REVELATION: A Slain Lamb

The pictures and images that drive the fifth chapter of Revelation follow in step with the parousia we described in the fourth chapter. We’ll continue to see a parallel in cultural context, as well as references to the Hebrew Scriptures in a way that preaches a sermon within the letter.

Then I saw in the right hand of him who sat on the throne a scroll with writing on both sides and sealed with seven seals. And I saw a mighty angel proclaiming in a loud voice, “Who is worthy to break the seals and open the scroll?” But no one in heaven or on earth or under the earth could open the scroll or even look inside it. I wept and wept because no one was found who was worthy to open the scroll or look inside. Then one of the elders said to me, “Do not weep! See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has triumphed. He is able to open the scroll and its seven seals.”

Many of the pronouncements we’ve referenced in Roman settings (and will continue to reference) were made from scrolls. History would indicate that these scrolls were often made quite large to impact the listener visually; the scroll often contained the greatness and achievements of the Emperor. Some have suggested a tongue-in-cheek reference to “a scroll with writing on both sides” — meaning that the greatness of this King is so great, you couldn’t fit it all on one side.

However, one of the things we can make a direct tie to in the culture is the reference about worthiness. You might remember our discussion about the synagogue in Sardis; one of the finds in the ruins there was a plaque that sat over the Moses Seat: “Only he who is worthy. Take. Open. Read.” The audience of Revelation seems to be familiar with the idea that the scrolls of God should only be read by the person who walks in faithful righteousness. So who would be worthy to open this scroll?

At the synagogue in Sardis; Moses seat on the left, Torah closet on the right.

It should be noted that the references to things like “the Lion of the tribe of Judah” or “the Root of David” are more than just passing references to Jesus. They are intentional quotations of the Hebrew Scriptures that are intended to speak to the readers about the current situation. But this discussion will already be long enough without covering that here. Continuing in Revelation 5:

Then I saw a Lamb, looking as if it had been slain, standing at the center of the throne, encircled by the four living creatures and the elders. The Lamb had seven horns and seven eyes, which are the seven spirits of God sent out into all the earth. He went and took the scroll from the right hand of him who sat on the throne. And when he had taken it, the four living creatures and the twenty-four elders fell down before the Lamb. Each one had a harp and they were holding golden bowls full of incense, which are the prayers of God’s people. 

John references this ruler who is worthy to open the scroll, but the reference is a deliberate play on the Exodus — fitting for a group of people crying out for deliverance from Roman persecution. This ruler looks like a slain lamb. For the Jewish people, the slain lamb had become the symbol of revolution, calling them back to the great story of God’s deliverance. Add to this John’s reference to the elders, the very people Exodus describes as needing to examine and identify the Pesach lamb in Exodus 12.

And the references don’t stop here — “… which are the prayers of God’s people” appear to be drawn from Psalm 141:2 and Psalm 16:3. The context of those Psalms would also speak to the audience, crying out to God for refuge and deliverance. Back to Revelation 5:

And they sang a new song, saying:

“You are worthy to take the scroll
    and to open its seals,
because you were slain,
    and with your blood you purchased for God
    persons from every tribe and language and people and nation.
You have made them to be a kingdom and priests to serve our God,
    and they will reign on the earth.”

Then I looked and heard the voice of many angels, numbering thousands upon thousands, and ten thousand times ten thousand. They encircled the throne and the living creatures and the elders. In a loud voice they were saying:

“Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain,
    to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength
    and honor and glory and praise!”

Then I heard every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and on the sea, and all that is in them, saying:

“To him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb
    be praise and honor and glory and power,
for ever and ever!”

The four living creatures said, “Amen,” and the elders fell down and worshiped.

One of the songs that will continue to make an appearance in the Revelation of John, sometimes directly and sometimes indirectly, is the song of Moses. When the Israelites crossed the Red Sea, they found themselves rescued on the other side, dancing along to the song of Moses. While the closing of that song (Exodus 15) seems to have a loose connection here, the possibility is bolstered by John’s Passover/Exodus references throughout the chapter.

One final idea that has always jumped out to me is the commissioning of Isaiah in Isaiah 6. Not only is the song from Isaiah mentioned just prior in Revelation 4, but the entirety of Revelation 5 is about worthiness, draped in a context of flying figures with many wings encircling the throne. This reaches back into our previous discussion, but the image clearly carries itself through chapter 5, as well.

Statement of Triumph

Matthew 21 opens with one of the records of the Triumphal Entry. We’re familiar with the images of the story and we often reenact different elements during our Palm Sunday celebrations. We know the picture of Jesus making his entrance on a donkey while people wave palm branches and shout “Hosanna!”

But a little historical context will go a long way. Jesus enters Jerusalem on the week of Passover (possibly even “Lamb Selection Day”); this week is significant because of the tension of Palestine in the Roman world. This particular region was always one of the tensest areas the Romans had to control. It was the home of the only group of people who refused to worship the emperor. This band of rebels was stubborn, stiff-necked, and naïve.

The region was one of the hardest to govern because of this headache for the Romans. You might remember Herod giving this region to his son Archelaus who didn’t last but for a breath as ruler of the region. The ruler would have to be tough, a bulldog who knew how to collect the necessary taxes and maintain peace. Immediately after the failure of Archelaus as ruler, the Romans sent in their own guy. History knows him as Pontius Pilate. 

Now Pilate did not live in Jerusalem; Israel’s “holy city” would not be the place for a dignified Roman ruler. No, Pilate made his home in Caesarea, the immaculate city of Herod the Great, built to honor the emperor. However, the week of Passover was incredibly tense. More than a million Jews would gather in the city to celebrate a feast that remembered their deliverance from the world’s greatest superpower. The last thing Rome wanted was to let this band of rebels get all riled up after a four-glasses-of-wine party and start a revolt. 

