your wine.” But Hannah answered, “No, my lord, I am a woman deeply troubled; I have drunk neither wine nor strong drink, but I have been pouring out my soul before the Lord. Do not regard your servant as a worthless woman, for I have been speaking out of my great anxiety and vexation all this time.” Then Eli answered, “Go in peace; the God of Israel grant the petition you have made to him.” And she said, “Let your servant find favor in your sight.” Then the woman went to her quarters, ate and drank with her husband, and her countenance was sad no longer.

They rose early in the morning and worshiped before the Lord; then they went back to their house at Ramah. Elkanah knew his wife Hannah, and the Lord remembered her. In due time Hannah conceived and bore a son. She named him Samuel, for she said, “I have asked him of the Lord.”

This reading begins the greatest continuous narrative in the Old Testament. It recounts the lives of some of the most famous of all Old Testament characters: Samuel, Saul, Jonathan, and David. We may be anxious to hurry to the lives of these immense personalities, so we skim their introduction, heedless of the warning, ignoring its power.

If the books of Samuel could include a continuous theme, I would propose the following: “Where is God and how do we know?” The mighty arm of God so evident in the Exodus and in the conquering of the promised land in Joshua has shown evidence of atrophy in Judges. By the end, Israel can find no rest from their enemies, they are turning on each other and even their champions exhibit questionable judgment and character. No longer the pillar of fire in the night, nor the cloud by day, God’s presence has dissipated; where has he gone? The book of Samuel confirms this sense of seeming abandonment in 1 Samuel 3:1, “And word from the Lord was rare in those days, visions were infrequent.”

Of course, God is not gone; we just look in the wrong places, hear from the wrong people, expect the wrong things. When the book of Samuel begins, we expect a return to the past; Israel needs a show of power and domination seen in the Exodus and Joshua to stir them from their torpor. This nostalgia for power predisposes us to expect to find God in the priest, or at the temple. Eli would be the type of Moses, the first great priest, who would lead his people to a new promised land of the heart. We do get a return to the past, but not of this sort; instead, we are given a barren woman, harkening to the days before national displays of power where God is close, personal, intimate.

If we do not read carefully, in our hurry to get to the expected champions of the story, we will miss the presence of God. Notice how Hannah is the paradigm of former Old Testament mothers: she is especially loved by her husband like Rachel; she is provoked by her rival like Hagar; and her womb is closed by God like all women of import before her. But infertility and derision are not tokens of weakness but a sign of latent power and proximity to the divine.

Witness Hannah’s activity against Eli’s passive repose - she eats and drinks, arises and travels to contend with the Almighty. Eli simply “[sits] on the seat by the doorpost of the temple of the Lord.” There is no better picture of spiritual malaise than here with Eli. The priest of the Lord has nothing to do other than sit. He would not know, could not know, the activity of God; he cannot be bothered to move from his chair. God could even return in a great cloud like in Exodus and envelop the temple, but Eli would be oblivious. His chair is outside the temple, his back to God. But God is being moved to action.

Hannah no doubt passes the listless priest on her way into the holy place to pray and weep and vow, reminding us of the many times voices cried out and called God to action. Eli, not only unable to recognize the movement of God, cannot even recognize a praying woman, confusing Hannah for a drunk. Hannah corrects him and Eli conjures the hubris to speak for God, “Go in peace, may the God of Israel grant your petition that you have asked of him.” Incredible that Eli, a man we expect to be closest to God, does not even know Hannah’s request. Is he embarrassed that a priest is so spiritually blind he cannot recognize a woman pouring out her soul to God? Perhaps his laziness and apathy require too much energy to overcome. Either way, the interaction makes plain that Hannah does not need this priest to intercede on her behalf. God is not with Eli.

