Do Christians and Muslims Worship the Same God?

In my last post, I explored the rather vexing issue of Christians, Muslims, and the reference to God. The question lying at its heart was whether members of these two great religions refer to the same being. My tentative conclusion was that despite the many theological differences separating Islam and Christianity, and despite the errors Christians believe Muslims commit in their conception of the deity, the followers of Christ and Muhammed ultimately do refer to one and the same God. I also concluded that the Trinity, for all its apparent significance, doesn’t prevent commonality of reference.

A further batch of questions presented itself as a result of my inquiry: what might all this mean for worship? If Christians and Muslims denote the same God in their basic acts of expression, do they thereby exalt him successfully? It’s important to recall, of course, that reference and worship are two distinct acts: one can refer to something (a ball, say, or a piece of wood) without thereby venerating it. The latter act is far richer in its significance, although it necessarily requires — and indeed, builds upon — the success of the former. That is why the issue cannot be decided simply by gesturing in the direction of my previous post.

What I will say at the outset is that because I think Christians and Muslims refer to the same God, they have satisfied the minimum conditions that would be required if someone is to direct their acts of reverence to the appropriate object. It’s possible, in other words, to claim that both the followers of Christ and the followers of Muhammed “aim” their worship towards the same God. If worshiping God is a subset of reference, and if Christians and Muslims both engage in successful denotation (as I have argued), then one ought to allow for the strong possibility that veneration is at least being directed to the same being. On a very basic level, both sets of religious believers seek to worship the one true God, grounding their solemn offerings in successful acts of reference.

This is an extremely “thin” sense of worship, however; whether God accepts all such forms, and whether Muslims do so in a completely legitimate way, are separate issues. And it is here that Christian doctrines like the Trinity and Christ’s nature become germane.

As I read the New Testament, I am persuaded that to worship God rightly requires veneration of Christ: not simply a Christ of one’s own making, but Christ as he is presented by authors like the Fourth Evangelist. John 4:23-24 functions as a convenient entry-point, focusing as it does on the contours of authentic worship. True, the passage doesn’t explicitly refer to those doctrines that might be said to divide Christians and Muslims. But when Jesus’ statements are viewed within the context of John’s broader theological — and indeed, Christological — schema, it seems clear that worship of God cannot be achieved apart from faithful confession of Christ’s identity.

Many of us are likely to know the story well. Jesus, tired from a journey, sits down by a well where a Samaritan woman is drawing water (4:1-6). His request for a drink triggers an impromptu theological discussion that sees him proclaim to the woman that the kind of worshipers God seeks are those who worship him in “Spirit and in truth” (vv.7-24). Veneration of the deity is no longer tied to sacred locales, whether Mount Gerizim (Samaritans), or Jerusalem (Jews); rather, Jesus insists that whatever authentic worship looks like, it cannot fail to be Spirit-imbued and grounded in the truth.

For present purposes, it is Jesus’ reference to “truth” that remains most relevant. This is no vague and nebulous idea in John’s Gospel; nor should it be imagined as an abstract notion, occupying some rarefied, ethereal plane. It is reasonably clear that the Johannine concept of truth, when set within the theological framework established by the Fourth Evangelist, takes on a definite profile. For John, it is indelibly tied to, and comes to full expression in, Jesus Christ himself. His prologue (1:1-18), which acts as a kind of overture for the rest of the Gospel, sets the ball rolling. That John would call Jesus the “Word” (vv.1-2) suggests that he is trading on a key idea that links the logos with divine mind or reason. This was true of much ancient Greek thought, which cradled the notion that the logos represented the thought or reason of God, imbuing disparate matter with structure and form. But it is also the case that elements of pre-Christian Judaism identified the Word with divine wisdom, through which the transcendent God involved himself within creation (e.g., Prov 8:22-31). The point is that with such language, John decisively included Christ within the ambit of God’s identity.

Moreover, the pre-incarnate Word is said to have created all things, bearing the source of life that is “light” for human beings (1:4, 9). The image of light is commonly used as a metaphor for truth, or at least the medium by which truth might be seen (one finds vestiges of this idea in simple phrases like “I see”, where one’s sense of sight is used metaphorically to connote comprehension of some truth). And of course, Jesus himself claimed to be “the truth” (not merely a messenger or conduit of truth) in John 14:6. In making so stupendous a claim, Christ was resting on his own sure conviction that he is the unique channel of God’s revelation — indeed, that he is the very embodiment of that gracious self-disclosure.

Jesus’ declaration in John 4:23-24 must be set within this wider context. In saying to the Samaritan woman that acceptable worship of God is undertaken “in…truth”, Jesus was directing her to the vital importance of grounding one’s acts of veneration in the divine truth that had, remarkably, become incarnate in him. What this means is that successful worship cannot but include confession as to who Jesus really is. For John, he is many things: Messiah, Israel’s king, true liberator, the inaugurator of the new covenant, and so forth. But behind this patchwork of roles lies the Fourth Evangelist’s basic conviction, namely, that Jesus is nothing less than divine wisdom — the very mind of God, clothed in flesh (1:14), who has made visible the unseen Creator. To declare this is to leaven one’s monotheism with a clear streak of plurality. Indeed, someone who speaks the way the Fourth Evangelist does in 1:1-2 means to signal a monumental shift in traditional conceptions of divine unity.