And so every year, Pilate would head south from Caesarea to Joppa and then east to Jerusalem, entering the city from the west. He would travel with great pomp and a show of force. Soldiers, trumpeters, banners, heralds, pronouncements — and Pilate riding on a white stallion that symbolizes military conquest. You could have heard him coming from miles away. The message he wanted to send to the Jews was clear: “Don’t even think about it. Keep everything under control or Rome will crush you.”

And Pilate would stay at Herod’s palace in Jerusalem until the festivities died down.

Meanwhile, on the same week (possibly even the same day), a humble Jewish rabbi rides into Jerusalem from the east with his ragtag bunch of reject disciples.

This is the picture of two kingdoms about to collide.

Pilate on his stallion; Jesus on his donkey.

Pilate with his solders; Jesus with his talmidim.

Pilate instilling fear; Jesus pronouncing favor.

Pilate and his chaos; Jesus with his order.

Pilate with his Empire; Jesus with his Shalom.

This ultimate showdown does not go unnoticed by the Jewish people gathered there on the east side of Jerusalem. The moment Jesus jumps on a donkey, each one of them recognizes the clear connection to Zechariah, a discussion we had last year.

And so the people grab palm branches (see the account in John) and begin waving them. Why palm fronds? Because the prophecy of Zechariah ends with the vision of all nations celebrating Sukkot in Jerusalem — and Sukkot is where you wave your palm fronds. 

And they begin shouting “Hosanna!” which is Hebrew for “Lord, save us!” Why do they shout this? Because the great hymn that you sing at Sukkot is Psalm 118:

     LORD, save us!
         LORD, grant us success!

     Blessed is he who comes in the name of the LORD.
         From the house of the LORD we bless you.
     The LORD is God,
         and he has made his light shine on us.
     With boughs in hand, join in the festal procession
         up to the horns of the altar.

     You are my God, and I will praise you;
         you are my God, and I will exalt you.

     Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good;
         his love endures forever.

Because of these passages, the palm frond had become the symbol of the Zealot party and of political revolution. According to Roman history, shaking a palm frond in public was a crucifiable offense.

The people are calling out for a revolution. They see the statement Jesus is making about kingship and they are ready for their king! They give him their support and their praise.

And Jesus cries.

We know from the other accounts that Jesus will look over Jerusalem and he will cry, saying, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem! If only you knew what would bring you peace.”

They had forgotten part of the prophecy in Zechariah:

     Rejoice greatly, Daughter Zion!

         Shout, Daughter Jerusalem!

     See, your king comes to you,

         righteous and victorious,

     lowly and riding on a donkey,

         on a colt, the foal of a donkey.

     I will take away the chariots from Ephraim

         and the warhorses from Jerusalem,

         and the battle bow will be broken.

     He will proclaim peace to the nations.

         His rule will extend from sea to sea

         and from the River to the ends of the earth.

And I’ve always been amazed that every year, we hand our children palm fronds and have them reenact the very scene that made our Savior weep.

But this isn’t what actually haunts me. I’m sure Jesus is able to see the statement we are making with our hearts as we sing the words “Hosanna!” in spite of ourselves. I think he accepts the worship we are offering.

What haunts me is the question of which kingdom I really want.

I say I want the Kingdom of God, but I’m not sure I’m willing to pay the price. I say I love forgiveness, but there are far too many days where I find myself on the side of the road, clutching a palm frond and shouting for a revolution that comes with my kind of power and my kind of might. 

And I think we need to ask some questions, because I think our political agendas and methods would make Jesus weep. I think our thirst for power, influence, and a particular kind of security would cause Jesus to lament over our cities and our country. I think far too much of our American culture has us standing at the west side of Jerusalem, not the east.

What’s interesting is that in two of the accounts, we are told there are two donkeys, which is interesting because Jesus only rides one. And while this might be an effort to make the account line up with the prophecy of Zechariah, Jewish literature and teaching will often employ this tool as they tell stories. You may remember that Matthew has two demon-possessed men in the Decapolis; he also has two blind men receiving their healing. The rabbis tell us that a teacher will often insert an additional character into the story as a way of inviting you into a moment of decision.

In the story of the two blind men and demoniacs, you are being invited into the story. If you were the other demoniac, what would you do?

There are two donkeys in the Triumphal Entry.

Jesus rides into Jerusalem, not to conquer, but to die. He rides in to bring true peace that might last for an eternity, not a political peace that will last only for now. He rides in to restore relationships and reconcile all things, not to establish a country club.

As you watch Jesus tearfully ride to his death, you see him glance over his shoulder at the riderless donkey and you are faced with a question: Which kingdom do you really want?

He invites you to ride with him into a Kingdom that is built on different values.

Stand and Watch

And so God rescues His people from Egypt and, as we've pointed out before, the story stops right at the height of the drama and gives instructions on how to eat the meal.  The Passover meal is central to remembering the story of the Exodus; God thought it was important enough that is was worth pointing out the specifics of the meal in the midst of the Exodus narrative.  One cannot see the Exodus story without having to look through God's institution of the Passover.

The meal is constructed around the movement of four cups.  The cups remind the participant of the four promises that God made in Exodus 6:6–7.

Therefore, say to the Israelites: "I am the LORD, and I will bring you out from under the yoke of the Egyptians. I will free you from being slaves to them, and I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with mighty acts of judgment. I will take you as my own people, and I will be your God. Then you will know that I am the LORD your God, who brought you out from under the yoke of the Egyptians."