The warning presented in this introductory scene for Samuel is that we should not expect to find God with power any more. Indeed, Samuel attempts to maintain his power but ultimately dies with the power passing to a king. Saul never had access to this power and kills himself in humiliation, David thinks he can control this power and loses everything, including the kingdom he labored to bring together. In fact, God appears more consistently in individuals who lack the power we expect God to use. Here, Hannah benefits from proximity to God, not the priest Eli. Later, the people of Israel will attempt to use God’s residence in the Ark of the Covenant to win battles for them. But God is not there - the Ark is taken and Israel suffers defeat. Neither is God found ultimately in the words of the prophet Samuel, or the king Saul, or king David. The question that haunts us throughout the narrative, “Where is God and how do we know,” is never satisfactorily answered. We can know for sure, however, that God is not found in displays of power, manipulation, coercion, sabotage, no matter the ends used to justify the means.

I can’t help but feel that people easily claim God’s power to justify their own domination. Of course, there had been moments in God’s life when he was powerful - where he fought the oppressed to free the slave and provided sustenance in the desert. We assume this is what God is like, and so claim this power as good when the devastation of others is required for our own superiority. But this power is self-defeating as the end of Judges shows. So God attempts to refocus our hearts on another power - humility. He shows through the book of Ruth that he is present in the love of a foreigner, and he shows here that he is present in the infertility of a mother. So when we continue the stories of Samuel, when characters wax eloquent on their proximity to God, or when the line between genuine piety and spiritual manipulation become blurred, we can look back on the first example and know with confidence that God is in the barren woman.

Ruth 3:1-5; 4:13-17

Naomi her mother-in-law said to Ruth, “My daughter, I need to seek some security for you, so that it may be well with you. Now here is our kinsman Boaz, with whose young women you have been working. See, he is winnowing barley tonight at the threshing floor. Now wash and anoint yourself, and put on your best clothes and go down to the threshing floor; but do not make yourself known to the man until he has finished eating and drinking. When he lies down, observe the place where he lies; then, go and uncover his feet and lie down; and he will tell you what to do.” She said to her, “All that you tell me I will do.”

So Boaz took Ruth and she became his wife. When they came together, the Lord made her conceive, and she bore a son. Then the women said to Naomi, “Blessed be the Lord, who has not left you this day without next-of-kin; and may his name be renowned in Israel! He shall be to you a restorer of life and a nourisher of your old age; for your daughter-in-law who loves you, who is more to you than seven sons, has borne him.” Then Naomi took the child and laid him in her bosom, and became his nurse. The women of the neighborhood gave him a name, saying, “A son has been born to Naomi.” They named him Obed; he became the father of Jesse, the father of David.

Sometimes reading the Lectionary exacerbates my frustrations with Christian organization and intent with the Old Testament. Combine this reading with the Psalm reading and the point of the book of Ruth, or at least this week’s reading, is that God’s benevolent, ineffable plan has overcome the chances the great line of David becomes extinct, and risk Jesus never existing. Though this reading is certainly valuable, it contributes to the misunderstanding that the whole point of the Old Testament is to prepare for the New Testament. This can easily compromise the integrity of the Old Testament, flattening the characters it includes and the understanding of God these characters explore. This concern to turn readers’ attention to the New Testament as soon as possible results in this weeks’ reading completely missing the best part of the story. I would like to draw our attention to it.

