Committed Critic

The discussion under one of my earlier posts has me thinking about what it means to over-intellectualize the Bible. And while I believe in the importance of critical study of the Bible (which will remain the focus of this blog), I want to dedicate a post to some more basic teachings in Scripture.

One day this week I read a couple of times through Titus, a book that doesn’t get much attention from Bible scholars. One reason is that critical scholars typically don’t think Paul really wrote it (a conclusion I tend to agree with), and another reason is that it lacks the more interesting (i.e., complicated) kinds of arguments we find in books like Romans and Galatians. Also, scholars often prefer theology that challenges the status quo, and the letter to Titus focuses more on passing along a tradition that’s already been established.

An emphasis on complex theological arguments would have been offensive to Paul, whether he wrote Titus or not. Paul famously resolved “to know nothing except Jesus Christ and him crucified” (1 Cor 2:2), and I’m guessing he would have burned his letters if he thought they would detract from that core of Christian faith.

So we turn to Titus. The short letter is focused mostly on moral teachings, but I’ll begin with two passages that are brief, forceful presentations of the gospel. Neither contains quite the whole gospel, but between them they present a well-rounded portrait of Christianity. The first is Titus 2:11-14:

For the saving grace of God has appeared to all people, training us to renounce impiety and worldly desires, and to live soberly, justly, and piously in this age, while looking forward to the blessed hope––the appearance of the glory of the great God and of our savior Jesus Christ, who gave himself on our behalf, in order to redeem us from all wickedness and to cleanse for himself a chosen people, zealous for good works.

The second passage comes just a few verses later, in Titus 3:3-8:

Once, we also were senseless, unbelieving, led astray, enslaved to desires and all kinds of pleasures, going through life in evil and envy, hateful and despising one another. But when the kindness and goodwill of God our savior appeared, he––not by works of righteousness that we did, but according to his mercy––saved us through the washing of recreation, and the renewal of the Holy Spirit, which he richly poured upon us, through Jesus Christ our savior, so that we––justified by that grace––might become heirs according to the hope of eternal life.

The two passage use a lot of themes and terms from Paul’s other letters, only here they’re presented compactly, rather than explained at length. This is one reason scholars think the letter was written by a later person reading Paul and trying to continue his message, though of course it could simply be Paul setting forth the basics of his own theology.

Either way, it’s a very different reading experience than some of Paul’s other letters. When you read Galatians or Romans, if you want to take them seriously you’re practically forced into spending your time doing careful exegesis and trying to figure out what Paul’s argument is. Otherwise you have to ignore big parts of the text, or risk badly misunderstanding them.

Titus is much simpler. Despite a few red flags that are important but potentially distracting from the main point of the letter (like whether it’s right to insult Cretans and to tell slaves to submit to their masters), most of the teachings in Titus are pretty clear and immediately applicable to our lives: exhortation to things like self-control, good works, and avoiding divisions among believers.

There is a tendency for people like me, with an academic mindset, to spend our time on the difficult texts of the Bible like Romans, where we’re more likely to get bogged down in technical questions. That’s fine, but simpler texts like Titus often put more emphasis on simple morality, and as Christians we frankly should spend more time worrying about how to do good works than analyzing the more difficult theological texts.

Certainly Christians should understand the Bible, a skill that takes a lot of work. But understanding the entire argument of Romans isn’t part of the essence of being a Christian, at least not as a top priority. Instead, what we are called to hold is a series of simple truths, emphasized in one way or another throughout the New Testament: faith in Christ, salvation by his grace, cleansing by baptism, obedience to Jesus’ words, guidance of the Holy Spirit to do good works, and hope in eternal salvation. If anything detracts from our commitment to these, our priorities are probably misplaced.

One problem with the Christian emphasis especially on Romans and Galatians is that people develop the misconception that Paul was most concerned with people not focusing on works. Certainly when Jews were attacking Gentiles for not following the Jewish law, Paul opposed them. And certainly he insists that our works cannot merit salvation apart from God’s grace. But as I have tried to show here and more briefly here, being righteous entails good works in Paul’s theology; just because the good works are dependent on justification by faith, that doesn’t mean they’re any less important.

Turning back to Titus, the letter reminds us of Paul’s insistence that our own righteousness can’t save us and that salvation is completely dependent on God’s grace (3:5), but it focuses mostly on what Christianity is: living a life of good works, by the grace of Christ and for the glory of God. Over and over in Titus the term “good works” shows up. What is the church? A people God has created to be zealous for good works.

Scholars don’t always like simple moral teachings, because it’s easier to figure out theological arguments than to simply do good.

One common image that I grew up with in church is that the Bible serves as a mirror, in which we see who we really are before God. Reading Titus in light of this is a challenge, because its moral teachings include at least something to convict everyone. I once heard Randy Harris say in a sermon, “Christianity is about what we do in our mundane lives.” Once we adopt that principle, a mundane letter like Titus is a powerful guide.

The Old Testament has many references to gods other than Yahweh, and scholars have spent more than a century trying to sort them all out. Baal is one of the Canaanite gods, mentioned often in the OT without much explanation; the Bible usually only cares that he was an idol that many Israelites worshiped.

Though the OT doesn’t tell us much about the Canaanite’s religion, the people originally writing and reading the OT did know more, and so it can help us understand what’s going on if we’re familiar with the stories the Canaanites told about Baal. Here is a synopsis of perhaps the most popular account. I leave out several characters, but I try to capture the heart of the story:

The story begins with El, the head of the pantheon, pictured as an old many with a grey beard sitting upon a throne as judge of the gods. While the gods pay El respect as a figurehead, his son Baal is the mighty warrior, the storm god and “Rider of the Clouds,” the giver of rain to the earth, and the one whom the gods actually obey.

But El also has another son named Sea, who is alienated from the royal family. At one of the royal feasts, while the gods eat and drink, Sea sends messengers to seize Baal so he can usurp his throne. Most of the gods are terrified, and El quickly acquiesces, ready to hand over his son.

But Baal refuses with an impassioned speech: “Lift up your heads, O gods! –– off your knees, off your princely thrones –– And let me answer Sea’s messengers!” Baal strikes the messengers, then enlists the help of a craftsman named Kotaru to carve two maces for the fight against his brother. Baal finds Sea, strikes him dead, and maintains his princely throne.

In celebration, Baal throws a great feast, after which he demands that a temple be built for him on Mount Zaphon, the great mountain to the north of Canaan. After clearing the idea with El and the chief goddess, the craftsman Kotaru is summoned again, and Baal gets his temple. In celebration, he hosts yet another feast, and the gods eat and drink yet again.

However, feeling proud of his new temple, Baal sends a boastful message to Death, who is king of the underworld and another rival to Baal’s power. Death replies with a threat: “Invite me, Baal…and eat bread with my brothers, drink wine with my kin! Have you forgotten, Baal, that I can pierce you through?” Baal is frightened and backs off his boast, but Death soon finds him and kills him anyway.

Baal’s sister Anatu, distraught at his death, wonders how the world will survive with the rain-god dead. While the other gods try in vain to find an apt replacement to fill Baal’s throne, Anatu goes instead to Death for vengeance. She cuts, burns, and grinds Death to pieces, setting Baal free to return to life.

Though Death somehow survives the drubbing, Baal reemerges as ruler of the gods, taking revenge on the rest of his foes and thwarting Death’s plots against him. The story ends with Baal on his rightful throne as ruler of the gods.

This story raises some helpful points for understanding what mythology is:

• The names of the gods are often symbolic: Sea and Death makes obvious appearances in the translation I’ve used here; also, El means God and that Baal means Lord.
• Symbolism is key for the story. Baal is the storm-god who brings rain to the land of Canaan, which allows the crops to grow so people can feed their children. Sea is a sort of chaos-monster; the ocean has sea-monsters like Leviathan and waves that sink ships. For Baal to conquer Sea means for the powers of order (e.g., predictable crop cycles) to conquer the powers of chaos, so that people can live safe lives.
• The other key point of symbolism is that Baal is killed by Death, but he only stays dead for a time. In an ancient agricultural society, people had to reckon with life and death every year, and the reality of winters––when crops didn’t grow and the land seemed to die––brought fear and uncertainty. The Baal myth reminds the people that even though a time of death (winter) comes each year, the rain-god only stays dead for a time, after which he comes to life again in spring.
• I don’t know how seriously people took this as a literal story, but its purpose was religious, not historical. It helped the Canaanites understand the god they worshipped, not specific historical events.
• Certainly Baal doesn’t live up to the ideas of God in Jewish and Christian scriptures –– for example, that he is just, unchanging, and intimately concerned with people. The portrait of Baal corresponds instead to something the Canaanites perceived: that whoever provided rain was fickle and inconsistent.