To many Westerners, this sounds like one big long promise of deliverance.  But the rabbis noted that these promises are distinct and the four cups of the Passover reflect this and have for thousands of years (although there is great debate about when the use of four distinct cups began).  The four cups of the ancient Passover are as follows (I emphasize “ancient” because everybody wants to impose the modern cups on the ancient Passover; the meal has definitely changed at different points in history to reflect the context of the Jewish people):

Cup of Sanctification — “I will bring you out from under the yoke of the Egyptians…”
Cup of Deliverance — “I will free you from being slaves to them…”
Cup of Redemption — “I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and mighty acts of judgment…”
Cup of Protection — “I will take you as my own people, and I will be your God…”

These cups, and the distinction of the promises, were explained to me (by Ray Vander Laan) in the following way: Imagine these promises in the life of an addict.  The first promise (the Cup of Sanctification) is as if God has told the addict, “Tomorrow, I will free you from your addiction!”  The addict might respond, “Praise God!  Thank you!  But God, tomorrow, when I wake up, I'm going to want to drink.”  But God would respond with the second promise (the Cup of Deliverance), “Oh, no you won't!  I will even take away the desire to drink; I'm going to remove your addictive nature.”  The addict may respond, "Oh, bless God!  That is fantastic!  But God, I don't know how to live sober.”  And God would respond with the third promise (the Cup of Redemption), “But I will redeem you and teach you how to live!”  For the ancient Eastern person, redemption is the process of being brought into a new household; you would adopt the identity and lifestyle of your new mishpuchah (again, for a fantastic treatment of this, read The Epic of Eden by Sandra Richter).  Finally, the addict says, “O God, thank you for rescuing me and freeing me and teaching me how to live!  But God — what if I fail?”  And God would respond (the Cup of Protection), “Don't talk to me about failure.  I will protect you!”  God said that He will take them to be His people; that was easily recognized in the ancient world as wedding language. It's what a groom would say to his bride on the wedding day.  “Today, I take you to me my treasured possession!”  God is saying that failure won't get in the way of Him loving and protecting His people as a groom protects and loves his bride.

This was the promise and story of God in the Exodus.  God came through on His promises and He gave the Hebrews a meal to remember always their fundamental identity as a rescued people, loved by God.  After the meal, on that first Passover night, God told the Hebrews to stay up and keep watch (Exodus 12:42), because the LORD kept watch over them.  To this day, Jewish people will often observe what is called leyl shimurim (“night of watching”), where the firstborn male will stay up all night keeping watch and remember how the LORD, who never slumbers nor sleeps, kept watch over His people.  In fact, this is what Jesus takes Peter, James, and John to go and do outside the Gethsemane on the night of his betrayal.  You may remember Jesus telling them, “Keep watch with me…”


This idea will be echoed even as they leave Egypt behind.  Cornered by a Pharaoh (and an Egyptian army) who has changed his mind (yet again), the Hebrews find their back against the Red Sea, crying out for salvation.  Moses tells them to “stand and watch” the salvation of the LORD.  God instructs Moses to stretch his stick over the waters and He parts the Red Sea, saving the Hebrews from the Egyptians for the last time (in the Exodus at least). 

One can't help but hear the refrain of the Exodus, “Stand and watch!” as God makes promises and delivers His people with mighty acts and an outstretched arm.  Thankfully, there are defining moments in our lives that God harkens us back to — moments that aren't just empty callings to trust blindly a theoretical story.  There are moments where He just says, “Stand and watch!”  And we see the finger of God move.  Hopefully, we mark these moments with meals or monuments or standing stones of remembrance.  These will be the stories that define us.  These will be the times that help us to trust the story.  It's because we've painted our doors with the blood of a Lamb and seen the deliverance of God.  We drink from the cups of promise and remember our own stories of rescue from our own Egypts.  We've stood on the bank of our own Red Seas and seen the finger of God move.

And while those Red Sea moments aren't the standard experience that we have day in and day out, they are the moments in which God invites us to keep watch.

Because the sons and daughters of Israel have a desert on the other side of the Red Sea.  And they have some tests that God wants to put them through.   And they're going to have to remember that night on the bank of the Red Sea if they're going to be able to trust the story.

And the same will probably be true of us.

A Strengthened Heart

As we look at the story of the plagues, I will eagerly say that my understanding of the plagues in the Exodus has undoubtedly been shaped by a specific teaching by Rabbi David Fohrman.  Rather than try to adapt all the material, I will simply link the teaching here (you can watch the entire playlist at that link; prepare for it to take a few hours and to be immersed in a modern rabbinical teaching method that drives most Westerners mad). With one noted exception in this post, all of my points will be a crude attempt to summarize that teaching.

It should be noted that Fohrman twisted together so much additional material in typical rabbinic fashion that won't be dealt with here.  You may remember me linking this same teaching as we touched on the story of Jacob, Joseph, and the Passover (“B'hor in a Box”, parts one and two).  Any rabbi training in the methods of rabbinic teaching/learning will lead the student through a process of discovery.  Fohrman poses a number of seemingly unrelated questions in the first handful of videos.  The questions appear to be so unrelated that the viewer begins to wonder if he's got the video playlist in the correct order.  Even as the teaching comes together, more questions continue to form.  This is an Eastern way of learning.  The questions actually pull you along on the path of discovery.  As we've discussed before, the world of the Bible is not propositional in nature as we often learn in the West.

A few of Fohrman's questions will remind you of some of those we asked in the last post.  Why does God take so long to free the Hebrews?  Is it really necessary to draw the process out through ten plagues?  Isn't there an easier way to go about freeing His people than having to wade through the destruction, confusion, and bloodshed of the nation of Egypt?  Even if judgment on the Egyptians is necessary, why can't this be done in only five plagues?  Or three?  Or even just one mighty act? Wouldn't that be more efficient?

One of the initial observations made by Fohrman is Pharaoh's overwhelming concern with control.  An example of this (emphasized as well in the midrash surrounding the teaching) is the plague of frogs. When Pharaoh asks Moses to plead to the Lord to do away with the frogs, Moses agrees and asks Pharaoh when he would like the frogs to be gone.  It's an interesting question to ask Pharaoh, don't you think?  If your land is covered in frogs and you get asked when you'd like them to leave, what is the obvious answer?  Now!  Yesterday!  ASAP!

But Pharaoh's choice?  Tomorrow.

When the livestock of the Egyptians are plagued, Pharaoh sends out his servants to check and see not how his livestock are doing, but that of the Hebrew people.