Though it is among the shortest narrative units in the Hebrew Bible, the book of Ruth uses its reticence to say much more than is written. The author does this through subtle textual allusions to significant events/people in Israel’s history, often replaying these events but with very different conclusions. The introduction, as a granular example, alludes directly to the Abraham narrative, especially the episode where he takes his family to Egypt. However, the author here quickly dispenses with the male-centric and nationalistic apologetic by undramatically killing off Naomi’s husband and sons, who had married Moabite women (they are not supposed to do so). Ruth further reverses the Abrahamic narrative by taking place within Israel - in Abraham (and much of the Old Testament), the story describes an escape from from foreign lands to find refuge and identity in the Promised Land; Ruth, using typical structures of Israelite narrative, tells a story of how an Israelite woman returns to her land with a foreigner in tow, and struggles to find safety and identity where it is often assumed. On a larger scale, the entire book makes allusions to a common Old Testament type-scene - the betrothal at the well. This scene occurs with Isaac, Jacob, Joseph (though for Joseph it is the moment of betrayal), Moses and Saul. The scene follows a particular pattern that can be manipulated by the author depending on the characters who occupy the scene. Typically with a betrothal scene, the man journeys to a foreign land to seek a wife; he arrives at a well and watches for his future beloved; when she arrives, they exchange words/gestures of intent; the woman then runs to tell her family, and a party is held celebrating the union. The book of Ruth is a protracted betrothal where the author places a foreign woman, a Moabite no less, to play the part of the man. It is Ruth who travels to a foreign land, finds a man (not at a well, but at a place of sustenance nonetheless), shows him her tenacity and beauty, and takes herself a husband.

This week’s reading begins telling how Ruth seduces Boaz, but does not go into the actual seduction. The scene draws in the reader in two ways: it is blushingly seductive and it replays the conception of Moab from Genesis 19. Here is the omitted scene from Ruth:

So she went down to the threshing floor and did according to all that her mother-in-law had commanded her. When Boaz had eaten and drunk and his heart was cheerful, he went to lie down at the end of the heap of grain; and she came secretly, and uncovered his feet and lay down. And it happened in the middle of the night that the man was startled and [c]bent forward; and behold, a woman was lying at his feet. So he said, “Who are you?” And she answered, “I am Ruth your slave. Now spread your garment over your slave, for you are a redeemer.” Then he said, “May you be blessed of the Lord, my daughter. You have shown your last kindness to be better than the first, by not going after young men, whether poor or rich. So now, my daughter, do not fear. I will do for you whatever you say, for all [d]my people in the city know that you are a woman of excellence. But now, although it is true that I am a redeemer, yet there is also a redeemer more closely related than I. Remain this night, and when morning comes, if he will [e]redeem you, good; let him redeem you. But if he does not wish to [f]redeem you, then I will redeem you, as the Lord lives. Lie down until morning.”

We should not expect the Old Testament to share our own sexual morality, the Old Testament is certainly not chaste. Earlier scenes make Boaz’s desire for Ruth difficult to deny - he inquires after her and gives her special treatment, singling her out from among all the women who glean his fields. This night, Ruth is sure to make herself irresistible. She washes herself, annoints herself with scented oil, and puts on her best night clothes. She stealthily glides to her intended after he has been satisfied with food and drink, and uncovers Boaz’s feet. Some commentators suggest that “feet” is used in Hebrew as a euphemism for penis, but this may go too far. Either way, Boaz appreciates this midnight liazon; he breathily encourages Ruth to remain the night, but makes clear that he has business to attend to before they can return to this moment.

The connection to Genesis 19 makes the seduction even more compelling. In that scene, Lot’s daughters do not have husbands, nor do they have options. They, like Ruth, are in a desperate situation - homeless, husbandless, childless and living in a foreign land. They take matters into their own hands: they get their father drunk and sleep with him in two successive nights. The oldest conceives and bears the son Moab (I think I said last week and in my sermon that the youngest daughter bore Moab, sorry about that). Like mother, like daughter, Ruth replays the conception of her primeval ancestor. This time feels different, however. Genesis 19 feels unfortunate, gross, violating. It gives the sons of these women negative perceptions that affect the tribe’s relationship with others around them. These are people to be avoided, born of desperation and ignominy, cursed of God. Ruth’s story is basically the same, only she is identified as the redeemer of her people. She too is faced with generational extinction, she too takes a relative with whom to bear a child. But she is the mother of kings.