The Hebrew scriptures are generally more interested in what God does in history than in myth, which is why the exodus from Egypt receives so much attention. However, the OT also uses mythical images borrowed from Israel’s Canaanite neighbors.

In some passages, the OT texts seem to “demythologize” these myths, at least in part, so that Yahweh isn’t actually fighting a war against other gods. An example of this is Genesis 1: Yahweh brings order (land) out of the watery chaos, but he doesn’t have to fight any Sea-God in order to do it. And rather than describing Yahweh warring against astral deities, Genesis 1 describes how Yahweh created the sun, moon, and stars as objects, such that they’re aren’t gods at all, as other peoples thought them to be.

In other passages, however, OT scriptures use the myths themselves as apparent descriptions of what Yahweh actually did. An example is Psalm 74:12-14: “Yet God my King is from old, working salvation in the earth. You divided Sea by your might; you broke the heads of the dragons in the waters. You crushed the heads of Leviathan.” Here God basically takes on the role of Baal from the epic above: reigning as king, fighting Sea and the dragons within him. The psalmist also applies this myth to the historical situation (he’s asking why God has allowed Jerusalem to be conquered), but he seems to have no problem with describing Yahweh using myth.

The point here isn’t that the OT is a collection of “myths,” which most people would assume to simply mean stories that aren’t true. Rather, myth is a literary genre used to argue something theological, not to recount something historical. We should consider that some authors can use myths that aren’t meant to be taken literally in order to paint images of their gods, and that in fact our Bible uses some of those images to describe our God, Yahweh.

My previous post compared Jesus’ trial before Pilate in Mark and Luke, and I tried to explain how Luke, who was probably basing his story on Mark’s version, changes the scene to make a different point than Mark made with it.

Here I’ll add Matthew to the mix (Mt 27:11-26):

Now Jesus was standing before the governor. And the governor asked him, “Are you the king of the Jews?” Jesus said, “You say so.” And when he was being accused by the chief priests and the elders, he didn’t answer anything. Then Pilate said to him, “Don’t you hear all the things they’re testifying against you?” But he didn’t answer him with even a word, to Pilate’s great amazement.

At feast-time, it was the governor’s practice to set free for the crowd one prisoner whom they wanted released. At that time they were holding a notorious prisoner named Jesus Barabbas. Pilate gathered them together and said to them, “Which one do you want me to set free for you, Jesus Barabbas, or Jesus who is called messiah?”

While he was seated on the platform, his wife sent him a message saying, “Have nothing to do with that innocent man; I had a very painful dream about him today.”

But the chief priests and the elders convinced the crowd to ask for Barabbas, and to execute Jesus. So when the governor asked them, “Which of the two do you want me to set free for you?”, they said, “Barabbas.” Pilate said to them, “Then what should I do with Jesus who is called messiah?” They all said, “Let him be crucified.” [Pilate] said, “But what wrong did he commit?” But they shouted louder, “Let him be crucified!”

Now when Pilate saw that he was accomplishing nothing, but that it was becoming a riot, he took water and washed off his hands in the presence of the crowd and said, “I am innocent of this man’s blood––see for yourself.”

And the whole people answered, “Let his blood be upon us and upon our children.”

(For all three accounts in parallel columns, see this page.)

Matthew keeps the story a lot closer to Mark’s account than Luke does, though he does add the part about Pilate’s wife, which is absent from the other Gospels. Because of her dream, we have a stronger sense that Pilate actually wants to save Jesus’ life, though Matthew doesn’t make this nearly as clear as Luke, who has Pilate practically beg the crowd to acquit Jesus.

The other major change in Matthew comes at the end of this passage, and I think it shows us what Matthew finds most important about this part of the story. Unlike any of the other Gospels, Pilate washes his hands in front of the crowd, saying that he is innocent of Jesus’ blood; then the crowd of people cry out, “Let his blood be upon us and upon our children.”

MATTHEW AND THE JEWS

This is a climactic scene, and scholars rightly suspect that Matthew’s angle on the story tells us something he holds very dear. The theme of blood shows us the point: Matthew wants to be very specific about where blame is assigned for Jesus’ death.

I wrote recently about how this passage has often been used by Christians to blame “the Jews” for Jesus’ crucifixion, and at times Christians have turned against Jews in violence for this reason. But the anti-Jewish reading falls apart, especially since practically everyone in the story (including Jesus, of course) is Jewish, and the only Gentiles we see are the Romans who carry out the crucifixion.

Probably, Matthew considered himself a Jew, and he believed Jesus really was the Messiah for the Jews. The Old Testament has a long tradition of prophets proclaiming violent punishment against Israel and Jerusalem for their faithlessness, and it is likely that that’s what Matthew has in mind here. The people who accept Jesus’ blood-guilt before Pilate are not “the Jews” as a race or religion, but rather the people of Jerusalem at that time, and Matthew (writing perhaps in the 80’s A.D.) thinks that the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in 70 A.D. is Jerusalem’s punishment for rejecting its messiah. That doesn’t mean they stop being God’s people, just that they’re punished for disobedience.

There may even be some irony intended in the story: if Matthew is thinking of the Christian belief whereby Jesus’ blood cleanses us from our sins, then the story could both demonstrate Jerusalem’s guilt and foreshadow their forgiveness as seen, e.g., in Acts 2.

However, there’s another side to the matter: Matthew also believes that Jesus and his apostles are the leaders that Israel must now answer to, so Jesus’ teachings do effectively turn most of Israel into apostates (i.e., outsiders), since they reject Jesus’ teachings and lordship. This is a problem that Paul wrestles with in Romans 9–11, and it’s still a theological problem today. (Paul thinks all Israel will eventually believe in Christ [see Rom 11:11, 23, 25-26], but that doesn’t seem to have happened.)

In any event, from a Christian theological perspective, Matthew’s general view makes good sense: Jesus was the Jewish messiah who called all Israel to repentance and obedience, after which he invited Gentiles throughout the world to join the people of God as well.

WHAT CAN COMPARISONS GET US?

Redaction criticism is the academic term for studying how authors like Matthew and Luke copied certain parts of their Gospels from earlier works (especially Mark) but changed parts of the source text to suit their own message.

The reason redaction criticism is so important is that it helps highlight the arguments that the different Gospels are making about Jesus, since we can see where they went out of their way to change the text they used as their source for the story. It helps us draw conclusions about the authors and the churches they were writing for, which can also help us find where the author wants us to be surprised, angry, or amused by the story he tells.

For some contexts, I suppose it is fine to conflate the different stories; however, my conviction here is that these three Gospels want to tell us different things about what Jesus’ trial means, and that we are meant to understand all three of them as different insights into our faith.

In these two posts, I have suggested three very different points that the Gospels make using Jesus’ confrontation with Pilate. Each serves as a trial scene, but not exactly the kind we would expect:

• Mark emphasizes the injustice of the envious high priests manipulating the scornful and cynical Roman governor so that Jesus gets crucified by getting caught in the middle of an unjust system. In effect, it is the world that is found guilty, for no one in Mark’s Gospel (including the disiples) passes the test of believing in Jesus properly.
• Luke puts Jesus on trial before the readers of Luke’s Gospel, so that Pilate, Herod, the criminal on the cross, and the centurion by the cross all become witnesses who testify that Jesus is innocent. The jury is Luke’s Gentiles readers, who find Jesus a worthy lord despite his shameful execution.
• Matthew puts the people of Jerusalem on trial, which is ironic since they’re condemning themselves when they think they’re condemning Jesus; Jesus’ unjust punishment is crucifixion, while their just punishment is the destruction of Jerusalem 40 years later. Yet there is the possibility of forgiveness for those who later repent, even though Jerusalem will be destroyed nonetheless.

On the whole, we should compare each Gospel to a stage play rather than a history book. While a history book needs to cover all the facts and acknowledge all the subtleties of history, a play can simplify story-lines and stylize confrontations between characters in order to make us feel things and realize things that we might miss if we were only given facts. This, I’m convinced, is what Mark, Luke, and Matthew have done for us here.

A key idea of Gospel studies is that each author told the story of Jesus in order to emphasize different things about who Jesus was (or is). One way to put it is that the Gospels are works of rhetoric; they don’t just tell a story, they also make an argument.

A great place to see this at work is in the different accounts of Jesus’ trial before Pilate. Here I’ll deal with just Mark and Luke, though all four Gospels are different. Most scholars think Mark was written first, and that Matthew and Luke both copied Mark’s story as the basis for their own––so when we see differences in their stories, Matthew and Luke probably changed Mark for some particular reason.