Why is this?  Because Pharaoh's biggest concern is about control.  In Egyptian belief, Pharaoh was considered to be the great high priest to the Egyptian gods. Because Pharaoh does his work, the gods are appeased and give us what we need to survive.  Pharaoh helps us maintain order.  I believe that to some extent, even Pharaoh believed this about his job as ruler.  But Pharaoh has his limitations.  He understands that he only has so much control over those elements that he influences.  Yet here is a God who claims to have absolute authority and control.  This intrigues Pharaoh.

And the door begins to creep open to understanding the story behind the story of the plagues.

Eventually, Fohrman begins a word study surrounding the Hebrew language in the story of the plagues.  He points out this conversation that we have about Pharaoh's hard heart.  It really is quite a conundrum. Sometimes God hardens Pharoah's heart. Sometimes Pharaoh hardens his own heart. And sometimes we're told nothing more than Pharaoh's heart is hardened.  This has baffled readers in many different faith traditions for thousands of years.

One fun conversation (as a side note) is what an Egyptian reader would hear throughout this conversation.  According to Egyptian mythology, whenever a person dies (particularly people of high rank and nobility), their soul is brought by the gods on the Nile to the afterlife.  This afterlife scene is always depicted at the Nile River, because the crocodile god, Sobek, is the god of the afterlife.  The gods present the heart of the deceased to Sobek who is always pictured holding a set of scales.  On one side of the scale is the “weight of goodness;” on the other side of the scale Sobek will place the heart of the deceased.  If the heart is “light” he is invited to the paradise of the afterlife where the gods reside.  If the heart is “heavy” then the deceased was evil and is taken into the underworld with Sobek.  The Hebrew word for “harden” is also the word for “heavy.”  So an Egyptian reader would hear the story say that Pharaoh's heart is getting heavier and heavier as he denies the Hebrews freedom.  (This is not adapted from Fohrman's teaching, but from that of Ray VanderLaan).

Sobek weighing a heart

The startling fact is that there are two different Hebrew words for “harden” at work in the story of the plagues.  One of the words used in the story is kavad.  This word means to harden, to heavy, to make dense, to make insensible.  Essentially, I always hear this word to mean “to stupid.”  It's as if a veil is being pulled over the heart so that it cannot see what is really taking place.  Sometimes, Pharaoh kavads his heart.  And sometimes God kavads his heart.  Sometimes Pharaoh doesn't want to see what's really going on.  Sometimes God doesn't want Pharaoh to see what's really going on.

The other Hebrew word that is used in the story is the word chazak.  It means “to strengthen;” Joshua is told by God “chazak va'amatz” — “be strong and courageous.” Some translations actually catch the word change, some translations do not.  After the plague of the livestock, Pharaoh's heart changed.  Up to this point in the story, Pharaoh's heart was kavad.  He could not see it.  But after the livestock, Pharaoh strengthens his heart and the story changes. Now, Pharaoh can see what's going on and now he's choosing not to yield to God's story.

You see, this isn't a story about God ruthlessly taking out His vengeance on Pharaoh.  In fact, to the contrary, this is a story about God relentlessly pursuing Pharaoh's heart.  All throughout the plagues, we see a God who isn't willing to give up on Pharaoh!  He begins to dismantle Pharaoh's worldview.  He takes the polytheistic world of the Egyptians and He begins to do battle against the Egyptian gods — not Pharaoh (and that's in the Text; it's what God tells Moses [see Exodus 12]).  When Pharaoh finally sees the control that God has, he then has to make a decision.  Does he bow his knee?  Does he trust the story and give up the power of empire?

Pharaoh strengthens his heart.

But God gives him one more chance.  Two plagues later, God sends hail (literally translated from the Hebrew) that has flames of fire in it.  Now this is REALLY something for the Egyptians, because the fire god and the ice god would NEVER work together, but this Hebrew God has control over even that reality.  We see the struggle for Pharaoh in that he actually repents and admits his sin after the plague of hail (see Exodus 9:27–28)!  But then, after sleeping on it, Pharaoh repents of his repentance and chazaks his heart again.

At this point, the story changes for Pharaoh. The next few verses will have God saying, “I have hardened [kavad] Pharaoh's heart.” Essentially, God says at the beginning of chapter ten that Pharaoh has had his chance and now the plagues will now run their course and the Hebrews will leave.

But can you believe this story?  We began by asking the question of why God would waste so much time and be so brutal about rescuing His people.  The answer is because it wasn't only about His people!  It never has been!  God has always been interested in restoring a good world.  Didn't God tell Moses that he was to go and be “as God to Pharaoh”?  You see, this whole story isn't about God's wrath on Egypt — it's about His love for every person.  Even a ruler who claims to be god himself.

But God will not force Himself on anyone. And so when we have our own empires in our hearts and God comes and tries to show us our folly.  There are times that we struggle to see it; there are plenty of days when our hearts are kavad.  And quite frankly, there are days when God makes our hearts kavad because there's a desert we need to go through. 

But sometimes, we do see what's truly going on.  And there are dark, dark days where we look at the goodness of God and we survey all that we will be called to give up — and we chazak our hearts.  And God will not force Himself on us.  When we choose empire, He will weep and mourn and give us all the empire that our hearts desire.

But eventually, our empires fall.  They always do.  A day will always come when we find our armies and chariots lying at the bottom of the Red Sea.  But it's my belief that God never stops seeking our redemption.  He keeps insisting on a better way to live and keeps offering us citizenship in the Kingdom of Shalom.

This is God's invitation to trust the story.

A Problem with God

So, now that we've set the stage for the narrative of God's story as a whole — not to mention the dominant theme of the Exodus story itself — we're ready to see how this “Tale of Two Kingdoms” plays out in time and space.

