Apart from its stellar collection of books and journals, and its ever-helpful staff, one of the things I like best about the Clifford E. Barbour Library at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary is the whiteboard by the front desk.  Periodically, someone on the staff posts a whimsical question, usually with a biblical connection (one I recall was, very simply, “Hebrew or Greek?”), to which library patrons are encouraged to respond.  The picture at the head of this blog shows a recent question, relating to the book of Daniel: “Would you rather sit in the lion’s den with Daniel, OR get thrown into the furnace with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego [that is, with an eye to Veggie Tales fans!] (Rack, Shack, and Benny)?

In keeping with the whimsy of the question, I said that I’d rather be with Daniel, because “I like kitties!”  But, Bible Guy and professor emeritus that I am, I couldn’t resist adding an exegetical note.  If you have trouble deciphering my purple scrawl, it says,

Also, Daniel’s deliverance is assured in the traditions; the Three go in not knowing if deliverance will come. . .

The ellipsis at the end was very deliberate, meant to indicate an open-endedness to the moment before their (would-be) martyrdom.  Another patron added a note of their own: “meeting God, though?”    So, what happens in this biblical narrative?

In Daniel 3, Nebuchadnezzar invites officials from throughout his empire to the dedication of a huge golden image reminiscent, perhaps, of the king’s dream (see Dan 2). The Aramaic word used here, tselem, is found in an ancient inscription (perhaps 9th or 10th century BCE) on a memorial statue from Tell Fekhariyeh in Syria, where it describes the statue as the “image” of Adad-it’i, governor of Guzan, Sikan, and Azran (cf. A. R. Millard and P. Bordreuil, “A Statue from Syria with Assyrian and Aramaic Inscriptions,” BA 45 [1982]: 135-42). This term is closely related to the Hebrew tselem (“image”), used in Genesis 1:26-27 NRSVue for the creation of human beings “in the image of God.” So, the CEB rendering “statue” is appropriate.  The image is gigantic: six cubits broad by sixty cubits high, or, about 9 by 87 1/2 feet.  We are not told anything about who or what this golden statue was supposed to represent. For the writer of Daniel, all that matters is that it was to be an object of false worship.

Nebuchadnezzar invited officials from throughout his empire to the dedication of the huge golden image. To the assembled crowd of people and dignitaries from across Nebuchadnezzar’s empire, a herald proclaims that, when the music begins, all are to fall down and worship the image.  The herald warns that when the music plays “Anyone who will not bow down and worship will be immediately thrown into a furnace of flaming fire” (Dan 3:6)–or, as the KJV famously reads, “a burning fiery furnace.”

To us, this story may well seem needlessly repetitive. Elements such as the list of seven officials in Daniel 3:2-3, the list of six musical instruments in Daniel 3:5, 7, 10, and 15; the account of the people’s actions upon hearing the music, even the stereotypical description of the furnace as “a furnace of flaming fire” are repeated again and again. However, repetition is an earmark of the traditional storyteller’s art. The stereotyped elements make the story easier to remember and recite, and carry the listener along with a sense of the familiar.  And, as any parent or grandparent who has ever read a favorite story to a child can tell you, audiences of traditional stories anticipate those repeated elements, and will insist on hearing them!

Of course, Daniel’s three friends Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego (see Dan 1:6-7; intriguingly, nothing is said of Daniel himself in this narrative) refuse to bow down. Perhaps envious of the high position the three Hebrews enjoy in Nebuchadnezzar’s court, Babylonian rivals accuse the three before the emperor himself. In a rage, Nebuchadnezzar orders them brought before him.

In Daniel 3:14-15, the three Hebrews are commanded to worship the statue not through a herald, but by Nebuchadnezzar himself. There is no room now for them to claim that they had misunderstood the command, or to otherwise hedge their disobedience. Nebuchadnezzar makes their choice painfully clear. Even now, if they will fall down and worship when the music sounds, all will be well. “But if you won’t worship it, you will be thrown straight into the furnace of flaming fire. Then what god will rescue you from my power?” (Dan 3:15).

To any reader of Israel’s story, Nebuchadnezzar’s proud boast will sound familiar. Similarly, when the armies of the Assyrian empire had come to the gates of Jerusalem in the days of King Hezekiah, Sennacherib the Assyrian king had taunted the city’s defenders, “Which one of any of the gods of those lands has rescued their country from my power? Why should the LORD rescue Jerusalem from my power?” (2 Kgs 18:35). Of course, against all expectations, the LORD did deliver Jerusalem from Sennacherib. So, too, as anyone familiar with this story knows, the LORD will deliver Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.

However, the three Hebrews cannot know the end of their story:  they do not know that they will be delivered!  Their refusal to obey Nebuchadnezzar is not rooted in the certainty that God will keep them from harm, but rather in the absolute demand of their faith.  The threat of being burned alive would have been tragically familiar to the audience of this story.  Antiochus’ minions had done precisely that to members of the pious Judean community this book addresses. 2 Maccabees 7:1-42 describes the horrific death by torture suffered by seven Jewish brothers, one after another, who refused to surrender their faith–ending with their being burned alive.

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego refuse to even attempt a defense. There is no doubt that they are guilty of the charge–they did not bow to the golden statue, nor will they bow to it now. Instead, they take their stand:

If our God—the one we serve—is able to rescue us from the furnace of flaming fire and from your power, Your Majesty, then let him rescue us. But if he doesn’t, know this for certain, Your Majesty: we will never serve your gods or worship the gold statue you’ve set up (Dan 3:17-18).

“If our God whom we serve is able”?  This statement may come as a surprise. Many older translations, such as the KJV and the RSV, read “If it be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us”–as do the NIV and The Message.  However, the clearest and best translation of the Aramaic would appear to be the one chosen by  NRSVue, and the CEB, printed above.

One might think that this remarkable statement expresses doubt about God, questioning God’s ability to save–but in fact, it is a statement of the purest faith. Whether God delivers us or not, the three men declare, we will not worship false gods. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego do not serve God because it is convenient, or because it brings them benefits. For these believers, faith is not a hobby, or a form of therapy. For them, faith is life, and life without faith is not worth having

Like the martyrs in 2 Maccabees, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego act in accordance with the absolute demand of their faith. Whatever comes next–whether God delivers them or not–they will not worship other gods.

In his book The Alphabet of Grace, Christian author Frederick Buechner wrote of a day when he was driving home from church “full of Christ, I thought, giddy in the head almost and if not speaking in tongues at least singing in tongues some kind of witless, wordless psalm.”  But then, he turned on the radio, and heard a story of horrific child abuse (please take warning if such an account is triggering for you).  To punish a crying baby, its parents had filled a tub with hot, hot water and immersed the child in it, scalding their baby to death.  Abruptly, Buechner writes,

as I heard it reported on the radio on my way back from of all places church and prayed to almighty God to kick to pieces such a world or to kick to pieces Himself and His Son and His Holy Ghost world without end standing there by the side of that screaming tub and doing nothing while with his scrawny little buttocks bare, the hopeless little four-year-old whistle, the child was lowered in his mother’s arms. I am acquainted with the reasons that theologians give and that I have given myself for why God does not, in the name of human freedom must not, by the very nature of things as he has himself established that nature cannot and will not, interfere in these sordid matters, but I prayed nonetheless for his interference.

Of course, that interference had not come–as it did not come for those Antiochus had burned to death; as it did not come for six million Jews marched into gas chambers and ovens by the Nazis and their willing confederates; as it did not come for Jesus, despite his earnest prayer in the garden, “Father, if it’s your will [there is that “if” again!], take this cup of suffering away from me” (Luke 22:42).

Buechner imagines someone asking why, then, he believes?

I believe without the miracles I have prayed for then; that is what I am explaining. I believe because certain uncertain things have happened, dim half-miracles, sermons and silences and what not. Perhaps it is my believing itself that is the miracle I believe by. Perhaps it is the miracle of my own life: that I, who might so easily not have been, am; who might so easily at any moment, even now, give the whole thing up, nonetheless by God’s grace do not give it up and am not given up by it.

We too have no assurance that everything is going to turn out well for us, or even that we will be able to discern a reason for what happens in our lives.

April 20th, which this year is Easter for Western and Eastern Christians alike, is also the day when, according to an executive order issued on January 2oth by the president,

the Secretary of Defense and the Secretary of Homeland Security shall submit a joint report to the President about the conditions at the southern border of the United States and any recommendations regarding additional actions that may be necessary to obtain complete operational control of the southern border, including whether to invoke the Insurrection Act of 1807.

I wish that I could tell you that it won’t happen–that the Insurrection Act will not be invoked, that the U.S. military will not be turned against American citizens, even legal immigrants and peaceful protestors.  But I can’t.  What I can say is that whatever happens next, our Lord who did not spare himself even the suffering and death of the cross will never abandon us–as the story of the fiery furnace confirms.