First, Mark’s account (Mk 15:2-15):

Pilate asked [Jesus], “Are you the king of the Jews?” He answered, “You say so.” Then the chief priests accused him of many things, so Pilate asked him again, “Aren’t you going to answer anything? Do you hear all the things they’re accusing you of?” But Jesus no longer answered anything, to Pilate’s amazement.

At feast-time, [Pilate] typically set free for them one prisoner that they requested, so the crowd came up to him and began to ask him to do what he usually did for them. Pilate, knowing that the chief priests had handed [Jesus] over because of their jealousy of him, answered [the crowd], “Do you want me to set free for you the “King of the Jews”? Now, there was a man named Barabbas, who had been imprisoned with some men who had committed murder during a revolt. So the chief priests stirred up the crowd for him to set free Barabbas for them.

Then Pilate again answered them, “Then what do you want me to do with the one you call the “King of the Jews”? And they again cried out, “Crucify him!” Pilate said to them, “But what wrong has he committed?” But they cried out even more, “Crucify him!” So Pilate, wanting to satisfy the crowd, set free Barabbas for them, and he handed over Jesus to be flogged and crucified.

Now, compare the same story in Luke (Lk 23:2-25):

They began to accuse [Jesus], saying, “We found this man stirring up our nation, and stopping people from paying taxes to Caesar, and saying that he is an anointed king.”

So Pilate asked [Jesus], “Are you the king of the Jews?” He answered, “You say so.” Then Pilate said to the chief priests and the crowds, “I find no charge against this man” But they persisted and said, “He’s been stirring up the people, teaching through all of Judea, beginning in Galilee and coming all the way here.” When Pilate heard this, he asked if the man was a Galilean. When he found out that [Jesus] was from the jurisdiction of Herod, he sent him before Herod, who was in Jerusalem in those days.

When Herod saw Jesus he was very pleased, because he had wanted to see him for some time: he had heard about [Jesus] and hoped to see some sign done by him. [Herod] questioned him at some length, but [Jesus] didn’t answer him anything. The chief priests and the scribes stood there accusing him vehemently; meanwhile Herod, along with his soldiers, belittled him and mocked him, wrapping a purple cloak around him and sending him back to Pilate. That day, Herod and Pilate became friends, while previously they had been enemies.

Pilate called together the chief priests and the rulers and the people and said to them, “You brought me this man as one who was stirring up the people, but I have examined him right in front of you, and I haven’t found any charge against this man such as you have accused him of. And neither has Herod, for he sent him back to us, and look––nothing deserving death has been done by him. I will discipline him and set him free.”

But they cried out together, “Take this one! Set free Barabbas for us!” ([Barabbas] had been thrown into jail because of a certain revolt that had happened in the city and because of a murder.) But again Pilate spoke to them, wanting to set free Jesus. But they cried out, saying, “Cruficy! Crucify him!”

Then a third time he said to them, “But what wrong has he committed? I haven’t found any capital charge against him. So then, I’ll discipline him and set him free.”

But they insisted with loud voices asking for him to be crucified, and their voices prevailed. So Pilate passed judgment that their request be carried out. He set free the man they asked for, who had been thrown into jail because of revolt and murder, but Jesus he handed over to their will.

A couple of parts of the story are almost identical, but Luke has obviously made the story a lot longer with the trial before Herod and with Pilate speaking more to the crowd.

But Luke has also lost something: in Mark, the whole episode with Barabbas is really just a sly attempt by Pilate to embarrass the chief priests (Mk 15:9-10) by getting the crowd to request that Jesus be released while the priests are trying to have him killed. Jesus becomes a pawn in their political game, as the chief priests stir up the crowd to thwart Pilate’s move. Pilate briefly questions whether Jesus has done anything wrong, but he quickly gives in once they shout for crucifixion.

WHY THE DIFFERENCES?

Luke isn’t really interested in this whole exchange, at least not as a battle of wits between Pilate and the chief priests, and in fact he leaves out the explanation of why Pilate would release a prisoner to the crowd in the first place (compare Mk 15:6). Instead, Luke has Pilate declare Jesus’ innocence not just once (as in Mark), but three times.

It’s not that Pilate is being portrayed as a good guy here in Luke, even though he seems to lobby on Jesus’ behalf. If we look at the rest of Luke 23, we see that Jesus’ innocence is enormously important to Luke. Not only does Pilate insist three times that Jesus has done nothing wrong (Lk 23:4, 14, 22), but he also points out that Herod has found no charge against Jesus (Lk 23:15). Then in 23:41 we have one of the criminals on the cross declaring that Jesus has done nothing wrong (a passage that isn’t in Matthew or Mark), and in 23:47 the centurion by the cross declares, “Indeed this man was innocent” (where both Matthew and Luke have the centurion say that Jesus is the son of God).

This amounts to six proclamations of Jesus’ innocence in the span of 46 verses, which seems to be Luke’s way of hammering home a key point. Mark surely agrees that Jesus is innocent, but Luke wants to make it exceedingly clear. Pilate, meanwhile, doesn’t actually come off so well in Luke. While Mark portrays Pilate as not caring much whether Jesus dies or not, Luke makes him adamant that Jesus doesn’t deserve the punishment, which implies that Pilate is just too weak to stand up to the crowd.

We can’t know for sure exactly why Luke put so much emphasis on Jesus’ innocence, but one theory is that Luke wrote for Christians who wanted to defend the legitimacy of their religion in the eyes of sophisticated urban people, much as many Christian apologists do today. The Christian Gospel obviously included the story of Jesus’ death on the cross, which we might compare to being hanged, drawn, and quartered in more recent days. The point is that crucifixion wasn’t just painful, it was above all shameful; Roman skeptics wouldn’t have had a lot of sympathy for someone Rome had executed. So if Jesus was going to die a shameful death, it needed to be completely undeserved, a point Luke makes more clearly than Mark did.

Interestingly, Luke does the exact same thing with Paul in the last few chapters of Acts, where Paul is repeatedly proclaimed innocent even though he stays in prison and eventually (though not reported in Acts) gets executed in Rome. Paul created the same problem as Jesus: Christians were reading his letters, yet he was known to have been executed by Caesar; Luke’s two stories defend both Jesus and Paul in the same way.

SO WHAT REALLY HAPPENED?

It would be nice if we could know exactly how things went down during Jesus’ trial, but a careful reading of each of the Gospels suggests that we can’t just harmonize the different texts, assume they “mean” the same thing, and conclude that we’ve recovered what really happened. The reason is, whether Pilate declared Jesus innocent three times or one time or never at all, Mark and Luke also tell their stories in ways that suggest why Pilate did what he did, and their suggested motives differ. In Mark, Pilate comes across as fickle and uncaring, while in Luke he comes across as an earnest weakling. The only way to combine these two characterizations is to destroy both of them.

These dramatic portrayals can’t just be dismissed. Just like a movie gives totally different ideas about a character by what kind of music or lighting it uses, a story tells us things about characters by its portrayal–things that can’t be set aside for the sake of establishing the blunt “facts” of history. If I had to choose, I’d say the account in Mark is closer to history, but in reality I don’t know whether either Gospel reflects history accurately. The stories seem intended not so much to describe what happened to Jesus, but rather to explain who Jesus was and why he matters.

Sunday morning I preached on the Magnificat, the poem Mary recites shortly after learning she’ll become mother of the Son of God. The passage reflects Mary’s celebration that she, a peasant girl, is to be blessed with such an honor (Lk 1:46-55):

My soul magnifies the Lord
And my spirit exults in God my Savior,
For he has looked upon the humility of his slave-girl.

Look: from now on all generations will regard me as blessed
Because the Mighty One has done great things for me;
Holy is his name,
And his mercy is from generation to generation
for those who fear him.

He has done a mighty deed by his arm;
He has scattered the haughty in the thought of their heart;
He has pulled down the powerful from thrones,
And has exalted the humble.
The hungry he has filled with good things,
And the wealthy he has sent away empty.
He has helped Israel his servant,
Remembering mercy,
just as he announced to our fathers,
To Abraham and to his seed
Forever and ever.

I’ve been talking with my fiancee Beth (who’s Roman Catholic) about Mary as a model of spirituality, so I wanted to reflect on how we’re supposed to read toward that end.