The Old Testament has more to say than “Jesus.” The book of Ruth provides a surprising morality - that people can take matters into their own hands and can make good come out of protesting the accepted system of patriarchy and sexual and gender roles. It can be understood as a feminist manifesto of sorts - socially powerless women use their sexuality to subvert systems of patriarchy, not seeking permission from anyone, and making life as a result. There is still resistance to taking the Old Testament for itself; though Jesus has as his own ancestor Ruth, he must be born to a virgin. I wonder what Mary thought of Ruth.

Ruth 1:1-18

In the days when the judges ruled, there was a famine in the land, and a certain man of Bethlehem in Judah went to live in the country of Moab, he and his wife and two sons. The name of the man was Elimelech and the name of his wife Naomi, and the names of his two sons were Mahlon and Chilion; they were Ephrathites from Bethlehem in Judah. They went into the country of Moab and remained there. But Elimelech, the husband of Naomi, died, and she was left with her two sons. These took Moabite wives; the name of the one was Orpah and the name of the other Ruth. When they had lived there about ten years, both Mahlon and Chilion also died, so that the woman was left without her two sons and her husband.

Then she started to return with her daughters-in-law from the country of Moab, for she had heard in the country of Moab that the Lord had considered his people and given them food. So she set out from the place where she had been living, she and her two daughters-in-law, and they went on their way to go back to the land of Judah. But Naomi said to her two daughters-in-law, "Go back each of you to your mother's house. May the Lord deal kindly with you, as you have dealt with the dead and with me. The Lord grant that you may find security, each of you in the house of your husband." Then she kissed them, and they wept aloud. They said to her, "No, we will return with you to your people." But Naomi said, "Turn back, my daughters, why will you go with me? Do I still have sons in my womb that they may become your husbands? Turn back, my daughters, go your way, for I am too old to have a husband. Even if I thought there was hope for me, even if I should have a husband tonight and bear sons, would you then wait until they were grown? Would you then refrain from marrying? No, my daughters, it has been far more bitter for me than for you, because the hand of the Lord has turned against me." Then they wept aloud again. Orpah kissed her mother-in-law, but Ruth clung to her.

So she said, "See, your sister-in-law has gone back to her people and to her gods; return after your sister-in-law.” But Ruth said, “Do not press me to leave you or to turn back from following you! Where you go, I will go; Where you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die— there will I be buried. May the Lord do thus and so to me, and more as well, if even death parts me from you!” When Naomi saw that she was determined to go with her, she said no more to her.

Ruth’s story begins typically enough: a famine grips the land where Israel is dwelling, forcing a man and his family to flee and sojourn in a foreign land. We should be reminded, of course, that this is the same beginning that compels the movement of Abraham and Jacob. Though the expectation that this may be just another iteration of a patriarchal/matriarchal tale, the similarities end here. This story diverges from its predecessors as soon as it establishes its inheritance. Far from being a story about patriarchy and power with its manipulation, lying, back-stabbing, struggle and wondrous divine interventions, Ruth is quaint and calm in comparison. Intentionally (and perhaps ironically) reversing past dramatic events, Ruth is a good story with all good characters. There is no villain here, only people who, despite the political storm raging around them, take care of each other; who even welcome the stranger into their midst. This is what happens when good people are allowed to do good things.

We should not, however, diminish the importance of context which adds to the idyllic nature of Ruth. The first verse of our reading this week adds to our uneasy feeling that this is just another crazy Old Testament story not only by conjuring other stories that begin with famine, but by reminding us that this story is set within the time of the Judges. In the Christian Old Testament, the book is positioned between Judges and Samuel. If read sequentially, we would have just ended Judges, wherein various charismatic tribal leaders with ever increasing moral dubiousness lead tribes out of oppression through the typical means of miraculous, murderous rampages. The final chapters of this book tell of how a concubine from Bethlehem was raped to death in a town of Benjamin, in a scene eerily similar to the Sodom and Gomorrah tale. She was promptly chopped to pieces and her body parts sent to other tribes in Israel to gather them together in order to avenge her death. This is the end of Judges and we begin Ruth with a return to this famous town.