In his rage, Nebuchadnezzer orders the furnace fired up seven times hotter than before (Daniel 3:19-23). The three friends are bound, and hurled helplessly into the fire. So fierce are the flames that the people who throw Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego into the furnace are themselves consumed.

But the three Hebrews are not killed! When Nebuchadnezzar looks into the blazing furnace, he sees that though their bonds have burned away, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego are themselves untouched by the blaze. Even their clothing remains unsinged!  Further, to his astonishment, the king sees that the three are not the only ones in the furnace:

Look! I see four men, unbound, walking around inside the fire, and they aren’t hurt! And the fourth one looks like one of the gods (Dan 3:24-25).

The Aramaic phrase bar-‘elohin, translated “one of the gods” in the CEB, means literally “a son of god.” In the Hebrew Bible, the expression “sons of God” or “sons of the gods” (bene-‘elohim) is sometimes used for heavenly beings (see Genesis 6:1-4; Job 1:6; 2:1; 38:7). Nebuchadnezzar’s shout means that the fourth one in the furnace looks like a heavenly being.  However, later Christian interpreters found here a reference to Jesus, the Son of God.

For Christians, there is a definite appropriateness to this idea. Jesus, after all, is the one who promised “I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matt 28:20 NRSVue). Similarly, the writer of Hebrews urged his community to remain faithful in times of trial and temptation, remembering that Jesus, “who was tempted in every way that we are, except without sin” (Heb 4:15), is in heaven interceding for us.  That, friends, is our hope.

Today, March 20, marks the Vernal Equinox: the official first day of Spring.  In our new home, situated near a pond, we have been hearing the chorus of spring peepers: a springtime song I haven’t heard since I was a boy.  I just saw three robins hopping through our front lawn, and in many yards and flowerbeds, the first blossoms of spring are determinedly breaking through the soil.

The significance of this day has been marked by our species from our beginnings. Ancient monuments such as Stonehenge in England

and the Serpent Mound in North America

demonstrate the heroic lengths to which our ancestors were willing to go to calculate and celebrate this day.  Indeed, on the equinox the sun sets directly in the west, producing along Chicago’s east-west streets (although they weren’t designed for this purpose) a phenomenon called #chicagohenge.

The reason for our ancient obsession with the Vernal Equinox is not hard to understand.  After the cold and scarcity of winter, the promise of Spring on its way means that soon the air will be warm again, crops will grow again, lambs and calves will be born again.  The message of the Vernal Equinox has always been hope.

Please note, friends, a vital (and often forgotten) distinction here.  Hope is not optimism–and I say that as an optimist!  Optimism means looking on the bright side, and believing that in the end, everything will turn out right–that things are not as bad as they seem.

Hope, on the other hand, recognizes that things may indeed be as bad as they seem–if not worse.  However, to have hope means to  believe in something larger than the present moment: to have confidence that ultimately, the One in whom we place our trust will prevail.

Jeremiah 29:11 is much reproduced, on posters and in memes:

 I know the plans I have in mind for you, declares the Lord; they are plans for peace, not disaster, to give you a future filled with hope.

Often, the prophet’s words are read optimistically: God intends nothing but good for believers, who can therefore rest in the confidence that they will be well and successful and happy.  But the context of this passage is vital to grasping its meaning.  It comes from a letter Jeremiah is writing to the exiles in Babylon, specifically to quash any optimistic expectations they might have had that their exile would be short; that the crisis would pass and they would soon be home again.  The prophet’s advice?

Build houses and settle down; cultivate gardens and eat what they produce.  Get married and have children; then help your sons find wives and your daughters find husbands in order that they too may have children. Increase in number there so that you don’t dwindle away.  Promote the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile. Pray to the Lord for it, because your future depends on its welfare (Jer 29:5-7).

In short: settle down and make a life for yourselves in Babylon,  because you will never come home again.  For those prophets who promise otherwise, Jeremiah says, the LORD has a grim word:

The LORD of heavenly forces, the God of Israel, proclaims: Don’t let the prophets and diviners in your midst mislead you. Don’t pay attention to your dreams.  They are prophesying lies to you in my name. I didn’t send them, declares the LORD (Jer 29:8-9).

So–what in the world does that famous passage in verse 11 mean?  What are those “plans” God has?  If the exiles are indeed doomed to die in exile, how can Jeremiah say that they have “a future filled with hope”?

Here is the immediate context of those words:

The LORD proclaims: When Babylon’s seventy years are up, I will come and fulfill my gracious promise to bring you back to this place. I know the plans I have in mind for you, declares the Lord; they are plans for peace, not disaster, to give you a future filled with hope. When you call me and come and pray to me, I will listen to you. When you search for me, yes, search for me with all your heart, you will find me. I will be present for you, declares the LORD, and I will end your captivity. I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have scattered you, and I will bring you home after your long exile, declares the LORD (Jer 29:10-14).

Seventy years is a long time–and biblically significant.  A generation is about forty years.  So usually, when Scripture wants to indicate a long time, the number is forty: forty days and forty nights for the Great Flood, forty years in the wilderness after the exodus–and of course, Jesus’ forty days in the wilderness,  which our forty days (less Sundays) of Lent now recall.

Seventy years ups the ante considerably!  Seventy is, biblically, about as long as a person can expect to live (see Psalm 90:10)–so the point is that none of those addressed by this letter should expect to see God’s plans realized.  Deliverance will come, someday, but for your children or grandchildren–not for you.

Jeremiah performs a sign act underlining this message, involving a field in his hometown of Anathoth (Jer 32).  When word comes from his cousin that the field is for sale, Jeremiah–at the LORD’s direction–buys it: even though Jerusalem is surrounded by the Babylonian army and on the point of collapse, even though Jeremiah himself is in prison!  The prophet directs his friend, the scribe Baruch ben Neriah, to see to it that all is done legally and properly–and then instructs him to place the deeds of sale in a sealed pottery jar “so they will last a long time” (Jer 32:14).  The purchase isn’t for Jeremiah, who will never see the land he has bought–or indeed for any in his family right now!  But someday, the prophet says,

 Fields will be bought, and deeds will be signed, sealed, and witnessed in the land of Benjamin and in the outlying areas of Jerusalem, in the towns of Judah and in the highlands, in the towns of the western foothills and the arid southern plain; for I will bring them back from their captivity, declares the LORD (Jer 32:44).

Someday, Jeremiah realizes, someone in  his family–his great nieces or nephews–will return, and they will need a place to live, and land to farm.  They will find the jar, and know that their long-dead uncle had hope for their future.

I must confess, friends, that I am having a hard time writing right now.  Every day it seems brings another outrage from the powers that be, against the poor, against immigrants, against racial minorities, against transgender persons–often purportedly justified by Christian faith, and by the Bible that I love.  I confess that, optimist that I am, I am not at all optimistic about our immediate future as a nation.  We were amply warned.  In an important article last November, conservative commentator David Brooks wrote,

[W]e are entering a period of white water. . . .  Over the next few years, a plague of disorder will descend upon America, and maybe the world, shaking everything loose. If you hate polarization, just wait until we experience global disorder. But in chaos there’s opportunity for a new society and a new response to the Trumpian political, economic and psychological assault. These are the times that try people’s souls, and we’ll see what we are made of.

I am not at all optimistic–but I do have hope.  My hope is grounded, not in politics or patriotism, but in my faith that God is at work, even when all seems lost.  I am remembering the words of abolitionist Theodore Parker, famously quoted by the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and by Archbishop Desmond Tutu:

I do not pretend to understand the moral universe; the arc is a long one, my eye reaches but little ways; I cannot calculate the curve and complete the figure by the experience of sight; I can divine it by conscience. And from what I see I am sure it bends towards justice (Theodore Parker, “Of Justice and the Conscience,” in The Collected Works of Theodore Parker 2, 37-57 [London: Trubner, 1879], 48).

Lent, after all, is leading us on the road to Calvary, where even Jesus will give voice to anguish, despair, and doubt: “’Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?’ that is, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’” (Matt 27:46 NRSVue).  Yet that Friday was not the end; Jesus had not been forsaken!  Sunday would see the power of Christ’s resurrection and victory over death itself.  But let us never allow ourselves to forget that the way to Easter leads through Good Friday–or that our crucified Lord has said, 

All who want to come after me must say no to themselves, take up their cross, and follow me.  All who want to save their lives will lose them. But all who lose their lives because of me and because of the good news will save them (Mark 8:34-35).

Most of the people we meet in the Bible are grownups.  Adam and Eve may be brand new when we are introduced, but they are born full grown! Likewise, we meet Abraham as an adult, and Paul, and Peter. In the Gospels of John and Mark, that is how we meet Jesus, too.