One point I decided to press is that when we use Mary as a model for our spiritual lives, we should also consider another model alongside her: Paul. This might seem odd, and I could imagine Catholics and feminists being irritated that I brought Paul into the discussion. The two figures are quite different, in particular that Mary was a peasant girl and Paul was an educated Pharisee. But since a lot of us are more like him than like her, I think we could be misled by focusing on Mary’s example in Luke without considering Paul as another angle on Christian spirituality.

A key theme of the Magnificat, especially as it relates to Mary, is God’s lowering of the mighty and exaltation of the humble and lowly. Mary reflects this humility, both in her attitude and in her station in life. The danger for us is that we’ll try to imitate the first half of her example (the attitude) even though the second half (our station in life) is wildly different than hers. That is to say, if we put all our emphasis on Mary, we’re liable to think that God is satisfied if we simply change our attitude. I think that’s a half-truth that ignores what Luke really has to say about Jesus.

When you read the teachings of John and Jesus in Luke, it’s clear that the call to repentance goes well beyond changing one’s attitude. Jesus has a few things to say about how we feel about money, for example, but more often he gives specific instructions for us simply to give money away. The reason this is important is that it allows us to actually participate in the kind of reversal that the Magnificat proclaims. The reason we should take it literally is because it’s exactly what Paul does, giving up status for the sake of the gospel.

Probably the most famous passage where Paul addresses his loss of status is 2 Cor 12:7b-10:

So that I wouldn’t become arrogant, a thorn in the flesh was given to me, a messenger of Satan to strike me so that I wouldn’t become arrogant. I begged the Lord three times about this, that he would take it away from me, but he said to me, “My grace is enough for you, for power is perfected in weakness.” Accordingly, I enjoy boasting in my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can rest upon me. I am pleased with weakness, with insults, with needs, with persecutions and distresses, on Christ’s behalf. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

I think that when people read about Paul’s strength in weakness, they usually assume either that he’s being humble and “staying out of God’s way,” or else that he’s acknowledging his feeble human abilities that God overcomes to allow him to write great letters.

I think this is missing Paul’s point. When he talks about weakness, Paul talks a lot more about his suffering, and about the embarrassing things that have happened to him –– things like being flogged, which left real scars that people would see if he ever had his cloak off. In the ancient world, people who had status in a city or community had their rights protected by that community; people without status weren’t guaranteed the same kind of protection. A strong person could avoid suffering or persecution; only a weak person or a slave would have to submit to floggings and danger. That’s what Paul accepted willingly for his ministry.

Paul gave up being respected and cared for by society. Weakness, in this sense, means losing some of the ability to control your own life and call your own shots –– the opposite of having power, which means being able to do what you want. Being genuinely weak means making your life less convenient and putting yourself at the risk of sufferings that are no longer under your control, leaving yourself at the mercy of God and other Christians to get you through things. That is what so few Christians ever do, even when it puts us at risk of becoming “the last,” by Jesus’ own words, when he returns.

Other parts of Scripture make a different point, and as I’ve said, there are plenty of passages that call us to have humble attitudes. But I think that Mary’s poem reflects what Christ will do to us unless we do it first. In other words, the way to avoid being knocked from our thrones when Christ returns is to surrender those thrones ourselves, while we have the freedom to do so.

In the incarnation, God didn’t just change his attitude in order to understand how we might feel; instead, he took on flesh and became human. The change didn’t keep God from still being God, but it was still a real change. Paul didn’t lose everything –– he still had his education, for example, that helped him write powerful letters. But he wasn’t content to just try for an inner change. If we want to live up to the teachings of Christ, I would argue that our loss of power and status needs to be real and external as well.

Bible scholars have recently challenged the “supercessionist” idea that Jesus intended to replace Judaism with Christianity, or that the New Testament replaces Jews with (Christian) Gentiles as the people of God. A key battleground text for this question is the Gospel of Matthew, and a key assumption in the way I will interpret it is that different parts of the Bible don’t always agree with one another.

I’ll pursue the idea that Matthew’s church believed that the Jews were still the people of God, and that Gentiles, though welcome to join in following Christ, had in no sense inherited the faith from the Jews as a whole.

Here are four key texts for the issue. The first is from the Sermon on the Mount, where this particular passage represents Jesus’ fundamental teaching about the law (Matt 5:17-19):

Don’t suppose that I came to overthrow the law or the prophets; I didn’t come to overthrow but to fulfill. Truly I say to you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one iota or one stroke of a letter will pass away from the law until all things have happened. Therefore, whoever rejects one of the least of these commandments, and teaches the same to other people, will be called least in the heavens’ kingdom. But whoever does and teaches them will be called great in the heavens’ kingdom.

In a second text, Jesus remarks on the faith of a Roman Centurion (Matt 8:10-12):

Truly I say to you, I haven’t found such faith from anyone in Israel. I tell you, many from the east and west will come and recline at table with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the heavens’ kingdom, but the sons of the kingdom will be cast into the darkness outside, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

In a third passage Jesus responds to Pharisees and scribes who ask why his disciples don’t follow the tradition of ritually washing their hands before eating. A key point of his response is Matt 15:11, 17-20:

What enters the mouth does not make a person unclean; but what comes out of the mouth, that is what makes a person unclean…Don’t you know that everything that enters the mouth moves to the stomach and then is expelled into the toilet? But the things that come out of the mouth come out of the heart, and these make someone unclean; for out of the heart come disagreements, wicked deeds, murders, adulteries, thefts, false testimonies, and blasphemy. These are the things that make a person unclean, but eating with unwashed hands doesn’t make a person unclean.

Finally, at the crucifixion of Jesus, there is an important exchange between Pilate and the people of Jerusalem (Matt 27:24-25):

Now when Pilate saw that he was accomplishing nothing, but that it was becoming a riot, he took water and washed off his hands in the presence of the crowd and said, “I am innocent of this man’s blood––see for yourself.”

And the whole people answered, “Let his blood be upon us and upon our children.”

TWO INTERPRETATIONS:

One traditional Christian understanding of Matthew runs something like this:

• Jesus “fulfills” the law by spiritualizing it, so that Christians simply love God and one another in place of the Jewish law. Jesus’ encounter with the Roman centurion provides the occasion for him to prophecy that the Jews, who lacked faith in Jesus, would be replaced by Gentile Christians as the people of God. Jesus’ teaching about what enters and exits the mouth is his proclamation that Jewish purity laws no longer pertain to Christians. And the crowd’s statement, “Let his blood be upon us and upon our children,” represents the Jews (as a whole) rejecting Jesus and accepting guilt for his death.

In contrast to this is an alternate reading, proposed in recent years by scholars who feel that Matthew’s gospel is too Jewish to intend such an anti-Jewish message. This interpretation runs as follows:

• Jesus “fulfills” the law by showing Jewish Christians how to observe Torah by intensifying it in a particular heart-felt way rather than with the (also heart-felt) Pharisaic practice using strict oral traditions to be sure of observing Torah. Jesus’ encounter with the Roman centurion leads him to issue a standard prophetic warning, much like those in the OT prophets, that God would punish Israel if they did not repent of their sins. Jesus’ teaching about what enters and exits the mouth only rejects the Pharisaic practice of hand-washing, not the entire system of Jewish purity laws. And the crowd at the crucifixion represents not the Jews as a race or religion, but the people of Jerusalem as a generation that rejected Jesus; Matthew sees the punishment for Jesus’ blood as coming back against the people of Jerusalem and their children (i.e., the next generation) when Jerusalem is destroyed by Rome 40 years later.

SOME OBSERVATIONS

I lean toward the latter reading. Here are a few points supporting it:

• In Matthew 5 Jesus never gets rid of any laws––whether for Jews or Gentiles––and indeed he explicitly criticizes those who would.
• Jesus never breaks the Jewish law in Matthew. When accused of breaking the Sabbath (Matt 12:2), he only claims that his work is a justified exception in the same way as an emergency rescue or priestly work in the Temple.
• In Mark’s story about hand-washing, Mark does claim that Jesus was declaring all food clean (Mk 7:19). However, Matthew eliminates that line from the story, and then he adds Jesus’ statement only against handwashing (a tradition of the Pharisees, not a biblical law). It seems here that Matthew disagrees with Mark about what Jesus means: he was only saying that handwashing was unnecessary for purity, not that all food were clean.
• The Hebrew prophets say many awful things about the Israelites/Jews, but the assumption is always that the Jews remain the people of God. To use Jesus’ harsh words against Jews as evidence that God was rejecting the Jews as God’s people is to misunderstand Jesus’ role as a prophet.