The first verse also mentions the country of Moab, the people themselves famous for their ignominious origin and resulting uneasy relationship with Israel. Moab finds its conception in Hebrew lore in Genesis 19:30-38, the narrative immediately after the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah (weird how this tale is remembered twice in the same verse). After Lot and his family escape the unfortunate towns, his daughters make him drunk and sleep with him so they may have children. One of these children is named Moab. The land Moab is where Moses dies and God renews his covenant with Israel before they cross into the Promised Land. Israel later fights Moab early in Judges and assassinates Eglon, their king. In Samuel, David will find refuge in Moab during his flight from Saul.

This context is interesting, but more importantly, it is fraught with intrigue and potential danger for the unfolding story of Ruth. What makes this short book so wonderful is that the writer refuses to take the story in an expected direction. We should have another story of internecine struggle, or an apologetic on the political and social antipathy felt against a group they had been at war with (e.g. Esther); we are set up and then let down. Naomi leaves her homeland to a foreign land, loses her sons, but gains a lifelong friend. There are no venomous words directed at the foreign wives, not even a hint that Naomi’s sons did a questionable thing by marrying women with such questionable family histories. It is not mentioned in this week’s reading, but when Naomi returns to Bethlehem with Ruth, they are greeted with rejoicing from the other women in the town. It seems as if this story is concerned with lives somehow immune to the evils of the world.

I find a lot of comfort in that thought and in the story of Ruth. It is easy to feel overburdened with the weight of the world - climate change, racism, American history, economic systems of wealth and oppression, etc. etc. etc. begin to feel too much. I want to have answers to all the tragedies, I want to rage and call to account the senseless murders that are committed daily, I want to shut down all plants using fossil fuels to make electricity and replace them with negative carbon technology yesterday, I want to get out of the Southeast before it is all underwater, I want to allow refugees to settle in this country...my life story could take many exciting directions, but it is too exhausting and feels useless. I am just one person and all of these problems are just too much. I should take a lesson from the story of Ruth, that my story concerns the people closest to me. I may not be able to change much of the world, but I can start with just one person.

Job 42:1-6, 10-17

Job answered the Lord:

“I know that you can do all things,

and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted.

‘Who is this that hides counsel without knowledge?’

Therefore I have uttered what I did not understand,

things too wonderful for me, which I did not know.

‘Hear, and I will speak;

I will question you, and you declare to me.’

I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear,

but now my eye sees you;

therefore I despise myself,

and repent in dust and ashes.”

And the Lord restored the fortunes of Job when he had prayed for his friends; and the Lord gave Job twice as much as he had before. Then there came to him all his brothers and sisters and all who had known him before, and they ate bread with him in his house; they showed him sympathy and comforted him for all the evil that the Lord had brought upon him; and each of them gave him a piece of money and a gold ring. The Lord blessed the latter days of Job more than his beginning; and he had fourteen thousand sheep, six thousand camels, a thousand yoke of oxen, and a thousand donkeys. He also had seven sons and three daughters. He named the first Jemimah, the second Keziah, and the third Keren-happuch. In all the land there were no women so beautiful as Job’s daughters; and their father gave them an inheritance along with their brothers. After this Job lived for one hundred and forty years, and saw his children, and his children’s children, four generations. And Job died, old and full of days.

This is Job’s response after God’s verbal and sensory onslaught. Who could stand before such terror? How could the faint, wheezing breath of the wretch be heard over the thundering howl of the hurricane? Can the divine see through its resplendent majesty and witness the pain and despair of mortality? Throughout the book, Job has maintained his innocence and the text itself has asserted his righteousness. This righteousness has been maintained to the end; does Job here relinquish even this? God refuses to recognize the inquiries of the righteous; instead of answering, God shouts down the persuasion of righteous indignation with pugnacious and unlimited power. How can Job assuage such voracious power that has already claimed his family, wealth and health, and is now threatening even his righteousness, the last dignity he retains?