But there are significant exceptions.  We meet the twins Jacob and Esau in the womb–already at it, hammer and tongs–and watch as their sibling rivalry descends into deception and violence before finally resolving in reconciliation.  We meet Moses as a baby, threatened by Pharaoh, set adrift in his little ark by his desperate mother—only to be found and adopted by Pharaoh’s own daughter, and raised in Pharaoh’s palace, with his own mother as nurse.

Then there is Samuel, who would grow up to become a prophet-priest, anointing both Saul and David, Israel’s first kings.  But first, little Samuel was God’s answer to the heartfelt prayers of his (previously barren) mother Hannah. In gratitude, his parents dedicated their son to the LORD, and he grew up in the temple, raised by the priest Eli–with annual visits from his mother, who made his robes.  The text succinctly summarizes Samuel’s growing-up years: “Now the boy Samuel continued to grow both in stature and in favor with the LORD and with the people” (1 Sam 2:26, NRSVue).

Unlike Mark and John, both Matthew and Luke begin Jesus’ story with an account of his birth.  But after an account of the Holy Family fleeing as refugees from Herod and his son Archelaus, Matthew jumps to where John and Mark begin their Gospels, with the adult Jesus’ baptism.

I am sure you have seen this print of Jesus as a toddler, playing in the sawdust in Joseph’s carpenter shop. In his chubby hand he holds a nail, and his shadow stretching on the floor behind him has the shape of a cross. The point is clear: Jesus was “born to die.”  Certainly, some gospel accounts can be read in that way. In fact, New Testament scholar Martin Kähler famously called the gospel of Mark a “passion narrative with an extended introduction.”

But Luke tells the story differently. Rather than jumping immediately to grownup Jesus, he gives us a bit of Jesus’ childhood, including a story of every parent’s nightmare.

On their way back home from their annual Passover pilgrimage to Jerusalem, Mary and Joseph suddenly realize that they don’t know where Jesus is!  They search for him frantically, retracing their steps to Jerusalem.

After three days (three days!) Mary and Joseph find their son in the temple, in an intense conversation with the religious leaders. We learn that even as a boy, Jesus has attained a terrifying sense of his identity and calling: “I must be in my Father’s house” (Luke 2:48).

Luke concludes this account with a summary statement, echoing (although not quite quoting from) Samuel’s story: “And Jesus increased in wisdom and in years, and in divine and human favor” (Luke 2:52). This is typical of the way that Luke uses Scripture.  Unlike Matthew, who quotes biblical passages, Luke alludes to texts, writing in the style of the Greek translation of Jewish Scripture, the Septuagint.

Luke’s account does have ample foreshadowing of Jesus’ death (remember Simeon’s words to Mary when Jesus, only forty days old, was first brought to the temple: “a sword will pierce your own soul, too” (Luke 2:35). Still the way that Luke tells the story—with his echo of the account of Samuel’s growth and maturing—suggests that Jesus’ life, not just his death, matters.

Focusing so intently on Jesus’ death has had sad consequences for American Christianity.  In an interview with NPR journalist Scott Detrow, Russell Moore, the editor-in-chief of Christianity Today magazine, described

having multiple pastors tell me, essentially, the same story about quoting the Sermon on the Mount, parenthetically, in their preaching — “turn the other cheek” — [and] to have someone come up after to say, “Where did you get those liberal talking points?” And what was alarming to me is that in most of these scenarios, when the pastor would say, “I’m literally quoting Jesus Christ,” the response would not be, “I apologize.” The response would be, “Yes, but that doesn’t work anymore. That’s weak.” And when we get to the point where the teachings of Jesus himself are seen as subversive to us, then we’re in a crisis.

Jumping straight from Christmas to Good Friday, we can conveniently ignore Jesus’ teaching and his lived example.  Jesus shows us what being human–created in God’s image (Gen 1:27)–really means.  The International Theological Commission of the Vatican (2004) put it very well:

In him, we find the total receptivity to the Father which should characterize our own existence, the openness to the other in an attitude of service which should characterize our relations with our brothers and sisters in Christ, and the mercy and love for others which Christ, as the image of the Father, displays for us.

If we focus solely on the cross, our faith becomes more about death than life: more about going to heaven when we die than living here and now; more about escaping the world in the Rapture than caring for the world and its people.

Did Jesus die for us? Of course he did.  From the first, Christians have understood Jesus’ death as bridging the gap between God and people, conveying the depth of God’s love and the bottomless reach of God’s forgiveness and grace.  But Jesus was not “born to die.” If all that matters to us about Jesus is his death on the cross, we can (as Russell Moore sorrowfully observes) conveniently ignore the humble servant Jesus of the Gospels, and substitute a macho warrior Christ, largely of our own making.

Did Jesus die for us? Of course he did. But Jesus also lived for us, and indeed lives for us, as Immanuel: God with us.  Friends, the incarnation is a big idea: far too big be restricted to the Atonement alone. As theologian Edwin van Driel writes, “the category of redemption is not rich enough to explain the wonder of his presence” (Incarnation Anyway: Arguments for Supralapsarian Christology [Oxford: Oxford University, 2008], 165).

God’s act of creation already presupposed that God would consequently enter time and space as a creature, in order to enter fully into relationship with us. Rather than our relationship with Christ being merely, or at least primarily, functional (our sin is the problem; Christ’s death is the solution), van Driel proposes that “the intimate presence of God in Christ is the goal of all things,” so that “all aspects of our lives are related to him” (van Driel 2008, 165).

Friends, Jesus lived for us. Empowered by his invincible life, let us resolve to live for him, too–to do those things that Jesus did among us: feeding people, healing people, freeing people, proclaiming the good news of God’s salvation and the completion of God’s creation.

This past Wednesday, January 29th, called Seollal in South Korea and Tet in Vietnam, marked the lunar New Year, celebrated by billions of Asiatic peoples, both in their native countries and wherever else they have found a home, worldwide.  In the Chinese zodiac, this year is the Year of the Snake.

Unfortunately, for many Christian and Jewish readers, the Year of the Snake sounds ominous and threatening.  Often the snake is regarded as a symbol of evil, and specifically of Satan, because of the Garden Story in Genesis 3.

The Garden Story is very well known. Much like the Twenty-third Psalm or the Ten Commandments, it has largely passed out of the hands of the church and synagogue, to become part of the cultural currency of Western, and specifically American, society. Sadly, that familiarity is likely to blind us: as we already “know” what the text says, it may take some effort to see what is actually before us.

Indeed, even those who have never read Paradise Lost are likely to assume John Milton’s plot line—a war in heaven results in the fall of Lucifer, who seduces Eve into eating the forbidden fruit, prompting Adam heroically to embrace her tragic fate—and impose that plot onto the Bible’s very different narrative.

The account of the creation of the world, and specifically of humanity, in Genesis 2:4b-25 is explicitly linked to the Garden Story by the garden itself, planted by the LORD God in Gen 2:8. The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil in the center of Eden (Gen 2:9) is of course the centerpiece of the Garden Story; its prohibition foreshadows this story’s tragic conclusion:

The LORD God commanded the human, “Eat your fill from all of the garden’s trees; but don’t eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, because on the day you eat from it, you will die!” (Gen 2:16-17).

But another explicit link comes in the last verse of Genesis 2, and the first verse of Gen 3. The author relies on a pun to carry the point. At the conclusion of Gen 2, we are told “The two of them were naked [‘arummim], the man and his wife, but they weren’t embarrassed” (Gen 2:25). Then, in the first verse of Gen 3, we meet the snake: “The snake was the most intelligent [‘arum] of all the wild animals that the LORD God had made.”

Although spelled and pronounced very nearly the same, ‘arom (singular of the plural ‘arummim) and ‘arum come from different roots, with different meanings. The punning parallel between the nakedness of the humans and the cleverness of the snake finds its culmination in Gen 3:7. Enticed by the snaky self-confidence of the serpent, the humans eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, and “Then they both saw clearly and knew that they were naked [‘erummim].” Rather than becoming crafty (‘arum) like the serpent, they become, for the first time, shamefully aware of their nakedness (the Hebrew here is ‘erom, from which the word ‘arom in Gen 2:24 is derived).

Later tradition identifies the snake in the garden with Satan: so, Revelation 12:9 says of Satan’s endtime defeat,

So the great dragon was thrown down. The old snake [likely an allusion to Gen 3], who is called the devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world, was thrown down to the earth; and his angels were thrown down with him (see also 4 Macc 18:7-8; Wis 2:24).

But the text in Gen 3:1 explicitly describes the snake as simply a “wild animal” (Hebrew khayyat hassadeh, “beast of the field” in KJV)—the most crafty of them all, but still an animal. There is no hint here of the later notions of a war in heaven, or of Lucifer’s fall. Indeed, Christian theologian and martyr Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, “we would be simplifying and completely distorting the biblical narrative if we were simply to involve the devil, who, as God’s enemy, caused all this. This is just what the Bible does not say” (Creation and Fall, trans. John C. Fletcher [orig. Schöpfung und Fall, Munich: Chr. Kaiser Verlag, 1937], in Creation and Temptation [London: SCM Press, 1966], 64).