IMPLICATIONS

It is no surprise that Matthew is often read as supercessionistic by Christians: Matthew claimed that Jesus had the only true interpretation of the Hebrew Scriptures, open also to Gentiles. As time passed, and more Gentiles than Jews became Christians, Matthew’s words seemed to have a different meaning. However, at the first, all of Jesus’ followers were Jews, and the earliest Palestinian churches were Jewish. If we hypothesize that Matthew wrote for one of these Jewish communities, the Gospel of Matthew would fit that context very well.

If there were NT Jewish Christians who could follow Jesus and still observe Torah, it should discourage us from too easily championing “Christian faith” against “Jewish legalism.” In Matthew’s opinion, Jesus did not reject Judaism, but rather called Jews (and ultimately Gentiles) to a particular form of Judaism.

Perhaps most important, the fault for Jesus’ crucifixion does not fall on “the Jews” in any broad sense. All of the heroes at the crucifixion were Jews, and the villains were a mixture of Jews and Gentiles. Matthew seems to think that one generation of Jerusalem residents, led by a wicked High Priest, rejected Jesus and were almost immediately punished for it. To suggest that blood remains on the heads of Jews today would not only be dangerous and possibly hateful, but it would miss the point made my Matthew.

My reading distinguishes between what we believe and the implications of what we believe. For Christians, it is still difficult to escape the conclusion (based on Matthew, at least) that non-Christian Jews are outside of the people of God. Though the idea is obviously offensive to Jews and many Christians as well, the Christian confession “Jesus is Lord” leaves little room for equivocation, at least on the question of where one’s loyalty must lie. But scholarly readings of Matthew that challenge us to shift our perspective can help us see that whatever our present faith, our Scriptures probably looked very different to those who wrote them.

Most of my ideas here are based on reading Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community, by Anthony J. Saldarini. For a shorter and less technical study of Matthew that somewhat disagrees but deals with similar issues, see the The Theology of the Gospel of Matthew (from Cambridge University Press’s New Testament Theology series), by Ulrich Luz.

From time to time I like to write up explanations for biblical words that I think get used in incorrect (yet interesting) ways. My previous posts have dealt with the words Calvary and helpmeet.

Here I’d like to discuss two proper names for deities in the Old Testament, and why I think English translations may obscure rather than clarify their sense. The names are Yahweh and Baal.

First I need to explain the distinction between a few Hebrew words. Several of them may be familiar. Note also that several of the words can function either as a common noun or as the proper name of a deity.

SOME HEBREW NAMES FOR GOD(S) AND LORD(S)

El is the Hebrew word for “god,” a cognate of the Arabic name Allah, used by Muslims. El could be a simple noun (similar to the lower-case god in English), but it was also the proper name of a Canaanite deity (similar to our upper-case use of the word God as a name). Hebrew has no upper or lower case letters, so the distinction must be determined from usage and context.

Elohim is, grammatically, just the plural of El, but it was used as another name for God. In the OT, Elohim is typically translated simply as “God,” such as in Genesis 1:1.

Yahweh is the primary name of the God of Israel. Other names such as Shaddai were used as well, but Yahweh was the most distinctive. In most English translations, Yahweh is translated “LORD” (see below), either in all capital letters or with small caps.

Adon is the Hebrew noun meaning “lord” or “master;” in the vast majority of cases it is used with a first person possessive prefix, spelled adonai (”my lord”). Either form could be a polite or submissive way of addressing either a human superior, or God.

Jehoveh is not a real Hebrew word at all, but rather is a later Christian misunderstanding of the name Yahweh. The reasons are complicated (maybe I’ll explain them in a later post), but the important point is that certain Hebrew letters can be transliterated into English in different ways, so that the Hebrew letter yod (spelled “jot” in Matt 5:18 in the KJV) shows up in English as either Y or J, and the Hebrew letter waw can be translated as either W or V. So then, the vowels of Yahweh were misunderstood by (much) later English translators as Yehowah, which they wrote as Jehovah. It works fine as a traditional name, but it isn’t really Hebrew.

Baal is a Hebrew word meaning owner, husband, or lord. It could also function as a proper noun referring to a Canaanite storm and fertility god: Baal was venerated for causing thunder and lightning, and for giving the rain that fertilized crops.

YAHWEH AND BAAL

What is interesting to me here is that Yahweh is at its core a proper name, whereas Baal was originally just a common noun (”lord” or “owner”) that came to be used as a proper name later in antiquity. Yet modern translations represent the Hebrew Yahweh with English LORD — a word that is not explicitly a proper noun — while they transliterate the Hebrew Baal as a word in English that appears to be only a proper name.

The result is an ironic swapping of the representation of the two names: in the Hebrew Yahweh is a proper noun and Baal comes from a common noun, yet the English translations suggest just the opposite.

Bruce Metzger, editor of the NRSV, explains one rationale behind the translation of Yahweh, writing in the preface of the NRSV:

The use of any proper name for the one and only God, as though there were other gods from whom the true God had to be distinguished, began to be discontinued in Judaism before the Christian era and is inappropriate for the universal faith of the Christian Church.

Now, in most cases, the NRSV (correctly, in my opinion) avoids altering the wording of OT passages to make them fit Christian interpretations. A famous example of this is Isa 7:14, where the NRSV translates “young woman” instead of “virgin,” since the former is more a accurate rendering of the Hebrew even though the latter is the meaning of the later Greek translations used especially by Christians.

It’s true that the early Christians used Greek translations of the OT that had the word “Lord” (Greek Kyrios) instead of the proper name “Yahweh,” yet modern translators should hardly feel bound to every convention that the ancients used — this is the whole point of going back to the original Hebrew, rather than just using the Greek Septuagint or the Latin Vulgate.

MAKING (NON)SENSE OF TEXTS

It seems to me that the position advocated by Metzger (who was actually somewhat of a conservative) leads readers to make assumptions that are basically what the ancient Israelites were opposing when they wrote the name Yahweh in their texts instead of just El or Adonai. This is not to idealize the Israelites, who committed plenty of idolatry. Yet Yahweh wasn’t used by other peoples, and the very use of the name served as a claim that the gods worshipped by surrounding nations weren’t the same.

Christians may prefer to worship God under the name “God,” a name that can be used by English-speaking adherents to any religion. Yet it is worth remembering that our Old Testament also uses a special name for God that cannot be universalized so readily.

In many places the OT text goes out of its way to emphasize God’s particular name. A good example is Psalm 18:31, which the NRSV translates, “For who is God except the LORD?” With this translation, the verse can come across as redundant or even virtually meaningless, especially when read out loud. One can still make sense of it, but it lacks the force that it has when translated more literally: “For who is God besides Yahweh?”

Metzger may be right that Christians should not imply that other gods are real, yet the rhetoric of Psalm 18:31 depends on the assumption that people who were around at that time generally assumed there were other gods. You have to be able to talk about other gods in order to insist that they aren’t real; if we obscure the language that allows for talk of other gods, then we present a text to English readers that obscures the argument the author was making.

Exodus 3:13-15 is practically ruined by the obscuring of the name Yahweh. When God (in the burning bush) sends Moses to Egypt, Moses worries that the elders of Israel may ask the name of the God who is sending him. God’s response, as the NRSV translates it, is:

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.

Here the translation “the LORD” makes the text almost unintelligible for those who aren’t paying close attention. Instead of the proper name Yahweh, we get the generic “The LORD,” even though the whole point is that Yahweh is a proper name. It would make far more sense in texts such as these to simply transliterate the name Yahweh.

THE PAYOFF

This may seem a small point, and I will admit that the stakes are relatively low. Yet my conviction is that we should let different biblical texts make their different points, rather than smoothing them over based on our theology. We may decide, especially from the New Testament, that we should use the generic names “God” or “the Lord” in our own prayers or sermons. But we have an enormous collection of texts in the Old Testament that use the proper name Yahweh, and I’m an advocate for translating texts so that their original sense is clear.

Granted, there are settings where Christians might avoid saying the divine name out loud in respect for Jews who are present. Yet the Jewish avoidance of speaking the name of Yahweh is not commanded in Scripture, and so I see no reason for Christians not to use the name Yahweh, just as we readily say the name Jesus — as long as we use both names with reverence.

Most English translations still use small caps to identify the divine name in the text, so it is not difficult to substitute the name Yahweh while reading OT texts aloud, for example in church.

And there is a theological payoff. The pluralistic leanings of Western society can lead us to assume that all peoples essentially worship the same God. No doubt this is at least partially true, yet the use of the name Yahweh reminds us that much of Scripture is not content with using a generic name for God — which is what Baal would have sounded like to ancients. Instead, Jews and Christians worship a particular god, who chose a particular people, and told them to call him by a particular name.