Up to this point, we've been painting a pretty rosy picture of who God is.  We've said that God is for us.  We've talked about how God loves, values, and accepts us.  We've tried to show again and again that God isn't angry and isn't set against us.  He is incredibly patient.  In fact, it's at this point in the story that I like to rock some theological boats for our students.  Think back over the story of Genesis.  When have we seen God's anger and wrath?  I can think of two stories in Genesis.  The first is the flood, which we tried to wrestle with earlier.  I really don't believe the flood story is a story about God's wrath; I feel like it's a juxtaposition to be held against the Epic of Gilgamesh.  This changes God's “wrath” into a subversive, artistic agenda of love, redemption, and partnership.  The other story would be Sodom and Gomorrah.

So while we're at it, we should probably mention the Sodom and Gomorrah story.  What's interesting to see is what it is that rouses God's anger.  Contrary to what many Christians have been led to associate with the S&G story, the sexual immorality of the people of Sodom is, in fact, not what raises God's ire.  Instead, when we read the Text, we find that God has showed up on the scene because “outcry against Sodom and Gomorrah” has reached His ears and He's come to see if the cause of the cry is as bad as it seems (see Genesis 18:20–21).

God shows up not to punish sin.  God shows up to rescue the oppressed.

God has heard the cry.

One of the things that I just don't buy in the typical evangelical theological conversation is that you have to hold a balance between God's love and justice.  Nowhere does the Bible teach this and no matter where one falls on the issue, their argument will rely on which Bible passages and proof texts they choose to highlight.  One of the most striking holes in this theology is that the term “justice” is not a reference to a biblical concept but a western one.  Biblical, Eastern justice (even if it's used as a legal term) is not retributive — it's distributive.  Justice is a household term, referring to the fact that there is enough for everyone (to understand this patriarchal culture in context, I highly recommend Sandra Richter's The Epic of Eden).  Biblical justice is about restoring things to their proper place, not giving somebody what they deserve.

But maybe more importantly, I don't buy this line of thinking because I don't find it in God's narrative.  Nowhere does the story of Genesis talk about the depraved state of man and the ramifications of his legal standing before God.  Most of our theology has been crafted by an inaccurate reading of Pauline literature outside of context and then projected on the rest of the Bible (in the words of Brian McLaren, evangelicals have made Jesus their Savior, but Paul their Lord; more on this much later).  Genesis has not shown us an angry God.

Think about it.  God has had plenty of opportunity to pour out wrath, but instead He has patiently and slowly partnered with mankind to teach him profound lessons.  With the exception of the two aforementioned stories, we have not ran into a single implication of a hopeless humanity or an angry deity.  As the Bible introduces us to God, it (or more appropriately, HE) has not found it necessary to display this “balance” that evangelicals are so certain exists.

But I have been introduced to a God who keeps insisting that I have value and invites me to trust His declaration that creation is good.  I have been introduced to a God that is patient and willing to meet me where I'm at, as I learn who He is, as I walk down the path. I have found a God in the story that is bigger than my wildest imagination, but gentler than I could ever hope for.  He is deep and mysterious and profound and challenging, but a loving and compassionate Shepherd.

And I find a God that rises up at the cry of the oppressed, not the ugliness of sin.  I find a God that shows up at Sodom — not to punish the gays, but to rescue those who are being abused.  (This, by the way, is backed up by Ezekiel, who tells us exactly what Sodom's sin was — see Ezekiel 16:49; and for those who want to quote the book of Jude, they may want to think on the context of the quotation, which references two other stories of failed hospitality.)  I believe that as I read the story of God, I'm shown a God that has endless patience with me as I struggle to lean into His better story.  But when I become the “anti-story,” when I start working against His story and I start hurting other people, that's when God shows up to do something.

Because God always hears the cry.  And He loves and values the person I'm hurting just as much as He loves me.  And eventually (God is not impulsive), God is drawn to action.

God's has plenty of patience for a struggling Sodom.  But when the struggle of Sodom starts increasing the injustice for the marginalized, God acts. 

God has plenty of patience for a group of Hebrews who like their farmland and 401(k)s and homeland security and comfort.  But when those idols come at the expense of the weak, God acts.

The reason I bring this up is because the next story we need to talk about is the story of the plagues and God's battle with Pharaoh.  This is the first time in the story that I struggled to square it with what I had learned about God.  If the above reading were true, then God should have endless patience with Pharaoh.  And when Pharaoh won't stop throwing newborns in the Nile, doing away with the elderly, and crushing the weak, God will act.

And act He does, in a dramatic fashion.  And it all works consistently for me, until all the Egyptian families lose their firstborn son.

And it all seems to be a bit much.  It seems like God could have rescued the Hebrews without all the pyrotechnics and without the dramatic magical show.  It seems like God has got something to prove; and I thought He was better than that.  It seems like, for the first time in the story, I'm being confronted with a wrath worth fearing.

Could there be more to this story of plagues?

A Tale of Two Kingdoms: Empire v. Shalom

And so the story continues and the cry of the Israelite people rises to God and He hears their cry.  They're done with their Egyptian gods.  They don't want any part of the empire's false story and promises of that which it cannot deliver.  They've lost their wealth, their luxury, their comfort, and their security.  The mask has been ripped off and they see things for what they truly are, which is what God had told them from the very beginning.

They're ready to trust the story again.

And so the stage is set for deliverance.  We're ready to see what God will do to deal with the plot of the Israelites.  And we're introduced to Moses.

The beginning of Moses' life is covered with a relatively short passage of biblical text: the story of his birth and escape from death.  In a world where Pharaoh is killing all the male babies and throwing them in the Nile, Moses' mother saves him by placing him in a homemade ark and sending him on his way.  In an ironic twist, he is picked up and adopted by the very family seeking to have his life.

It's worth noting (in a world that seems to deny women a role in the story) that Moses isn't just saved by his mother.  He's saved by an entire group of tenacious women who refuse to give up on God's story.  In the Text, the Egyptian midwives report that the Hebrew mothers are so tough and determined that they are giving birth before the midwives arrive.   Whether that story is true to detail or whether there are groups of Egyptian midwives who have a conscience (or maybe both), we have a story of groups of women that change the course of history by faith, chutzpah, and obedience.