In the ancient Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh, the hero learns of a plant that grows at the bottom of the underworld ocean, called “As Oldster Man Becomes Child” [reminiscent of the Tree of Life in Genesis 2–3].  Eager to claim this prize, Gilgamesh dives into the ocean, weighted with stones to drag him down, down to the bottom of everything—where, sure enough, he finds the plant. He plucks it, rises to the surface, and prepares to return to his city Uruk, there to eat the plant and regain his youth. But on the journey home, Gilgamesh stops to bathe, leaving the plant unguarded.  A snake swallows the plant, sheds its skin, and crawls away renewed. Deeply disappointed, but having learned that he, like all humanity, must die, Gilgamesh decides that Uruk will be his memorial; as king of that great city, his name will never be forgotten. In that way, Gilgamesh will gain immortality after all.

As the Epic of Gilgamesh illustrates, in the ancient world snakes represented new life and rebirth—doubtless due to the shedding of their skins. Therefore in Egypt, the sign of the “divine” pharaohs was the image of a rearing cobra (called the uraeus), said to have been crafted by the creator god Ptah on his potter’s wheel. Further, as Karen Joines notes, snakes were regarded in Egypt as possessors of ancient wisdom (“The Serpent in Genesis 3,” ZAW 87 [1975]: 4-5).

Little wonder then that the Garden Story describes the snake as “the most intelligent [‘arum] of all the wild animals that the LORD God had made.”” (Gen 3:1), or that Jesus urges his followers, “be wise as snakes and innocent as doves” (the same Greek words for wisdom [phronimos] and for snakes [ophios] are used in Matt 10:16 and in the Greek Septuagint text of Gen 3:1). These traditional characteristics figure in the snake’s role in Gen 3, where eating the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge leads to the loss of the Tree of Life.  Any reader is bound to wonder about this prohibition, and its severe consequences. Did the Lord God really wish God’s creatures to remain in ignorance?  What could the Tree of Knowledge represent, and why is its fruit forbidden?

One approach holds that what the tree signifies is irrelevant: the point is simply that the fruit of this particular tree is prohibited by God. Gregory of Nazianzus wrote,

[God gave Adam] a law as a material for his free will to act on. This law was a commandment as to what plants he might partake of and which one he might not touch. This latter was the tree of knowledge; not, however, because it was evil from the beginning when planted, nor was it forbidden because God grudged it to us—let not the enemies of God wag their tongues in that direction or imitate the serpent. But it would have been good if partaken of at the proper time (Second Oration on Easter 8).

In his novel Perelandra, C. S. Lewis reimagined the Garden Story as unfolding on a watery world in which most vegetation and animal life lived on floating islands.  Here, living on the “fixed land” was the one thing forbidden by God.  There was no reason given for this prohibition–the issue was simply obedience, or disobedience, to God’s word.

John Van Seters proposes that the Garden Story sets religious faith, which involves obedience to God’s commandments, over against the secular pursuit of wisdom: “wisdom was the origin and cause of humanity’s sin and fall” (Prologue to History: The Yahwist as Historian in Genesis [Louisville: Westminster/ John Knox, 1992], 125-26). Certainly, the use throughout this conversation of ‘Elohim (“God”) rather than the personal name Yhwh (“the LORD”) suggests abstract reflection rather than relationship. Bonhoeffer calls this “the first conversation about God, the first religious, theological conversation. It is not prayer or calling upon God together but speaking about God” (Bonhoeffer 1966, 69).  Yet faith is surely more than rule-following, and in our Bible, the pursuit of wisdom is grounded in faith: “Fear of the Lord is where wisdom begins” (Psalm 111:10; see also Prov 1:7; 2:5-6; Job 28:28).

Others have proposed that eating the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil means learning the difference between good and evil, and so gaining freedom of choice.  Before, the humans could only do what God wanted them to do.  Now, having eaten the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, they have the capacity to make their own choices, which inevitably leads to their making wrong ones. So, Augustine wrote, “‘The eyes of them both were opened,’ not to see, for already they saw, but to discern between the good they had lost and the evil into which they had fallen” (City of God, 14.17). Jacqueline Lapsley suggests,

In short, eating from the tree enables one to become an interpreter—a moral interpreter—of one’s world. This is what it means to ‘become like God/gods, knowing good and bad’ (3:5; cf. 3:22). This, in the end, will be what distinguishes the human couple from the animals (Whispering the Word: Hearing Women’s Stories in the Old Testament [Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2005], 15).

In the story as it unfolds in Genesis, however, there is no inkling that God had previously deprived God’s creations of freedom.  The woman’s choice to eat the fruit, as Phyllis Trible observes, demonstrates careful reflection and independent thought:

She contemplates the tree, taking into account all the possibilities.   The tree is good for food; it satisfies the physical drives.  It pleases the eyes; it is esthetically and emotionally desirable.  Above all, it is coveted as the source of wisdom. . . Thus the woman is fully aware when she acts, her vision encompassing the gamut of life (Trible 1979, 79).

Eating from the tree does not convey these discriminating capacities: the Woman clearly has them already. Indeed, since both the Man and the Woman choose to eat from the Tree of Knowledge, they are plainly able to make moral choices even before eating this fruit.

That the freedom to choose, and so the potential for disobedience, is given to human being from the first is expressed in Bereshit Rabbah 14. The rabbis observe that in Gen 2:7, where the Lord God creates ha’adam, the word for “formed” is spelled oddly, with an extra yod (wayyiytser).  From this doubling, they conclude that there must have been two formations.  R. Hanina bar Idi says that the duality is bound up within ha’adam: God has created them, from the first, with “two formations, a good formation and an evil formation” (BerRab 14.4, Jacob Neusner translates this as “both the impulse to do good and the impulse to do evil”).

Perhaps the best way to understand the expression “the Knowledge of Good and Evil” is as a merism, like “young and old” or “length and breadth,” referring not just to the two opposite terms mentioned, but to the entire range between them.  This would imply that eating the fruit would convey a godlike knowledge of everything from good to evil.  That is in fact what the snake promises: “you will be like ‘elohim [gods/God]” (Gen 3:5).  Indeed, after the man and woman have eaten the fruit, the LORD addresses the heavenly council:

The LORD God said, “The human being has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil.” Now, so he doesn’t stretch out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat and live forever, the LORD God sent him out of the garden of Eden to farm the fertile land from which he was taken (Gen 3:22-23).

Reading canonically, these references to the humans becoming “like God” are bound to recall to our minds the statement in the first creation account that woman and man are created in God’s image (Gen 1:26-27)–an idea not expressed in this second account, in which “Godlikeness” is a temptation and a problem rather than a promise.  But for the reader encountering these chapters together in their context in Genesis, the connection produces a magnificent irony, not apparent when reading the passages separately.

In L. Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz, the characters all seek from the Wizard qualities that we know, from the story, they already possess: the “brainless” Scarecrow does all the planning; the “cowardly” Lion courageously defends Dorothy and his friends from their enemies, and no one could possibly be more tender-hearted than the “heartless” Tin Woodsman!  Just so, in the final, canonical form of these chapters in Genesis, the Woman and the Man want what they already have: to be like God.  But they do not realize this, and so through disobedience lose the Garden and all that it represents, including the Tree of Life.

To return to the snake: why, if the serpent in Genesis 3 is simply a snake, are the snakes we know so different?  Described when we first encounter it as the most intelligent of all wild animals (Gen 3:1), the snake now becomes the most cursed: set lower than all other animals, wild or domesticated (Gen 3:14). The curse on the snake comes in two parts.  First, it loses its limbs, and its ability to speak:

Because you did this,
    you are the one cursed [Hebrew ‘arur]
        out of all the farm animals,
        out of all the wild animals.
    On your belly you will crawl,
        and dust you will eat
        every day of your life (Gen 3:14).

Why don’t snakes have legs?  Why do they crawl on their bellies?  Why do they keep sticking out their tongues and licking the ground? The short answer, in this ancient story, is that snakes are cursed.  Because of their involvement in humanity’s disobedience, they must crawl on the ground and continually lick the dust–which is also why snakes can no longer talk.

The second aspect of the curse turns to another etiological feature of this narrative: why do snakes bite?  Why are they poisonous? Why do we hate and fear them? The Lord God declares,

 I will put contempt

Some traditional Christian interpreters (Irenaus, Against Heresies 5.21.1; Martin Luther, Lectures on Genesis, 3.4.5) regarded Genesis 3:15 as a prediction of the coming of Christ: the Devil would strike at his heel, wounding him on the cross, but Christ would rise from the dead, and at his return crush the enemy’s head .  But as John Calvin observed in his commentary on this passage,

Gladly would I give my suffrage in support of their opinion, but that I regard the word seed as too violently distorted by them; for who will concede that a collective noun is to be understood of one man only? Further, as the perpetuity of the contest is noted, so victory is promised to the human race through a continual succession of ages. I explain, therefore, the seed to mean the posterity of the woman generally (Comm Gen 3:15).