We may have reasons for disagreeing with the language used by the Scriptures, but if we are going to continue reading them, we should translate them in the sense their authors intended.

For more information on the names Yahweh and Baal, see their entries in the Anchor Bible Dictionary (now published as the Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary), edited by David Noel Freedman.

This is the transcript of a sermon I preached April 27 at Brookline Church of Christ in Brookline, MA. The text (which I read aloud before the sermon) is Acts 17:16-34.

OUR SOCIETY

Paul’s sermon in Athens is unique in Acts because of how far Paul goes to relate to his Greek audience. Paul is famous for saying (in 1 Cor 9:22) that he became all things to all people in order to save some, and today’s reading is the perfect example of that: Paul would ordinarily quote the OT, but here he’s in Athens, so he quotes a Greek writer instead, to try to tap into a tradition they would listen to. Paul needs to find a place for the God of Israel that’s somehow above the Greek pantheon (of Zeus, Hera, and Athena), so he turns to one of their own altars, which is inscribed, “to an unknown god.”

The word there for unknown is “agnostic,” which I think makes it very easy to connect the story with our society. Americans, on the whole, aren’t particularly atheists or polytheists—so most of us have something in us that insists there is a God, but we don’t tend to buy into stories about different Gods with different personalities. Instead, Americans are likely to sort of half-heartedly buy into the idea of an agnostic God that’s basically like the god the Athenians built the altar for.

I think even a lot of folks who attend church are basically agnostic, which is to say they aren’t particularly confident that God is any one way rather than some other way. My sense is, it’s pretty common for American Christians to stay in the tradition they were raised in, even if they stop believing that the Bible’s description of God is particularly more accurate or more true than any other religion. In others words, if you’re an agnostic who isn’t really sure who God is, but you still want to worship God, then whatever religion is comfortable is probably as good as any other. This actually makes a lot of sense: if you’re convinced that no one religion has a particular monopoly on divine revelation, then it’s not as if you could just keep looking until you found the right one. So you either stay where you are, or else you find a church where you feel comfortable, and you go with it.

PAUL IN ATHENS

But, turning back to Paul, we find that he’s not content to leave the agnostic god unknown. So he says to the Athenians: “What you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you.”

Paul gave his sermon in front of a group of philosophers in Athens—some of them were probably careful thinkers, and some of them were probably sloppy, but the important thing is that they wanted to think about who God is. So a big part of what I want to deal with today is the relationship between what we think about God, and what the Bible and the Christian tradition proclaim about God. Paul is going to use people’s ideas about God, and he’s going to say they have some truth, but he’s also going to say that human ideas about God aren’t enough if we don’t also have the proclamation—something that God reveals to us. So even though I can’t prove Christianity, I can say with confidence that Paul is claiming here that God can be known, that agnostic faith is insufficient—for us and for God. My goal here is to get at what that means for us.

If we look at Paul’s short sermon, about half of what he says about God is the things we can’t know, which leaves God still looking pretty agnostic: God doesn’t live in earthly temples, God is not like hand-made idols, and the nations are left groping in the dark trying to find him.

Most of the things that Paul does say about God are very general: God made the earth, made humanity, and appointed the times and places of the course of the nations. So we might say that God is (1) the beginning of all things, and (2) the sustainer of all things—which, interestingly, are two points that the philosophers in the crowd, the Stoics and Epicureans, would have fought over. These are also two points that lots of people in our world disagree about: Did God create the world, or did it come about by chance? Does God work in the world, or are our lives left up to chance? A lot of times, this breaks down to the argument between evangelical Christians and secular humanists, although I’d guess that most everyone has some opinion on the subject. This is a debate now, and it was a debate then, and Paul probably found a lot of allies in the crowd he was preaching to — at least as long as he stayed with the usual philosophical debates that the people in Athens were accustomed to.

But then Paul gets more specific and introduces the God of Israel. This is something the people of Athens weren’t so used to, and it came with a big catch: God wasn’t just an idea to be argued about, but Paul said that God was doing something new in their own time, and making a demand on the people who heard the sermon. God was calling everyone to repent, because soon the world would be judged by Christ. And Paul goes on: we have evidence, he says, that Christ is the one who will judge: because God raised him from the dead.

The Greeks tended to believe that the human soul was immortal, but they were happy to leave the body behind after death. So the Jewish idea of bodily resurrection from the dead — of dead corpses actually climbing up out of their graves — was not plausible or appealing. This may be why Paul says in 1 Corinthians that the cross is foolishness to the Greeks, and it’s certainly why Acts 17:32 says that some of Paul’s audience in Athens scoffed at his sermon. For most of them, the idea of God raising Christ from the dead was ridiculous — not just because of some skepticism about miracles, but because the resurrection didn’t really make sense to them.

What I’m getting at is that there’s a big difference between talking in generalities about the kind of God that philosophers discuss, and talking specifically about the God who reveals himself. There is a big difference between describing how God tends to act, and describing something specific that God has done. And above all, there’s a big difference between describing the kinds of ethical demands that are consistent with a good God, and proclaiming the call for repentance that God is issuing to the world right now.

I want to start with a fairly general point Paul is making here in Acts 17, and then build on it from some of Paul’s letters and the rest of the New Testament. Paul doesn’t say much about Christ here — and in fact he doesn’t even mention him by name — but Jesus is still there at the climax of the message.

So looking at the sermon, Paul claims that he’s going to tell the Athenians who the unknown God is, and it seems to me that he makes three basic points, what we might call the beginning, the middle, and the end: God created the world, God directs the times and places of the nations, and God has appointed Christ to judge the world on the last day. So God is the beginning of all things, and God is the sustainer of all things, but Christ is the end of all things.

NEW TESTAMENT CHRISTOLOGY

This is where I want break away from Acts for awhile, and consider what it means for Christ to stand at the climax of Paul’s sermon. As a modern person trying to figure out who God is, this is what jumps out at me from the sermon: If Jews from Israel and at least some Greeks from Athens can agree that God created the world, and that God cares for creation, then Christ is the unique and surprising part of the sermon. The outline of the sermon matches Paul’s outline of history: the beginning, the middle, and the end, describe the three parts of God’s work in the world: creation, providence, and judgment. The beginning and the middle of the sermon are points that Paul could expect to find some of the philosophers in the crowd to generally agree with him about, but the mention of Christ at the end is the place where the sermon takes its own turn.

I want to expand a little bit here on who Christ is and what he teaches us, which means I’m going to spread out from our text in Acts, to Paul’s letters and the rest of the NT. One of the most important points of theology, in the NT, is that the God who was unknown to the people of Athens, makes himself known in Jesus Christ.

Some places this is very simple and explicit, like in John, when Jesus says, “If you have seen me, you have seen the Father.” But it goes beyond that. Jesus’ ministry began and ended with the God of Israel, the things God had done for them, and the promises God had made to them.

Part of my goal here is to contrast the God of Israel with the God of the philosophers. But I also have to admit that the Jews who wrote the OT were thinkers too, even if they weren’t exactly philosophers like the Greeks. Depending on how you read it, the OT can look a lot like a book of ideas, written by people who were trying to figure out who God is, a lot like the Greeks were.

Yet at the end of the day, the prophets also have a lot of oracles which simply claim, “Thus says the Lord,” and that kind of revelation is something that goes beyond philosophical arguments. Then we come to the NT, which insists that those oracles and promises are ultimately fulfilled in Christ. That means that if we want to know the unknown God, we have to look at what God has revealed, in both the OT and the NT. The OT tells us how God revealed himself to Israel, and it also tells us the promises God gave to Israel—which are also promises for us. In the NT, we are told how Christ reveals the Father to us more fully, and also how he fulfills the promises God has already given to Israel.

I think the key to NT theology is something that Paul says in 2 Corinthians 1:20: “In Christ, every one of God’s promises is a ‘yes’” (NRSV). Paul doesn’t explain exactly what that means, but it becomes pretty clear when we start looking at the NT, and how it explains who Jesus was and what he did. As it turns out, you can pick virtually any major motif or figure from the OT, and there will be a passage somewhere in the NT that explains how it finds its fulfillment in Jesus. And just as before, this is true for beginning, middle, and end, past, present, and future. So looking at the OT, Jesus reenacts the major ways that God delivered Israel in the past, he fills every office of leader that the OT describes for the present, and he fulfills God’s promises to deliver Israel in the future.