This part of the story is important, as this will happen again and again and again throughout the biblical narrative.  As much as our patriarchal hierarchies have tried to snuff out the role of women in the redemptive work of God, God's story will continue to insist that they have consistently propelled us forward into a better tomorrow.  The story of the Exodus, especially (and the midrash surrounding it), will bring this to light repeatedly.

So Moses is saved and is raised in Pharaoh's household.  He ages and one day is out among the work of the Israelite slaves.  When Moses sees the injustice of an Egyptian slavedriver beating a Hebrew, Moses responds in a rage, beating the Egyptian to death and hiding him in the sand.  When Moses learns that he wasn't able to bury the news of the incident as easily as he did the body, he flees to the deserts of Midian.  On the run, he again encounters injustice.  This time at the hands of some male shepherds who are harassing the female shepherds of Jethro.  After chasing off the male shepherds, Moses is befriended by Jethro's family and finds a role tending a flock of Jethro's sheep.

It is here that Moses will have his famous encounter with God in the burning bush.

So God calls Moses.  But the events of Moses' life are important.  Just as we did with Abram, we ask ourselves why God is choosing Moses.  Some may answer that Moses is overly qualified for the job, having been raised in Egypt and the recipient of untold training and numerous relationship opportunities.  But it's interesting that God never speaks of these things at all.  In fact, when Moses persists in arguing that he is the wrong man for the job, God never brings up Moses' impressive pedigree.  Not once.

I'd like to suggest that God chose Moses for a different reason.  And it's a reason that we've encountered before.

God was looking for partners.  And Moses is a man who has some “God qualities.”

God will tell Moses that his job will be to go and be “as God to Pharaoh”.  God is looking for a partner that won't just go and give Pharaoh a message — but someone who will go and BE the message to Pharaoh (to borrow a phrase from Ray Vander Laan).  We mentioned that God is a God who always hears the cries of the oppressed.  Well, in the course of a couple pages, Moses has shown us that he has a heart that hears the cries of the oppressed, as well.  He's not about to let a brutal slavedriver beat a Hebrew or watch as some female shepherds get abused.

Moses hears the cry.  Now, he probably needs to do some work on HOW he responds to the cry; it seems to be a little impulsive, violent, and built on unmanaged anger.  And so God leads Moses to the desert for forty years and lets him lead sheep.  This is important because shepherding involves the ability to lead with your voice.  A shepherd never leads through the power of his stick or physical force.  No matter how many western American pastors teach that the shepherd uses his staff to poke and prod and steer and whack sheep, no matter how many times a Sunday school teacher tells the moving story of how a shepherd breaks the leg of a sheep to make it dependent on the shepherd, it just isn't true.

Any Middle Eastern shepherd (and that is important: we're not talking about American sheep that graze in pastures of alfalfa; we're talking about the biblical world of sheep and shepherds) will tell you — and usually demonstrate — how a shepherd leads with his (or her — shepherds are usually young girls) voice.  The sheep have been trained to know their shepherd's voice and commands (ringing any bells?  “My sheep know my voice…”) and they follow it to a fault.  Just within the last few years, a story hit the Palestinian news about how a shepherd was trying to call his sheep to him from across a ravine and the entire flock followed his voice and walked off the cliff to their death.

God wants to teach Moses how to lead.  You lead with your voice, not your stick.  (More on this later.)

This is important, because God sets Moses up for a battle of sticks.  When Moses protests that he needs some help to accomplish, what does God do?  He tells him to throw down his stick.  When Moses is at the Red Sea, what will he be told to raise over the water?  His stick.  In Exodus 17, what will he strike the mountain of God with to make water flow?  His stick.  And what will he raise into the sky over the battle with the Amalekites?  “The rod of God.”

This showdown is going to be about sticks.

When Moses goes to confront Pharaoh, the Text will tell us that Moses and Aaron throw down the staff and it becomes a snake (actually, in the Hebrew, it becomes a crocodile).  The magicians of Pharaoh manage to do the same thing to their two sticks.  Then what happens?

Every Bible student says, “Moses' snake eats the other two snakes.”

But that's not what the Text says.

The Hebrew very clearly says that Moses' stick eats the other sticks.

This story isn't about magic spells and miracles.  It's about sticks.  The sticks are representations of power.  This story is about the power of Pharaoh and his stick.  It's about what his authority can do.  And this story is about the power of God.

Pharaoh's stick is a representation of fear and force and coercion.  It's about the strong being on top and the weak powering progress.  Everywhere you go in Egypt (even today) you see Pharaoh holding his stick.  You see Pharaoh beating the slaves and beating the enemy and beating those who stand against him.   Pharaoh's stick sends the message, “Stand against me at your own peril!”

Pharaoh's stick is the embodiment of empire.

Moses' stick is a representation of God's word: the Great Shepherd and His voice.  God's power lies in love and mercy and compassion and justice.  God's stick is the instrument of shalom. 

This will be the heart of the body of God's narrative.  The story of the Scripture is what I call “The Tale of Two Kingdoms: Empire v. Shalom,” and it begins in the Exodus with a battle of sticks.  Which is true power?  Which carries true authority?  Which stick leads people to true freedom?

Moses' stick ate the Egyptians' stick.

There is a message here about what true power looks like.  There's an invitation to hear the story that God is telling with His voice.  There's a compelling challenge to issue to our hearts about what impresses us and drives us and attracts us.  There's a message about the seduction of empire and the allure of driving people into submission like Pharaoh.  There's a stark reality for leaders everywhere to have to wrestle with what true leadership looks like.

The invitation to lead with your voice.  To tell a story so compelling that others will follow it to the green pastures of the Shepherd.  God leads Moses into the desert for forty years to teach him how to lead with his voice.  Forty years.  Some of us will need similar deserts in order to be prepared to lead God's sheep as hired hands.  Some of us will have to be convinced that it's better to lead by pointing the rod of God towards the heavens than it is to beat our subjects into submission.  Some of us will have to learn that sometimes the stick of Pharaoh is used in the name of theology and efficiency and ‘church discipline’.  And perhaps some of us will have some repentance to work through, because we've spent our lives and ministries burying bodies in the sand.