Calvin realized therefore that this passage was not about Satan and Christ, but about snakes and people:

I interpret this simply to mean that there should always be the hostile strife between the human race and serpents, which is now apparent; for, by a secret feeling of nature, man abhors them (Comm Gen 3:15).

Calvin’s insistence upon close attention to the Hebrew, and to the contextual, historical interpretation of texts, put him at odds with many of his contemporaries.  However, his stubborn insistence on staying with the text remains a fine example for our reading of Scripture.

What is the consequence of eating the fruit for the humans?  The Garden Story says,

the Lord God sent him out of the garden of Eden to farm the fertile land from which he was taken.  He drove out the human. To the east of the garden of Eden, he stationed winged creatures wielding flaming swords to guard the way to the tree of life (Gen 3:23).

Without access to the fruit of the Tree of Life, women and men will now die–just as God had said they would, should they eat from the forbidden Tree of Knowledge.  Leaving the garden of Eden behind, the Woman and the Man now enter a world like the world that we know, where life can be brutal and hard, where pain and suffering are sad realities, and where all of us must, sooner or later, die.

But unlike the snake, the Woman and the Man are not cursed: the word ‘arur is not used for them!  The snake is cursed, even the ground is cursed, but they are not.  Indeed, God cares for them, covering their nakedness with garments God makes from the skins of animals (Gen 3:21).  In the end, this story is about God’s desire to be in relationship with us even when we spurn that relationship. We are not cursed, spurned, or rejected by God, even though the consequences of our actions wound our world and one another.

Genesis 3 is not science.  Herpetologists are happy to explain to us that snakes sense the presence of prey or enemies in large part by “tasting” the air and the ground–that is why they stick out their tongues.  They will also assure us of the importance of snakes as predators in the ecosystem. In the story world of Genesis 3, the “snakiness” of snakes is the consequence they suffer for their role in the humans’ disobedience.  But while we should be respectful of any wild animal, most snakes are neither venomous nor aggressive. We need neither hate nor fear them–especially in this Year of the Snake.

This battered crèche was a gift from my Mom and Dad for Wendy’s and my first Christmas together, now forty-three years ago.  It has been unboxed and reboxed time and again, its figures handled by tiny hands or batted by little paws–and indeed, as the unexplained placement of a sheep in the loft shows, our now full-grown mischievous sons still play with it!

One feature of our crèche, and indeed of most if not all that I have seen, is the presence of both a shepherd and the three kings.  The same was true, no doubt, of Christmas pageants all over this past year, with the baby Jesus visited by shepherds in bathrobes and sandals, and by kings in cardboard crowns, bearing their gifts of cigar boxes and shampoo bottles covered with gold and silver foil.

But of course, they do not appear together in our Bibles!  The shepherds are only found in Luke 2:1-19, while only Matthew 1:18–2:23 has the Magi.  Tradition has found a way to fit them together, suggesting that while the shepherds found the baby the night of his birth, the foreign sages came later, a year or two after the child was born.  We have even given each story its own season of the Christian year, consigning Matthew’s Magi to Epiphany!  But the stubborn presence of the wise men in our crèches and our Christmas carols shows that we have never really bought that rationalization.

A closer read reveals that in fact Matthew and Luke tell two entirely different stories.  Not only the shepherds, but also Caesar’s census, Mary and Joseph’s forced journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem, the angelic host, indeed the manger itself appear only in Luke.  Not only the Magi, but also the star, King Herod’s slaughter of the innocents, and the flight of the Holy Family are only found in Matthew.

There are of course shared elements in these accounts.  Matthew and Luke agree that Jesus’ parents were named Mary and Joseph.  Both agree that he was born in Bethlehem, but grew up in Nazareth (Mark and John say nothing of his birthplace, but also identify Jesus as being from Nazareth).  Matthew and Luke share the tradition that Jesus’ birth was miraculous, as his mother was a virgin: a truth announced to Mary by the angel Gabriel in Luke 1:26-38 and revealed to Joseph in a dream in Matthew 1:18-25, but mentioned nowhere else in Scripture (although Paul may allude to this tradition in Galatians 4:4; concerning Matthew’s citation of Isaiah 7:10-16, see this earlier blog).

Those common elements regarding Jesus’ birth, however, are woven into two entirely different nativity stories.  In Matthew, Jesus was born in Bethlehem, not only because prophecy said that the Messiah must be, but also because Matthew assumes that that is where Joseph and Mary lived.  They leave Bethlehem as refugees, fleeing to Egypt to escape Herod’s murderous designs (Matt 2:13-18).  Even after Herod’s death, they cannot return to their home, as Judea is now ruled by Herod’s equally wicked son Archelaus, so instead they settle in Galilee to the north, in the village of Nazareth (Matt 2:19-23).

Luke, on the other hand, assumes that Joseph and Mary are from Nazareth.  To get them to Bethlehem, where tradition and prophecy say Jesus must be born, he brings in the Roman government:

And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed [Greek apographesthai; better “registered” or “enrolled”].(And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)  And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)  To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child (Luke 2:1-5, KJV).

Luke’s account of a Roman census is difficult on several grounds.  First, there is no evidence, outside of Luke, for a universal census ordered by Augustus.  There was indeed a census of Syria and Galilee conducted by Publius Sulpicius Quirinius (“Cyrenius” in the KJV), the Roman military governor of Syria.  In Acts 5:37, Gamaliel recalls the bloody revolt of Judas the Galilean, launched in response to that census, an event Jewish historian Josephus also records (Antiquities 20.5.2).   But Quirinius’ census was taken around 6 CE.  Jesus was born at least ten years earlier, as Matthew and Luke (implicitly; see Luke 1:5) place his birth during the reign of Herod, who died in 4 BCE.  Finally, the whole point of a census is determining where people can be found, for purposes of taxation (as the familiar KJV rendering has it) or of conscription into forced labor or the military: which is why Quirinius’ census prompted such a violent response (compare 1 Chr 21:1-30//2 Sam 24:1-25).  It is difficult to see any point in having people go somewhere else, then.  Luke, it seems, is using the census as a plot device: to get Mary and Joseph from their home in Nazareth to Bethlehem.

What can we conclude from this?  First, the gospels are neither histories nor biographies.  They are confessions, aimed at bringing people to faith in Jesus Christ.  It would be a mistake to hold them to factual standards which they do not claim and to which they do not aspire.  Trying to fold their distinct narratives into one another forces each narrative into a mold that does not fit.  Much like the two creation accounts in Genesis 1–3, or the two accounts of the Ten Commandments in Exodus and Deuteronomy, we need to allow each Gospel account of the Nativity its own integrity.

Failing to acknowledge such conflicts forces us to be dishonest about what the Bible actually is.  Claiming that the Bible is inerrant and infallible ultimately means leaving the actual words of Scripture behind, and substituting our own self-consistent, “common-sense” view of what the Bible must say for what Scripture actually says.

George Bernard Shaw wrote, “No public man in these islands ever believes that the Bible means what it says: he is always convinced that it says what he means” (“Our Theatres In The Nineties,” 1930). Certainly, Shaw had a point!  It is far easier, and simpler, to stick with what “everybody knows” the Bible says than to wrestle with what Scripture actually means.

On the one hand, the Bible continually frustrates our attempts to turn it into an end in itself: whether as an infallible witness to history, or as a self-sufficient, internally consistent rule of behavior.  The Bible is far more complex than that, as an honest reading of the text on the page continually reveals. But on the other hand, reading the Bible brings us into an encounter with the living God.  Reformed theologian Daniel Migliore put it very well: “Scripture is indispensable in bringing us into a new relationship with the living God through Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit.”  However, “Christians do not believe in the Bible; they believe in the living God attested by the Bible” (Daniel L. Migliore, Faith Seeking Understanding: An Introduction to Christian Theology, Second Edition [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004], 50). The distinction is vital, friends.

One intriguing result of allowing both Matthew’s and Luke’s account of the Nativity its own integrity has to do with those visitors who come to the Christ Child: Luke’s shepherds and Matthew’s Magi.

Luke writes in excellent Greek, for an educated, Greek-speaking, Gentile audience.  Clearly, Luke was well educated, which cost money.  His gospel opens with greetings to Luke’s patron, Theophilus.  Evidently, Theophilus was funding Luke’s travels and research as he wrote his account of the life of Jesus and the growth of the early church.  In sum: Luke comes from money; his project is funded by a patron with money, and he addresses himself primarily to an audience with money.

Yet, a major theme of Luke’s gospel is the community’s responsibility to the poor.  His gospel begins with a song sung by Mary when she learns that she has been chosen to bear the Christ:

[God] has pulled the powerful down from their thrones
        and lifted up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things
    and sent the rich away empty-handed (Lk 1:52-53).