In fact, you can basically walk through the OT looking for major themes, and each one of them has a matching NT passage that tells how Christ fulfills it:

• God creates the world? Paul tells us in Colossians that it was through Jesus that all things in heaven and on earth were created.
• Adam’s transgression brings death into the world? Paul tells us that Jesus became the New Adam, overcoming death for us.
• Abraham receives God promise to bless the world through his seed? Paul tells us that his seed was Christ, the blessing to the gentiles.
• God the Divine Warrior battles Pharaoh for the children of Israel? Revelation tells us that Christ will become the divine warrior, when he returns to bring vengeance on the wicked.
• For the first passover, the children of Israel sacrifice a lamb to protect their homes from the angel of death? Paul tells us that Christ is our Passover lamb, who has been sacrificed.
• Moses is sent by God to bring Israel out of Egypt and give them the law on Mount Sinai? In Matthew, Christ is the new Moses, who leads his people out of slavery, stands on the side of a mountain, and delivers a new law.
• In the wilderness, Israel endures 40 years of testing? The Gospels tell us that Jesus went into the wilderness for 40 days, where he overcame the tests that Satan put before him.
• God sent Manna, the bread of heaven, to feed Israel in the wilderness? In John, Jesus tells us that he is the bread that comes down from heaven to feed God’s people.
• Moses lifts up a bronze serpent in the wilderness to save the people from snakebites? In John, Jesus is the one who is lifted up to give salvation.
• In the tabernacle, the High Priest of Israel makes atonement for the people in the Holy of Holies? Hebrews says that Jesus is our High Priest, who makes atonement with his own blood.
• David served as the anointed king of Israel, whose descendant would be the Messiah who would deliver Israel from its enemies? Jesus is that Messiah, who delivers Israel from their sins.
• Proverbs describes Wisdom as the first creation of God, through which he created the world? John tells us that Christ is the divine word of wisdom, who was already there with God, and through whom the world was created.
• Elijah the great signs prophet uses God’s power to heal and do miracles? Jesus becomes that kind of prophet, also healing and doing miracles.
• Isaiah and the other great preaching prophets proclaim God’s demand for social justice in Israel? Jesus defends the widows, befriends the tax collectors, and preaches the good news to the poor.
• The Suffering servant in Isaiah will take the sins of the people upon himself? 1 Peter tells us how Jesus becomes the suffering servant and submits himself to the crucifixion.
• Jeremiah and Ezekiel describe a new covenant, where God will empower his people through the Holy Spirit? Jesus seals the new covenant with his own blood, and then sends the Spirit as a guide.
• Daniel describes how one like a Son of Man will rise up to rule the nations and bring justice to the earth? Jesus is that Son of Man, who will rule and judge the nations on the last day.
• And finally, the resurrection is described in Daniel, when the righteous people who die will be raised on the last day? Jesus is the Resurrection and the life, the firstfruits from among the dead.

We see a pretty obvious pattern start to show up: like Paul said, the promises of God are “yes” in Christ. These claims are not the arguments of philosophers, even though a lot of thought obviously went in to all these NT passages. These passages are more specific than the generalities that philosophers deal with, and this promise of salvation is more than a person could figure out just by looking at the world.

CONCLUSIONS

So as a theology student, I’m torn: the grad student in me feels most comfortable talking about the philosopher’s God — which I think includes a lot of truth about God, and in fact Paul preaches in Athens that their philosophers have things partly right. The philosopher’s God is very appealing to worship, because he makes sense, and he’s attractive to outsiders when we try to give a defense for the hope we have, like our 1 Peter reading says.

But Paul refuses to stop with the philosopher’s God — it’s too general. For Paul, and throughout the NT, you don’t really know God until you see him as revealed in Jesus Christ. Our groping in the darkness can show us that God created the world, and that he works for the good of humanity, but we must turn to the Old Testament to see how God has actually acted to save his people in the past, and how God has promised to save his people in the future. This kind of salvation is not designed to be inferred by philosophers; instead, it rests on God’s faithfulness to specific promises.

Christ, according to the New Testament, reenacts the saving deeds of God from the past, he takes on the role of the Savior sent from God in the present, and his resurrection gives us assurance of God’s ultimate salvation in the future. As much as we can use philosophy and academic language to describe Jesus—and in fact, that’s my job as a grad student—what’s really important about him is not the ideas about him, but the fact of his life and the reality of what he did, and the hope he offers for what he will do.

Resurrection, for Paul, is not an idea, but an historical event—both when Jesus was raised, and when we will be raised. Repentance is not just an ethical scheme based on theological arguments; instead, it’s a direct warning from God that the world will end at an appointed time, and that we will be judged by Jesus.

So then, the Gospel of Christ is not designed just to be something we find interesting, or something we may wish to hear more about at some point in the future. The people in Athens who say this, that they want to hear more, but not right now, are missing the point if they think that Paul’s ideas are merely something new and interesting that they can think about. At least the ones who scoff show that they’ve understood Paul’s message, and they know they want to reject it. For the rest of us, we might not be convinced at the first hearing, but that shouldn’t lull us into being content in our agnosticism. Hearing the Gospel is meant to push us toward responding.

We can doubt whether the Gospel is true or not — whether or not God really did raise Jesus Christ from the dead — but the NT does everything it can to confute anyone who would claim that the time for repentance simply hasn’t come yet. If there’s one thing we are meant to learn from the New Testament, and all those examples that I listed earlier, it’s that salvation is now, present in Christ. This is why the NT tells us that Jesus is the embodiment of virtually every kind of salvation you can find in the OT and in the Jewish tradition: Salvation belongs to the Lord, and it is revealed in Christ. If you were waiting for salvation — any kind of salvation — there’s nothing else that you’ve been waiting for.

There’s a Rich Mullins song that says, “To say the time is short, just means the time is now.” The Christian claim is that all salvation is present in Jesus Christ, and the implication is that God will no longer overlook ignorance of who God really is. It’s as if God is saying, “If you don’t find salvation in Christ, then you don’t really want what I have to offer anyway.”

So philosophers can spend their time thinking, and create ideas about immortal souls if they want to, but there’s really nothing in our experience that tells us we should expect that. People might see ghosts, or they might have experiences of communicating with the dead — so it’s easy to see why people assume there is something after death, but a lot of us aren’t completely convinced those stories are true, and even if they are, they’re difficult to nail down or understand exactly — they’re not exactly the kind of thing you want to base your hope on. People might have general ideas about spirituality and morality, but those aren’t real reasons for hope. Our experience of the world is ultimately that everyone dies.

The only salvation there is to be had beyond the grave is resurrection in Christ, and we have a real reason to believe it: the tomb was empty, and witnesses saw Jesus show up, talk with them, and eat food. We still might doubt whether those stories is true, or whether something else could have happened to Jesus’ body, but at the end of the day, the Christian Gospel is more than just a philosophical argument — and for me, at least, that makes all the difference. Salvation is not an idea or an inference, but rather a gift that will be given on some real last day, to those who withstand judgment before Christ. This, Paul proclaims, is simply what will happen.

So what we’re faced with is fundamentally different than a set of ideas we need to consider. It’s certainly more than just a theological scheme for us to find interesting, even though the NT is full of fascinating theological ideas. But what we’re faced with is the reality of a judgment, and Paul’s sermon is not just calling us to understand or agree — it’s calling us to act, which means to repent and prepare for a real day that will come, whether we believe it or not.

Most of us here today are already Christians, but I think Paul’s sermon can challenge us to consider whether we’re still worshipping the unknown God they worshipped in Athens, or whether we’re preparing ourselves for a meeting with the living, revealed God of Israel, who we see in Jesus Christ. And as interesting as all this might be, the interesting ideas aren’t really the point. What we’re being called to should probably be the same thing that Paul was calling the Athenians to: not just to understand or believe, but to repent.

The apocalyptic worldview holds that God’s good world is now under the control of evil angels or demons. At its core, apocalypticism is a theodicy - - an attempt to reconcile a good God with evil in the world.

In most of the Old Testament, humans are responsible for their own wickedness (the serpent doesn’t force Eve to do anything), and God shows God’s justice by rewarding and punishing human deeds. But some OT texts challenge this idea: Job argues (correctly, according to the story) that he suffers unjustly, and Ecclesiastes laments that the good and bad in life simply happen, without any apparent reason.

Apocalypticism insists, instead, that fallen angels have taken control of creation, and that the justice of God (who has effectively relinquished control) will only be seen at the end of time, when wickedness reaches its climax and God steps in to end history, destroying the wicked and vindicating the righteous. The world will be transformed into a new age that will have no wickedness or suffering. God will again be in control, and the world will work like it’s supposed to work. Bits of apocalypticism can be found in the OT (esp. the end of Isaiah and the second half of Daniel), but it flourishes in Jewish literature in the centuries just before Jesus.