I know I've had to.  And I know we'll be talking more about this later because of it.

But if we're willing to follow the voice of the Shepherd, we'll find that we are still being invited to trust the story.

B'hor in a Box (part two)

** It bears repeating at the beginning of this second post that much of this teaching has been heavily influenced by Rabbi David Fohrman's teachings on the Exodus and Passover.

For anyone reading my blog for the first time, you will want to catch “B'hor in a Box (Part One)” as precursor to this post.

So we've established at this point that the Passover is somehow a connection to the Joseph story and that the Joseph story is really just a retelling of the Jacob story.  But what does Jacob and/or Joseph have to do with how you eat the Passover meal?  And what in the world did this have to do with the little black boxes known as tefillin?

Well, one would want to stop and contemplate the similarities of the Jacob and Joseph stories and what it is that ties these two stories together.  In essence, where is Genesis headed as it tells the story?  For one, it was easy to track along with Genesis' initial trajectory.  The “preface” (Gen. 1–11) had set the stage and invited us to reframe how we see the world.  God had invited us to trust the good story that He was telling in creation.  We then met Abram and even Isaac who showed us, albeit a terrible struggle at times, what it looks like to lean into trust.  We can track with the story at that point.

But with Jacob, everything seems to change.  No longer is the “model pupil” the one that the promise follows.  Instead of the “good ol' boy” Esau being the child of promise, we find that the sneaky little usurper, Jacob, gets the tap from Coach.  What in the world is going on here?

And just like every other time in which we run into a question that bothers us, we find some clues lying in the text.

It's actually in this very struggle that we find the ties that pull the Jacob and Joseph stories together.  You see, both stories are about children of promise that want to be the firstborn — but are not.  As much as Jacob wants to be Isaac's firstborn, he is not.  Even if he obtains the birthright and deceives his father into giving Jacob his blessing, he is not the firstborn.  The role of the firstborn is an important responsibility in the ancient culture.  The b'hor (the Hebrew word for “firstborn”) is the one who is responsible for taking the father's value and passing it on to his siblings.  He gets a double portion of blessing (if there are five sons, the estate is split six ways and the b'hor gets two; if there are two sons, the estate is split three ways and the b'hor gets two; etc.), but he also carries a double portion of responsibility for the entire patriarchal household.  It is the b'hor's responsibility, upon his father's death, to provide for the entire mishpucha (household).  Jacob wants to be the b'hor, but he is not.

This is repeated in Joseph.  Jacob will take two wives after being beaten at his own game of trickery.  He wanted to marry Rachel, but was given Leah first.  Even after Leah bears Jacob sons, it is Rachel that continues to have Jacob's favor.  When Rachel finally gives Jacob a son, this is the one whom Jacob favors.  Even though Jacob already HAS a firstborn son, he tries to make Joseph his firstborn son.  Father Jacob gives a special coat to his favorite son, Joseph.  There actually happens to be nothing special to the coat at all.  People have tried to make it a “colored” coat (which is not in the Text).  They've tried to make it a “striped” coat or even a “fine” coat.  The Text simply says that Jacob gives Joseph a “long-sleeved tunic”.

The kind of coat isn't the issue -— it's how many.  Every son is given a tunic from Dad.  But Joseph is given two.

And every brother hears Dad's message in perfect clarity: “Joseph is my b'hor.”

But no matter how hard Jacob tries to rewrite history, Joseph is not the b'hor.

Two stories.

Two children who want to be the b'hor, but are not.

It makes me think of the night that Jacob wrestled with God.  Refusing to let God (or the angel) go, God asks him, “What is your name?”  Which is a Jewish way of saying, “Who are you — really?”  And Jacob reveals that he is “the usurper”, Jacob.  That is who he is.  Always trying to obtain what isn't his.  But God will try to redefine Jacob.  Give him a new identity.  God will rename him Isra'el, hearkening him back to a time when he wrestled with God and emerged victorious.  You can almost hear God's invitation:

“Jacob, you aren't Isaac's firstborn.  But how about you come to be MY firstborn?”

And now, the Passover story comes full circle.  Where did the story awkwardly end in the middle of?  The plague of the b'hor.  What are the instructions surrounding Passover to remind you of?  The stories of b'hor.  In the first century, Rabbi Akiva made an interesting observation: as he translated the book of Exodus, he noted his disagreement with the way two verses were taught.  At first glance, the instructions of Exodus 12 appear to tell you to cook the goat “with the entrails still in it”...

Eww.

But Akiva said that isn't what the Hebrew meant at all.  In fact, the Hebrew phrase could be translated “with the insides inside”.  Akiva said that this meant you should cook the lamb with its head tucked between its hind legs.

In other words, in the fetal position.

But Akiva wasn't done.  He also said that we had a misunderstanding of the word “lentil” when the Israelites put the blood on the sides of the door and on the lentil.  Akiva said that the Hebrew word for lentil would mean the top AND bottom of the door.   Meaning that the blood went around the entire doorway.  What this would mean is that as Israel gathered that night to prepare for the great exodus, they were called to remember a story about firstborn children, to cook a lamb in the fetal position, and then to leave in haste through a bloody door.

And what image does one think of when they think of leaving in haste through a bloody door?

Birth.

I heard a rabbi, who doesn't believe in Jesus as Messiah, say, “Israel had to be born again.”  Interesting that Akiva, based in Capernaum, would have probably heard of that teaching from another Rabbi a generation before who had based Himself in Capernaum for three years…

Israel comes through the Red Sea having been born again as God's b'hor.  Their call will be to take the Father's values and pass them on to the rest of His children.  They will have a double portion of responsibility (They will have to carry Torah to the world.  We'll talk about that later.), but they will also have the double portion inheritance of being able to walk with God and see His work in the world firsthand.  They will be the keepers of the oracles of God.