So too, in Luke’s version of the beatitudes, we read, “Happy are you who are poor, [rather than, as in Matthew 5:3, “poor in spirit”] because God’s kingdom is yours” (Lk 6:20 ), counterbalanced by “But woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation (Lk 6:24).  It is no surprise, then, that in Luke’s nativity the birth of the Christ child is announced to the poor: to ignorant, unwashed Galilean shepherds!

The Magi were a clan of priests and astrologers from Persia–our words “magic” and “magician” both derive from “magi.”  Matthew does not tell us how many Magi came–the traditional number three comes from their three gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh (Matt 2:11-12). The idea that they were kings from distant lands and races comes from Isaiah 60:1-6, traditionally read as fulfilled in their visit:

Still, there is an appropriateness to the tradition’s reading of the wise men as kings from three continents and three races.  After all, they come to the manger as the ultimate outsiders: not only from outside of Judea, but from outside the Roman empire itself–from the land of the feared Parthians, an armed and unstable threat on the empire’s eastern frontier. They are not Jews, either ethnically or religiously; while Matthew says nothing of their religious heritage, they would have been Zoroastrians.  Yet remarkably, it is Matthew, the most Jewish of the gospel writers, who tells their story. Matthew is the one who records a visit to the Christ Child from gentiles: foreigners and unbelievers, who come, not as enemies to threaten the Christ Child, but as pilgrims to honor him.

It as as though Matthew the Jewish scribe and Luke the urbane Greek scholar were each compelled, in their nativity stories, to recognize that the Christ Child was not the property of people like them.  Jesus has come to, and for, us all.

This year’s Christmas card features a timely piece by Christian poet and novelist Madeleine L’Engle, called “First Coming.”  Merry Christmas, friends, and whatever this new year may bring, may the joy and peace of Christ sustain you.

He did not wait till the world was ready,

till men and nations were at peace.

He came when the Heavens were unsteady,

and prisoners cried out for release.

He did not wait for the perfect time.

He came when the need was deep and great.

He dined with sinners in all their grime,

turned water into wine.

He did not wait till hearts were pure.

In joy he came to a tarnished world of sin and doubt.

To a world like ours, of anguished shame

he came, and his Light would not go out.

He came to a world which did not mesh,

to heal its tangles, shield its scorn.

In the mystery of the Word made Flesh

the Maker of the stars was born.

We cannot wait till the world is sane

to raise our songs with joyful voice,

for to share our grief, to touch our pain,

He came with Love: Rejoice! Rejoice!

A prayer for Christmas Day, from Revised Common Lectionary Prayers, copyright © 2002 Consultation on Common Texts.:

O Holy One,
heavenly angels spoke to earthly shepherds
and eternity entered time in the child of Bethlehem.
Through the telling of the Christmas story,
let our temporal lives be caught up in the eternal
in that same child,
that we might join shepherds and all the heavenly host
in praising the coming of Jesus Christ, our Savior. Amen.

The Hebrew Bible reading for this fourth Sunday of Advent is  Micah 5:2-5.  The prophet Micah prophesied in the southern kingdom of Judah, in the middle of the eighth century: at about the same time that Isaiah was prophesying in Jerusalem, and near the time when Amos and Hosea prophesied in the northern kingdom of Israel.   Micah lived and worked in Morasheth-Gath, a tiny village only 25 miles southwest of the big city of Jerusalem. 

AFTERWORD:

The Psalm for this coming Sunday is Luke’s Song of Mary (Luke 1:46-55), often called the Magnificat after its opening in Latin, Magnificat anima mea Dominum (in the KJV, “My soul doth magnify the Lord;” the Presbyterian hymnal has a lovely and vigorous setting of this passage!).  Mary’s song is a powerful reminder that Jesus would be a very different sort of King!   Here is the whole song:

With all my heart I glorify the Lord!
    In the depths of who I am I rejoice in God my savior.
He has looked with favor on the low status of his servant.
    Look! From now on, everyone will consider me highly favored
        because the mighty one has done great things for me.
Holy is his name.
    He shows mercy to everyone,
        from one generation to the next,
        who honors him as God.
He has shown strength with his arm.
    He has scattered those with arrogant thoughts and proud inclinations.
    He has pulled the powerful down from their thrones
        and lifted up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things
    and sent the rich away empty-handed.
He has come to the aid of his servant Israel,
        remembering his mercy,
    just as he promised to our ancestors,
        to Abraham and to Abraham’s descendants forever.

This month, Representative-elect Sarah McBride, a Democrat from Delaware, became the first openly transgender person elected to Congress.  Her historic election follows a campaign season in which both Mr. Trump and many other Republican candidates (including, here in Pennsylvania, successful Senate candidate David McCormick) made opposing the rights of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and specifically transgender persons a keystone of their campaigns.  Now, President-elect Donald Trump “says he will affirm that God made only two genders, male and female.”

So what does that mean for Representative-elect McBride?  Just last week,

Both of the Genesis creation accounts refer not simply to God’s generic creation of humanity, but specifically to the creation of women and men. Genesis 1:27 says,

God created humanity in God’s own image,
        in the divine image God created them,
            male and female God created them.

Genesis 2 describes the special creation of the woman from the very stuff of the man.  In its climax, this account of creation declares, “This is the reason that a man leaves his father and mother and embraces his wife, and they become one flesh” (Gen 2:24).

Many interpreters have therefore concluded that Genesis presents the union of male and female as God’s intention for humanity, and indeed for all the natural world.  By this reading, same-sex intercourse, since it does not involve a union of differences, violates God’s will, as does any blurring of the distinctions between male and female.  New Testament scholar N. T. Wright proposes that our gender identity cannot be separated from our physical being, which is a part of God’s good creation.

But I am not persuaded that Genesis must be read in that way.  Note, after all, that rather than the traditional “Let us make man” in Genesis 1:26 (so KJV, RSV, ESV; NIV reads “mankind”), the CEB has, “Let us make humanity” (compare NRSVue).   This is not, as some may claim, an instance of political correctness, but is rather a matter of accurate translation. In Hebrew, the word for “man” is ‘ish (see Gen 2:23-24); the word for “male” is zakar (see Gen 1:27). But the word used in Gen 1:26 is ‘adam, which means not “man,” but “humanity.” It is particularly important that we translate ‘adam correctly, because Genesis 1:27 goes on very plainly to state, “male and female God created them.”

Phyllis Bird proposes that the additional designation “male and female” is necessitated by the statement that ‘adam is made in God’s image, since God is genderless: “There is no message of shared dominion here, no word about the distribution of roles, responsibility, and authority between the sexes, no word of sexual equality” (“ ‘Male and Female He Created Them’: Gen 1:27b in the Context of the Priestly Account of Creation,” Harvard Theological Review 74 [1981]: 151).

It must be said, however, that Bird’s restriction on the meaning and application of Gen 1:26-27 seems overstated. After all, the blessing in Gen 1:28 is not addressed expressly to males, but addresses ‘adam collectively:

God blessed them and said to them, “Be fertile and multiply; fill the earth and master it. Take charge of the fish of the sea, the birds in the sky, and everything crawling on the ground.”

To be sure, Israel’s traditions were not always equal to this insight! Yet here it is, at the very beginning of the Bible. Men and women alike are made in God’s image.  Sexism is denied any place in God’s ordered world.

Further, there may indeed be a hint here about how God might be viewed. While admittedly, male images of God predominate in Scripture, female images as well can be found.  In Proverbs 8, the sages of ancient Israel describe divine Wisdom itself as a woman.  In the Psalms, God appears as a midwife (Ps 22:9-10), while in Hosea 11:3-4, God speaks as a mother:

Yet it was I who taught Ephraim to walk;
        I took them up in my arms,
        but they did not know that I healed them.
I led them
        with bands of human kindness,
        with cords of love.
    I treated them like those
        who lift infants to their cheeks;
        I bent down to them and fed them.

Similarly, Jesus cries out to Jerusalem, “How often I wanted to gather your people together, just as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings. But you didn’t want that” (Matt 23:37//Lk 13:34).  God is neither male nor female, for neither masculinity nor femininity can fully capture the Divine.  Indeed, both masculinity and femininity reflect aspects of God, who makes all humankind, of every gender, race, and nation, “in our image, according to our likeness” (Gen 1:26 NRSV).

Attempts, then, to derive from Genesis 1:27 a rebuke of transgender persons, or the affirmation of a rigid sexual binary as the God-imposed norm, are seriously misplaced.

While in Genesis 1 the creation of humanity is described as a single act, Genesis 2 describes the special creation of woman. After creating the human (Hebrew ha’adam), God recognizes a problem: “Then the LORD God said, ‘It’s not good that the human is alone. I will make him a helper that is perfect for him'” (Gen 2:18).