Apocalypticism is at the heart of New Testament theology. Jesus’ proclamation of the Kingdom of God meant that God would soon take back control of the world. Paul argued that Jesus had initiated the end times, and that he would soon return to set the world right again. Revelation insisted that a new heaven and earth would soon replace the old, fulfilling Isaiah 65:17.

This affects how Christians live, because we believe in the paradox that the world is a good place, but that it is influenced by forces of evil that will never be fully overcome until Jesus’ return. We work for good, but we know that human progress can never fully redeem the earth; that task is reserved for the avenging Son of Man at the end of time as we know it.

Reading suggestions: Within scripture, important apocalyptic passages include Isaiah 65:17–66:24; Daniel 7-12; Mark 13; 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18; 2 Peter 3:3-10; and of course the book of Revelation.

For secondary literature, I’m a big fan of John Collins, so I’d suggest his book The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature. Also, see my related post here.

Today I voted for the first time since Bob Dole ran against Bill Clinton in 1996, and the experience of going to the polls calls my attention to two huge flaws in the American electoral process that I feel we should all be talking about. So, straying briefly from theology, here are my criticisms of, and proposals for, the two dynamics that I think ruin American politics.

PROBLEM ONE: You have to vote for a winner.

I have a housemate and another good friend who are strong supporters of Ron Paul, and I have a lot of sympathy for their choice. In particular, he’s the only candidate in either party who is opposed to both abortion and the Iraq war. I also like Barack Obama (whom I voted for today), but I have to admit that I would strongly consider giving my support to Paul instead, except for one thing: Ron Paul can’t win.

Normally, I believe in making decisions based on principle, but in this case the situation is more complicated. Aside from liking Obama as a leader (which I do), I’m also concerned about the alternatives.

To put it as briefly as I can, I don’t think Hillary can beat McCain or Romney, so a vote for anyone but Obama in the democratic primary simply makes it more likely that Clinton will win the nomination and that, therefore, McCain or Romney will be our next president.

Now, I could support Ron Paul as a Republican, but I don’t think he has a shot to win the nomination. And I can only vote in one Massachusetts primary — either Democrat or Republican. That means, paradoxically, that I am forced into a situation where a vote for Ron Paul basically amounts to a vote for McCain/Romney.

Some of this is unavoidable, especially in this case since it wouldn’t make sense to let everyone vote in both primaries — then we’d really see political games going on. But the problem in our system is that Ron Paul might actually have a shot to win if people were voting for exactly who they wanted, without worrying that it might help someone else win. Paul has a lot of appeal, but I’m sure there are many people who won’t vote for him simply because it would help one of the other candidates.

Solution:

There’s a clear (though only partial) solution here, that would complicate our current electoral process, but that I think is worthwhile. I’ll describe how it would work in the primaries.

The only truly just way to have an election with multiple candidates is to require a candidate to get more than 50% of the total vote in order to win. That way, if 60% of the Democrats don’t want Clinton, she can’t win the nomination with 40% just because the rest of the voters split 30/30 for Obama and Edwards. So none of those 60% percent have to worry about inadventently helping Clinton by voting for Obama or Edwards.

The way this works is, if no one gets 50% (which is likely in this case), you drop the lowest vote-getters from the ballot and then have a run-off election. I would suggest the best way to do this would be to keep the top four candidates, provided they each got at least 10% of the vote. Among the Democrats, you’d probably end up with Obama/Clinton/Edwards, and among the Republicans it would probably be McCain/Romney/Huckabee/Paul.

If someone in the run-off gets more than 50%, they win. But if they don’t (which would probably be the case in both parties this time), then you drop the lowest vote-getter and run it again.

This doesn’t solve the problem completely. For example, I still couldn’t support Hillary in the primary because I don’t think she can beat the Republicans in the general election. However, what this system does do is help candidates like Ron Paul — candidates who have a lot of supporters, but whom people doubt can really win.

The key point is that a vote for Paul in this system makes it no more likely that McCain or Romney will win. So for example, if I just want anyone but Romney, a vote for any of the other Republican candidates will take away from the number of votes Romney needs to get 50%. Once voters feel freer to vote for the candidate they actually want, Paul might end up having enough real supporters to beat Huckabee, which would leave McCain/Romney/Paul for the third run-off.

But — and here’s the key point — even if he doesn’t win, everyone who wanted Paul had the opportunity to vote for him. If it turns out that he doesn’t have enough support to make it to the next ballot, then the people who voted for him get to choose which of the other candidates to give their support to in the run-off. Not only has Paul been given a fair shot at winning (since he didn’t lose the votes of people who were scared of helping someone else), but also his supporters still get a voice in who the nominee will be, among the remaining candidates.

The same process would hold in the general election, which would give a third-party candidate (like Perot or Nader) a fair shot, for all the same reasons I’ve described.

People would object to this system because run-offs would require people to vote more than once, on different days. Also, you’d have a somewhat different electorate for each run-off, since different people would be busy or out of town each day. However, in light of the resources that America already pours into its absurdly long, year-and-a-half presidential election, surely people could find the time to vote three or four times in January and three of four times again in November.

PROBLEM TWO: The only real contests are in swing states

This is the common complaint about the electoral college, which many people think should be replaced with a direct popular vote. That could work, but you still have the problem that each person is only one out of tens of millions of votes, so no one vote seems particularly important.

I think an even better system would be to keep the electoral college, but for each state to divide up its delegates according to the percentage of the state-wide popular vote.

So imagine living in Texas, as I did, when George W. Bush was nominated in 2000. It was so obvious that he would win the state, that I didn’t bother to vote. People who supported him had no reason to doubt that he would beat Gore, and people who supported Gore knew they had no chance of taking the state.

But imagine if Texas’s 34 delegates were assigned by percentage of the state-wide popular vote. Then Democrats would have real hope of winning some delegates, and Republicans couldn’t just sit back knowing they would win the state. Each party would be fighting over real delegates that they had a real chance of winning or losing to the other side. We would no longer have the kind of nonsense from 2000, where Florida could swing the entire election with all of its 27 delegates having to go to one party or the other. Plus, a third-party candidate could win a substantial number of delegates nation-wide even if he or she couldn’t command a majority in a large state.

What’s more, because the parties would be fighting for delegates (rather than just having a national popular vote), a few thousand votes could swing an entire delegate, which could have a recognizable impact on the national election. There would be a real reason to campaign for your candidate locally, and a real reason to try to get out the vote. I have to think this would give a substantial boost to voter participation, and it would also increase the likelihood that the electoral college would mirror the national popular vote.

COULD THIS WORK?

Both of these suggestions have varying degrees of difficulty.

Having a run-off in the general election would require a constitutional amendment, so it seems the least likely to work out. At the primary level, however, I believe each state’s party can decide on its own procedures, so I see no reason why at least some states couldn’t adopt this kind of system right away.

Concerning the logistical complexity of having repeated run-offs, we might be able to solve the problem by setting up a virtual run-off, where each voter would rank their choices for president. For the first ballot, only first choices would be counted. But if a run-off was necessary, we would simply re-count all the same ballots, but for anyone whose first choice was no longer on the ballot, their second choice would be counted as their vote — and so on, until a candidate won more than 50% of the votes. News broadcasts could do a quick breakdown of each election to show how the various candidates were eliminated and what percentage of the vote they received in each run-off. This would work better in the primary election, since it would be difficult to have states assign their delegates to the electoral college in the same way. Of course, if we went to a national popular vote, this system would make sense at the national level.

As to dividing up states’ delegates according to state-wide popular vote, the difficulty is that the Republican voters of Texas aren’t going to want to pass a law that gives some of their delegates to the Democrats each election, any more than the Democratic voters of Massachusetts are going to want to give up delegates to the Republicans. So this method of choosing delegates would be the most feasible in swing states, where there is no clear majority that wants to protect its block vote. And since the constitution allows each state to decide how to choose its delegates, we can’t simply pass a federal law to change the system.

The other possibility is for various state legislatures to get together and make a binding agreement to apportion their delegates according to state-wide popular vote. (There has been recent talk of a similar suggestion using the national popular vote, but I’ll leave that to anyone else who wants to explain it.) There would have to be enough red states and enough blue states in on the deal, in order for people to feel that the agreement would result in a just election. For it to be truly fair, I think it would require all 50 states plus DC, so it’s hard to imagine how it would happen.

A constitutional amendment, dictating how states must choose their delegates, might be the only way to make it work.

I’d love to get some good discussion here. Surely our presidential elections demand a better system than what we have, but we need solutions that are feasible.