Jack Miles translates the above verses this way:

Then Job answered the Lord:

“You know you can do anything.

Nothing can stop you.

You ask, ‘Who is this ignorant muddler?’

Well, I said more than I knew, wonders quite beyond me.

‘You listen and I’ll talk,’ you say.

‘I’ll question you, and you tell me.’

Word of you had reached my ears,

But now that my eyes have seen you,

I shudder with sorrow for mortal clay.”

This translation emphasizes the tragic irony that is elided in most Christian translations. Christian translations choose to emphasize human penitence; it is important that Man recognize the utter depravity of their moral standing before the Almighty. Man is ever in need of repentance. The same is true of Job, as his friends had consistently pointed out: there must be something from which to repent.

But from what does Job need to repent? The history of Christian interpretation provides reasons enough: Job had a secret sin God was purging, Job questions God’s justice/power, Job assumes a transactional relationship and is just complaining that he did not receive what was owed, etc. All of these arguments fall flat from the evidence of the text: “Yet through all this, Job did no wrong.” But someone has.

Tone is difficult to replicate with words, but the tone of Miles’ translation I think should be heard as defiant to the end. God, in his formidable speech, attempted to bat away the piteous cry of the righteous with an overwhelming show of force. God knows he was wrong to take everything from Job, but he will not admit it, not to Job! The wretch’s simple words, shouting into the maelstrom, snaps the reader’s attention from wandering among the stars back to the issue at hand - wrong has been done and the Almighty will not be let off so easily.

Job thought God could do anything. Once, God told a man that he would spare a town if ten righteous men were found within its walls. Job was mistaken indeed to assume such benevolent restraint; for God is willing to consume everything, even the righteous.

The wretch has indeed said more than he knew. The Almighty may set the boundaries of the oceans and land, send rain and open the floodgates of heaven, provide prey for the lion and food for the raven; but these wonders even the Almighty has not known: the weight of mortality, the fear of death, pain, hopelessness, the pursuit of desperate purpose to make life meaningful and the crushing weight of worthlessness that results when even righteousness is vanity and grasping after the wind.

Calamity first visited Job as a whirlwind, but he was spared the trauma of witnessing the destruction. He was told by messengers of the disaster and he assumed the traditional position of grief by wearing torn sackcloth and sitting in ashes. He was then beset with hideous sores that could not bear the touch of the sackcloth. Naked, sores oozing with puss, the potshard gripped in a quivering fist, laying all but dead in his noisome bed - the Whirlwind visits again. After the thunderings, blowings and displays of power, Job is left intact. This does not mean nothing was taken. The Whirlwind destroys, it is its nature. Job had one thing left - hope. Job had hope that his eyes would witness something other than his ears had heard. But the Whirlwind is the same, his eyes do not deceive. Job once said with confidence, “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed by the name of the Lord!” Job has now seen the Lord fully, completely. He augments the second clause with a shuddering, agonizing sob, “I shudder with sorrow for mortal clay.”

Extremes define the limits of people, and of God it appears. As the Whirlwind retreats, we are left with two images of extreme figures forever imprinted in our imaginations. In no other book of the Bible have I read God so eloquent in describing his awesome power and who also appears in such power to an individual. The Exodus comes close; but there, God displays his power to an empire that has oppressed peoples for four hundred years, and he never directly appears to the empire but acts through proxy. The Exodus describes when power meets power. With Job, God meets a different type of adversary, one for which he is not prepared - and his power is ineffectual. If anything, it feels grotesque; like a bully kicking the nerd while he is down. That this does not make God look good is precisely the point. Job clearly has all the power; the visceral state of his body and his righteousness swallows God’s displays of power and glory. God thunders, “I can do all things!” And he certainly can exert power over anything, but he cannot do this again. Uncontrolled power cannot meet humility and stand. If God is to be persuasive to the humble man, God must assume a station of humility. As God departs I imagine him looking back to his servant, Job, and understanding that if he is to meet Man again, he must appear in his own bed of ashes.