So the LORD God put the human [Hebrew ha’adam] into a deep and heavy sleep, and took one of his ribs [Hebrew ‘akhad mitsal’otaw] and closed up the flesh over it. With the rib [Hebrew tsela’] taken from the human [Hebrew ha’adam], the LORD God fashioned a woman [Hebrew ‘ishah] and brought her to the human being [Hebrew ha’adam] (Gen 2:21-22).

While most translations render the word tsela’ as “rib,” based on its use in related Semitic languages as well as in Late Hebrew and Aramaic, in the Hebrew Bible this term always means “side”: for example, the side of the Ark in Exod 25:12; the side of the Tabernacle in Exod 26:20; a hillside in 2 Sam 16:13; one of two double doors in 1 Kgs 6:34.  Accordingly, in the rabbinic commentary on Genesis, R. Samuel bar Nahman says,

“When the Holy One, blessed be he, created the first man, he created him with two faces, then sawed him into two and made a back on one side and a back on the other.” When some objected that God had taken only a rib from ha’adam, “He said to them, ‘It was one of his sides, as you find written in Scripture, ‘And for the second side [tsela’] of the tabernacle’ (Ex. 26:20)’” (Bereshit Rabbah 8.1).

Rather than the Woman being made from a relatively insignificant portion of the Man, as is often held, Gen 2:20-21 describes major surgery: the Lord God uses one entire side of the original Human to fashion the Woman, basically splitting ha’adam in two!

Phyllis Trible notes that sexual gender first enters the Hebrew text of this creation account at Gen 2:23-24. Prior to this, the Human is always addressed as ha‘adam, which as we have seen means “the Human,” and not “man.”  But now, for the first time, the explicitly gendered terms Woman (‘ishah) and Man (‘ish) are used. Trible proposes,

In other words, sexuality is simultaneous for woman and man. . . . Man as male does not precede woman as female, but happens concurrently with her. Hence, the first act of creation in Genesis 2 is the creation of androgyny (2:7), and the last is the creation of sexuality (2:27) (“Eve and Adam: Genesis 2—3 Reread,” in Womenspirit Rising: A Feminist Reader in Religion, ed. Carol Christ and Judith Plaskow [Harper & Row, 1979], 76.  Originally published in Andover Newton Quarterly 13 [1973]).

Intriguingly, this idea—that both sexes were present in the first Human–is also proposed in Bereshit Rabbah 8.1:

Said R. Jeremiah b. Eleazar, “When the Holy One, blessed be he, came to create the first man, he made him androgynous, as it is said, ‘Male and female created he them’.” 

The Late Hebrew word used here is indeed ‘androgiynos, a loanword from the Greek. In his translation, Harry Freedman (Midrash Rabbah, Genesis, Vol. 1 [London: Soncino, 1939], 54) has “an hermaphrodite [bisexual],” and observes in a footnote, “Normally androgynos means one whose genitals are male and female, but here it means two bodies, male and female, joined together.”   Hence R. Samuel bar Nahman, as we have seen, understands God in Gen 2:27 to saw that original hermaphrodite apart, into male and female halves!

The Greek and Latin versions of Genesis address the problem of how to reference the first Human by introducing the personal name “Adam” at Gen 2:19 (note that the KJV follows them in this!): the point in the narrative where the Woman’s origin story begins.  The generic Human becomes a very specific person, with a name, once relationship with another created person comes into play. Certainly, whether we are persuaded by Trible and the rabbis or not, it is far from clear that Genesis requires a distinct line between male and female.

Another text often cited in this conversation is Deuteronomy 22:5:

Women must not wear men’s clothes, and men must not wear women’s clothes. Everyone who does such things is detestable [Hebrew to’ebah] to the LORD your God.

That same word, to’ebah, is famously used in Leviticus 18:22 and 20:13.  The first reads, “You must not have sexual intercourse with a man as you would with a woman; it is a detestable practice.”  The second goes further: “If a man has sexual intercourse with a man as he would with a woman, the two of them have done something detestable. They must be executed; their blood is on their own heads.”  The word rendered “detestable” in the CEB (see also the NIV) was translated in the KJV as “abomination.”

Leviticus 18 and 20 are purity legislation.  This is, in fact, what Lev 18:26-28 explicitly states:

You must not do any of these detestable things, neither citizen nor immigrant who lives with you (because the people who had the land before you did all of these detestable things and the land became unclean), so that the land does not vomit you out because you have made it unclean, just as it vomited out the nations that were before you.

In Leviticus, to’ebah is not about ethics or morality, but about ritual impurity and defilement: these are acts which defile the land, making it unclean. Of course, male homosexuality (note that nothing is said here about women engaging in same-sex relations) is grouped in these chapters with other “abominations” such as incest (18:6-18), child sacrifice (18:21), and bestiality (18:23)–actions anyone would regard not merely as unacceptable, but as grotesquely immoral.  But here, they are condemned not as the moral offenses they clearly are, but specifically because they defile the land.

After all, also among these “abominations,” and in no way distinguished from the others,  is this command: “You must not approach a woman for sexual contact during her menstrual uncleanness” (Lev 18:19).  During her menstrual period (Lev 15:19–23), neither the woman herself nor anything she lies or sits upon are to be touched, because she is ritually unclean–so obviously, in this worldview, men should avoid sexual relations with menstruating women. But earlier in this book (Leviticus 15:24), the man who has sex with a woman during her period merely shares in her impurity—like her, “he will be unclean for seven days.”  Leviticus 18 and 20 go far beyond this:

If a man sleeps with a woman during her menstrual period and has sexual contact with her, he has exposed the source of her blood flow and she has uncovered the same. Both of them will be cut off from their people (Lev 20:18).

I have written about these verses in greater detail  before.  Put briefly, they come from a section of Leviticus called the Holiness Code (Lev 17—26), which “democratizes” the idea of holiness: not only are the priests and the sacred objects pertaining to worship set apart as belonging to God, but all of Israel is God’s, and so is called to a higher standard of commitment, service, and ritual purity: “You must be holy, because I, the LORD your God, am holy” (Lev 19:2).  In the radical view of ritual purity the Holiness Code upholds, sexual contact with a menstruating woman is to’ebah: an abomination to be punished by exile from the community (compare Ezek 18:6; and 22:11, where to’ebah may refer to Lev 18:19 and 20:18).

Likely, this is the idea back of Deut 22:5 as well: rather than affirming an inflexible gender binary, this verse regards cross dressing as a ritually defiling act. After all, this same chapter goes on to condemn planting a vineyard with two different kinds of seed, plowing a field with two different types of animal, and making a garment with two types of thread, and further requires fringes at the corners of every garment.  Clearly these are not moral judgments; they are purity regulations. Like not eating pork (Lev 11:2-8) or shellfish (Lev 11:9-12), they are lifestyle choices that make Israel culturally distinctive.

So–no.  I do not believe that the Bible compels us to regard maleness and femaleness as inflexibly fixed.  We can affirm masculinity and femininity as God’s good creation without denying the created goodness of those whose gender does not fit into those traditional boxes.  Certainly, the Bible does not support the graceless inhospitality, prejudice, and hatred toward a duly and properly elected colleague demonstrated by Reps. Mace and Johnson.

This Sunday marks the end of this Christian year; next Sunday, with Advent, a new year will begin. The last Sunday of the Christian year is called the Reign of Christ, or the feast of Christ the King.  Appropriately, the Gospel for this Sunday, John 18:33-37, relates Jesus’ trial before Pilate:  has Jesus claimed to be a king, in opposition to Caesar?

Pilate went back into the palace. He summoned Jesus and asked, “Are you the king of the Jews?” 

Jesus answered, “Do you say this on your own or have others spoken to you about me?”

Pilate responded, “I’m not a Jew, am I? Your nation and its chief priests handed you over to me. What have you done?”

Jesus replied, “My kingdom doesn’t originate from this world. If it did, my guards would fight so that I wouldn’t have been arrested by the Jewish leaders. My kingdom isn’t from here.”

“So you are a king?” Pilate said.

Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. I was born and came into the world for this reason: to testify to the truth. Whoever accepts the truth listens to my voice.”

We need to be clear on two points.  First, Jesus was a political prisoner, executed by the Roman state on the charge of insurrection.  When Christians reflect on the cross, we tend to forget, or perhaps even to ignore, this obvious truth.  Rome didn’t crucify thieves, or bandits, or rapists, or even murderers.  It crucified slaves, and those who rebelled against Roman authority.

The words Pilate posted above Jesus’ head on the cross were not a title, but an accusation–the accusation that brought him to the cross: “Jesus the Nazarene, the king of the Jews.”

Thankfully, a survey of Roman Catholic Christians conducted by St. Joseph’s Institute for Jewish-Catholic Relations in July 2022 with SurveyUSA determined that “Catholics were significantly more likely to affirm Catholic teaching regarding the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.”