That's why the firstborn donkey is in the little black box.
It's a little reminder of your call to be God's b'hor in the world.
To this day, Jews carry a great responsibility.  To show the world what God is like.

And for those of us who follow Jesus (though it seems like I shouldn't have to point this out), we too have been invited to be “born again”.  We too were called by Peter a “holy nation, a royal priesthood”.  We too are invited to be God's b'hor.  In Romans 11, Rabbi Paul told all the Gentiles that you have been mysteriously grafted into the Jewish tree.  It's not a new tree.  It's the same tree God planted with a man named Abram in the book of Genesis.  And yet, by grace, you are invited to take of the mantle of God's b'hor and spread Daddy's values to the rest of His children.

But it's always been one story.  God's always been up to one thing.  He's in the redemption business.
And, yet again, He's still looking for partners.

B'hor in a Box (part one)

Now, I'm really going to throw your chronological clocks for a loop, because in order to talk about Jacob AND Joseph, I actually want to talk about the Exodus.

I know, I'm sorry.

But there was a teaching that I once heard from Rabbi David Fohrman that has completely changed the way I read the stories of the patriarchs and has helped answer some of the questions that were raised for me in the stories of Jacob and Joseph.  If you can manage to put the playlist together in the right order, you can watch quite a collection of 10-minute YouTube videos here for Fohrman's teaching.  Also, my good buddy, Aaron Couch, has blogged about some of these ideas a few days ago, so he beat me to the punch.

We will be coming back to talk about other portions of the Exodus in the next few posts, but I'd like to take one aspect of the Passover and use it to frame our understanding of Genesis.

Fohrman, in typical rabbinic style, starts his teaching with a handful of questions.  Good Jewish thoughts always produce more questions than answers (and somewhere in the course of the wrestling [appropriate to Jacob] you feel like you have stumbled across an incredible treasure).  But one of his questions I found most peculiar to ask in light of the Exodus story.  Many orthodox Jews all around the world wear little black boxes attached to leather straps that are methodically wrapped around their arm every day called tefillin.  This is done in order to pursue the mitzvah (command) “fix these words of mine on your hearts… tie them as symbols on your hands...” found in Deuteronomy 6 and 11.  Inside these black boxes is a parchment that contains three mitzvoth: Shema (“Hear, O Israel…”), ve'ahavta (“You are to love the LORD your God…”) and the law of the broken-neck, firstborn donkey.


OK, that's weird.  The first two laws make some sense, but why in the world — out of all the 613 mitzvoth — would they choose the donkey law?

And so, without stopping to answer the question, the rabbi continues to look through the story of the Exodus.  Now, just a simple flipping through a cursory reading of the story of the Exodus produces a very interesting question.  We are told the story of the people of Israel under the oppression of the Egyptians.  Moses is call to be the deliverer and has his great confrontation with Pharaoh.  The conversation eventually leads to God dealing out ten plagues on the Egyptians.  And so we read about the Nile being turned to blood — and the frogs, the gnats, the flies, the livestock, the boils, the hail, the locust invasion, and the darkness.  Then we are told all about what is going to happen in plague number 10.  The death of the firstborn will be brought upon Egypt and all of Israel will be free to leave.  And then, right in the midst of that cliffhanger moment, with the violins beginning to swell…

We now interrupt this regular scheduled story to bring you an entire chapter devoted to the laws surrounding how you will eat the Passover meal for generations to come.

REALLY!?

Right there?  Not after you finish the story and tell us how it ends?  But RIGHT THERE?  A whole chapter of what seems like arbitrarily chosen rules.

And so, the rabbis begin digging throughout the ages and they ended up noticing some interesting things in the story of Exodus 12.  There were some interesting phrases that were chosen.  For example, the instructions tell you in the Hebrew to go and “draw out” a sheep from your flock.  Now, while that doesn't seem too odd at first, the rabbis noted that it wasn't the right word to use.  There are a handful of phrases that could be used to communicate the idea more naturally (let alone feel better, grammatically).   Why draw out?  And why did you have to eat the meal in a group — unable to eat it alone — with your staff in hand and your belt/robe on?  And why in the world did you have to roast your lamb in a pot without water?  Now, that's an odd mitzvah!

And then the rabbis read the part of the chapter where they dipped the hyssop in blood — and the lights went on.

They had heard this story before.

All of these phrases had been used in the story of Joseph when his brothers sell him to the Midianite traders.

Why a pot without water in it?  Because Joseph was thrown in a cistern without water.

Why do you eat the meal in a group?  Because when they had thrown Joseph into the cistern, they sat down and ate a meal together.

Why do you “draw out” a lamb?  Because the brothers drew out (same phrase) Joseph from the cistern.

And why do you dip the hyssop in blood?  Because the brothers dipped Joseph's tunic in blood and presented it to their father. 

Somehow, the Passover is connected to the story of Joseph.

But how, and why?

The rabbis are quick to remind us that Joseph is just a retelling of the Jacob story.

Wait… what?

You may remember that we previously mentioned the ancient Sumerian literature likes to be cyclical in nature.  The ancient Babylonians would tell stories where each generation repeated the cycle of their previous generation.  You see this in Abraham and Isaac.  If you go back and look at all the stories of Isaac's life, they are all repeats of events in Abraham's life.  Opening well, settling disputes with shepherds, lying to Abimelech about his wife.  Isaac is a retelling of Abraham.

And Joseph is a retelling of Jacob.

Think about it: Which character doesn't get along with his brother(s), has to leave home, works in the house of a foreigner, is wrongly accused, and has to deal with visions/deals with two sets of seven?

Is it Joseph or Jacob?

It's both.

But wait, what does any of this have to do with the Passover?  And what about those little black boxes?

And now, realizing how long this blog post is going to be, I will be splitting it into two parts.  So with those questions ringing in your ears, the dreaded words:

To be continued…