With the Whirlwind’s retreat, with God’s retreat, nothing is accomplished. Job is not given an answer for why he suffers, though he knows unequivocally that he is dealing with a dangerous and unpredictable force. God does not win the bet he made with the Devil (forgot this happened? So did I!), neither does he cow Job into submission with his display of power. God does, however, retreat and restore Job’s fortunes. The restoration can easily be understood as an act of repentance. It can also be understood as God attempting to reset history to the time before this whole debacle; an attempt to pretend this whole episode never happened. Regardless of how successful erasing the past or offering recompense is, Job and God come away forever changed. Job - and by extension humanity - has discovered an unexpected power that can be used to their benefit. God afterall cares about righteousness, which is good to know in case anyone else finds themselves face to face with wanton destruction from the Almighty. In the Hebrew Bible (which is organized differently than the Old Testament), God speaks directly to humanity for the last time in the whirlwind. When God breaks his silence, it is when he appears as a man in the New Testament. He even faces the Devil again, but is much more careful in his interactions with him. I imagine this episode with Job consumed the mind of God during his silence. He asked the Devil, “Have you considered my servant Job?” No doubt God himself considered Job much more.

A note to the reader:

Job has a deep, rich and very long interpretive history. Both ancient and modern Jewish and Christian writers must contend with the content of this book - particularly how God joins in with the Satan to prove a point. How one approaches this book, what is heard and the conclusions drawn are a product of significant subjective conditioning. History, culture, personal experience and deference to authority all play their part. For myself, I wanted to emphasize the pain and tragedy this story so beautifully explores. To me, these feelings are important and should not be diminished with trite platitudes that appeal to the hidden wisdom of God, or the enduring hope that God is always good, or that suffering is just a symptom of our evil human nature. I think the power of Job is that it forces us to reconsider these typically accepted theological propositions. Wisdom is supposed to promote life; making a deal with the Devil is foolishness. God may be good, but he can also be dangerous and unpredictable. Consider Abraham, who was asked by God to sacrifice his only child after a decade of obedience; or Uzzah, who is killed trying to protect the Ark from falling; or the Pharisees in the New Testament who are told by Jesus, “Not everyone who calls me Lord will enter the kingdom of heaven.” That people can suffer as a result of their own evil conjuring is self-evident; but Job suffers not because of his evil nature, but because he is righteous. I do not think God would have accepted the bet were Job anything other than righteous, neither would the Devil have been interested.

I also wanted to explore the alternative to the classically proposed characteristic of God’s unchangeability. I used to think this characteristic of God important, even necessary for God to be good. Recently, however, I have begun to question this. Morality, what is good and bad, changes through history: it can even change depending on personal relationships. The difficulty of morality, of choosing between good and ill, is too often not applied to God because God conveniently makes what is good or can only do good. But maybe the victory of righteousness is better felt when there is a real chance that things could be otherwise. God is good, not just because he can’t be otherwise, but because there is always the threat that he could choose otherwise. Job presents a situation where God chooses to do ill, helping me appreciate when he chooses good in the future.

Several times, often at the end, I make allusions to Jesus. Christian theologians through history reference the necessity of the incarnation (read the Gospels, especially John, or Anselm, or Athanasius, Luther, Calvin, etc.). The necessity of God becoming man is often understood within the context of the redemption of man. This is a bottom-up progression. I have tried to flip the script and understand God becoming man as a type of redemption for God, not just for man.

I have really enjoyed writing about Job, exploring my own understandings of God, man and evil. It is not that hopeful, but as I mentioned before, hope is not really the point of Job. I am sure we will get to hope later in the Old Testament, but I should also warn that Advent is coming wherein we must pass through the night to witness the morning.