Nearly 70% of respondents blamed “the sins of humanity” (41.6%) or Roman soldiers and Pontius Pilate (28.2%).

Who killed Jesus?  If our question is historical, then as 28.2% of those surveyed thankfully realized, Jesus was condemned and executed by Roman authority.  If our question is theological, as 41.6% of those surveyed understood it, then we killed Jesus: Jesus died for your sins and mine.  In her powerful devotional book God Is No Fool (Nashville: Abingdon, 1969), Lois A. Cheney writes:

Would we crucify Jesus today? It’s not a rhetorical question for the mind to play with.

I believe,

We are born with a body, a mind, a soul, and a handful of nails.

I believe,

When a man dies, no one has ever found any nails left,

            clutched in his hand

                        or stuffed in his pockets  (Cheney, 40-41).

The scholars at St. Joseph’s “seemed unsettled that roughly 30% of U.S. Catholics didn’t know (9.6%)” who was accountable for the death of Jesus, “thought no one is to blame (9.6%) or openly blamed Jewish people (11%).”

The Jews did not kill Jesus–Rome did. But given the sad resurgence of antisemitism in contemporary American life, I wonder what a similar survey of Protestant Christians would reveal?

The second point on which we must be very clear is that Jesus firmly rejects earthly, political kingship: “My kingdom doesn’t originate from this world. If it did, my guards would fight so that I wouldn’t have been arrested by the Jewish leaders. My kingdom isn’t from here” (John 8:36). 

This was not the first time that Jesus rejected an earthly kingdom.  At the very beginning of his ministry, when Jesus was tested in the wilderness:

Then the devil brought him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory. He said, “I’ll give you all these if you bow down and worship me.”

Jesus responded, “Go away, Satan, because it’s written, You will worship the Lord your God and serve only him” [see Deuteronomy 6:13]. The devil left him, and angels came and took care of him (Matthew 4:8-11).

This point is vital, friends, as some American Christians seem to have the idea that it is their task to restore Christian political power, and indeed to impose Christian rule. President-elect Donald Trump promised in his campaign to “champion his followers’ brand of Christianity across American life and government. . . his support for ‘my beautiful Christians,’ as he calls them, leans heavily into their fears about losing power in a secularizing and pluralist country.”

Accordingly, Mr. Trump “is promising to elevate not only [conservative Christian] policy priorities but also their ideological influence. He says he will affirm that God made only two genders, male and female. He will create a federal task force to fight anti-Christian bias. And he will give enhanced access to conservative Christian leaders. . . ‘It will be directly into the Oval Office — and me,’ Mr. Trump told pastors in Georgia. ‘We have to save religion in this country.’”

We need to call this so-called “Christian nationalism” what it is, friends: it in fact is not Christian at all, but a heresy.  Amanda Tyler, the executive director of the Baptist Joint Committee for Religious Liberty (BJC), identifies the tenets of this American heresy:

God responds to this rejection, this wounding, with an outpouring of God’s Spirit (as in Joel 2:28-29 [in Hebrew, 3:1-2]).  But here, God pours out “a spirit of compassion and supplication on the house of David and the inhabitants of Jerusalem” (12:10). This spirit sufficiently softens their hearts so that “when they look on the one whom they have pierced, they shall mourn for him, as one mourns for an only child, and weep bitterly over him, as one weeps over a firstborn.”

First off, please let me apologize to subscribers and regular readers of “The Bible Guy,” as well as to all visitors, for my long absence: I injured the rotator cuff in my right shoulder, and the precise angle of my arm when I sat down at the computer was excruciating!  However, I am now at last recovered, and able once more to write.  So it is my intention to resume my usual bimonthly posts.  Thank you for your patience!

Well, here we are.  Again.  Tuesday’s election reminded me once more that I am in a minority–not only among our national population, just over 50% (72,793,677) of whom voted for Mr. Trump, but especially among my fellow Christians:

Exit poll data from CNN and other news outlets reported that 72% of white Protestants and 61% of white Catholics said they voted for Trump. Among white voters, 81% of those identified as born-again or evangelical supported Trump, up from 76% in 2020 and similar to the 80% of support Trump received in 2016.  . . . But Trump also won the Christian vote overall: 58% of all Catholics voted for him and 63% of Protestants, according to the early exit polls. 

I hope that few of those Christian voters actually espouse Mr. Trump’s violent rhetoric toward immigrants and transgender persons even if they are concerned about immigration, and regard trans people as immoral.  But those Christians for Mr. Trump need to understand the legitimate concerns that rhetoric poses for those communities–and indeed, given his threats against his political adversaries, even for an old white guy like me.  Friends, I have been surprised and disappointed by elections before this (Reagan’s election in 1980, George W. Bush’s election in 2000 and re-election in 2004, Trump’s 2016 victory), but this is the first time in my life that an election has made me fear for my own safety, and the safety of those I love.  I pray that our society is strong and stable enough to resist the turn toward fascism and autocracy that prevailed in Orban’s Hungary, or Putin’s Russia (two other “strong men,” both of whom are admired by Trump and by many of his supporters).

In these difficult days, I have been remembering a couple of old hymns that I grew up singing.  One is a hymn of creation: “This Is My Father’s World,” written by Maltbie Davenport Babcock, and published after his death, in 1901.  In the version I learned, the third verse is particularly apt to our present circumstance:

Among the peoples surrounding ancient Israel, it was common to imagine creation as a primordial battle between the creator god and the dragon in the sea: a monster of uncreated chaos.  By defeating the dragon, the creator imposed order upon chaos, bringing into being an ordered, meaningful world.

God’s victory and rule over chaotic water is affirmed in our Bible as well.  For example, Psalm 46:1-3 [2-4] affirms:

God is our refuge and strength,
    a help always near in times of great trouble.
That’s why we won’t be afraid when the world falls apart,
    when the mountains crumble into the center of the sea,
     when its waters roar and rage,
    when the mountains shake because of its surging waves.

But other biblical texts deny that chaos ever was truly overcome.  The battle against chaos continues, and only at the end of the age will the dragon be defeated. So, Isaiah 24—27 describes our present age as a time of uncertainty and struggle.  Only with the end of this world and the dawn of the next will the Divine Warrior finally prevail over the dragon:

On that day, the LORD will take a great sword, harsh and mighty, and will punish Leviathan the fleeing serpent, Leviathan the writhing serpent, and will kill the dragon that is in the sea (Isa 27:1).

Similarly, in Daniel 7, the prophet’s vision of the future begins with “the four winds of heaven churning the great sea” (Dan 7:2). The nations that had oppressed Israel in times past, and the terrible, final oppressor who is coming, are described as “beasts” that “emerged from the sea” (Dan 7:3). Little wonder that in the new heaven and new earth of John’s vision, “the sea was no more” (Rev 21:1)!

Our hymn recognizes the seemingly overwhelming power of wrong, yet nonetheless asserts God’s rulership: “This is my Father’s world,” after all.  As the hymn says, “the battle is not done”!  The Divine Warrior still opposes chaos, oppression, and cruelty; we are called to do so as well, confident that while we may not see the consummation, “God is the ruler yet,” and will prevail. 

The second hymn much on my mind today was a favorite of my dear friend and colleague in United Methodist ministry Bruce Merritt, may light perpetual shine upon him: “Come Thou Fount of Ev’ry Blessing,” written in 1758 by Robert Robinson.   It is not often sung today, largely because of its (to many) enigmatic second verse:

Here I raise mine Ebenezer;
hither by thy help I’m come;
and I hope, by thy good pleasure,
safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
wandering from the fold of God;
he, to rescue me from danger,
interposed his precious blood.

“Ebenezer” is a biblical place name mentioned in 1 Samuel 4:1 and 5:1, although not explained until 1 Samuel 7:12:

As any beginning Hebrew student knows, ‘eben is Hebrew for “stone,” and ‘ezer means “help”–so, “Ebenezer” means “stone of help.”  Ebenezer is a standing stone, erected to memorialize God’s deliverance of Israel from its enemies, the Philistines.  In about half of its citations, ‘ezer is used as it is here, for God’s help in threatening times (see Exod 18:4; Deut 33:7, 29; Pss 20:2[3]; 70:5[6]; 121:1-2; 124:8; 146:5).

God has brought us this far, friends.  God has come after us in the person of Jesus God’s son, to demonstrate God’s determination to keep coming after us and to stand by us to the end, no matter what.  “Jesus sought me when a stranger, wandering from the fold of God”–or,  as Paul wrote, “God shows his love for us, because while we were still sinners Christ died for us” (Rom 5:8).  The cross is the proof of God’s abiding, unfailing, invincible love for us.  Therefore we have hope, even in the midst of hopelessness.  So let us raise our Ebenezer, right here, right now, and declare that, secure in God’s love and promise, we will stand up for those on the margins, as Christ has stood up for us.