Although Jesus’ encounter with the Samaritan woman doesn’t directly touch on God’s nature (aside from a fleeting reference to the fact that God is spirit), it’s also the case that John 4:23-24 raises crucial questions concerning Jesus’ identity; these in turn force the reader to ask herself what his relationship to the Father is, and what that might mean for one’s understanding of the divine. Similarly, the passage compels her to interrogate the connection between one’s grasp of Christ’s exalted status and worship that is acceptable to God. Given that the Johannine conception of divine truth is refracted through a Christological lens, professing Jesus as God’s incarnate Word is constitutive of true worship. A person cannot claim to successfully venerate the one true God if their sacrificial acts aren’t based on faithful confession of Jesus’ identity; the one demands the other. As NT scholar, D.A. Carson, helpfully observes, authentic worship of God “is…in personal knowledge of, and conformity to, God’s Word-made-flesh, the one who is God’s ‘truth’ (cf. 14:6), the faithful exposition of God and his saving purposes” (emphasis mine).

What are the implications of this way of thinking about worship? For a start, it means that in professing Jesus as the enfleshment of divine truth, one is tacitly committed to a kind plurality within the Godhead. John 4:23-24, when seen in the light of the evangelist’s broader theological program, inevitably requires the putative worshiper to move towards a richly manifold picture of the deity’s inner life if she is to properly reverence him. That picture is, of course, consistent with the Fourth Evangelist’s opening gambit (1:1-2), which could justifiably be called proto-trinitarian. It mightn’t have the systematic character of subsequent trinitarian reflection, but it does mean that the lofty Christology undergirding John’s characterization of worship is genetically linked to a key doctrine separating Christian and Muslim models of God. At the very least, it acts as a kind of channel, guiding a person towards confession of the perichoretic relationships that exist within the godhead (to borrow the language of later theological analysis [cf. John 14:20a; 17:21b, 23a]). Austere, unitarian conceptions of God — such as those found in Islam — are automatically ruled out, for they implicitly repudiate the sort of Christological confession that is, according to the Johannine definition of worship, non-negotiable.

Devout Muslims are, of course, sincere in their attempts to venerate the transcendent Creator. No one of clear sense and good will should deny that. But if my analysis of John 4 is correct, then their rejection of Jesus’ status as the embodied disclosure of divine truth — a disclosure that expands the boundaries of God’s identity — means they fall afoul of Christ’s pivotal declaration concerning the shape of true reverence. For all their success in referring to the same God as Christians, Muslims do not ultimately succeed in worshiping him. This is so, despite the fact that they also direct their oblations to the same being.

It’s a little like two people, Bob and Bill, both of whom attempt to call a third person, Barry. But whereas Bob has Barry’s correct number and a decent line, Bill does not. In a sense, they are both calling — or intending to call — the same recipient, just as in a sense, Christians and Muslims are both offering worship to the same God. But just as Bill is not able to make contact with Barry due to erroneous contact details and poor infrastructure, so the Muslim is unable to successfully direct her worshipful acts towards God due to rejection of Jesus’ — and therefore the Creator’s — true identity; there is a “disruption” in the line of communication as a consequence of the Muslim’s gravely erroneous beliefs, severely inhibiting any connection she may wish to make with the deity. So whilst the followers of Islam may “worship” the same God as Christians in one sense, there is a far more important sense in which they fail to do so — not because they direct their worshipful acts towards another being entirely, but because what they offer is unacceptably deficient.

Re-thinking the Virgin Birth

Introduction

The birth of a new child truly is extraordinary, being perhaps the closest thing that our secular, materialistic world has to a miracle: a small cluster of cells, endowed with an innate propensity towards life, is mysteriously transformed by nature’s unseen hand into a living, breathing human being. Witnessing the emergence of an infant – writhing and crying and seeking comfort – out of what was once inert matter is something to behold.

If people of all stripes are prone to seeing faint reflections of the transcendent in such an occurrence, then Christians should surely celebrate the true miracle of the one birth (or more precisely, conception) that could genuinely be called “unique”. Of course, I am referring to the birth of Christ himself, an event that his followers will soon have the privilege of commemorating. Its annual recurrence means that Christians are accorded at least one opportunity each year to formally mark an event of epochal significance. Alongside nativity plays and Christmas hymns will be dramatic readings of Matthew and Luke, as the story of the Christ-child coming into this world is rehearsed through song and word and sign. For many, it is still a time of sober reflection and humble gratitude.

But amidst the yuletide pageantry, it’s easy to forget just how momentous the birth of Christ was. Indeed, the very regularity of the tradition can induce a conventional, almost unthinking, approach to it: we hurriedly attend our Christmas services, sing (or more likely, mumble) the relevant songs, and laugh good-naturedly at stilted acting or forgotten lines. Meanwhile, our minds are straining ahead, occupied with what many of us perceive (perhaps subconsciously) to be the real purpose of Christmas – presents and feasting and games of backyard cricket. None of these things are wrong in themselves, to be sure. Far from it. Nevertheless, it can mean that recalling God’s gracious inbreaking via the person of his Son is inadvertently relegated to a mere step along the way, rather than being cherished as the very reason we celebrate Christmas in the first place. To the extent that this is true – and in all honesty, I think each of us has been guilty of it – then it should not be. Perhaps if we were to examine Jesus’ birth afresh, we might then be in a better position to celebrate it with renewed fulsomeness.

Three Key Categories

There are a number of categories that can help us think more clearly about the birth of Christ – conceptual aids, if you like, that allow us to grasp more surely its manifold significance. A few such aids immediately spring to mind. We might refer to them as the union of humanity and divinity, a signpost of new creation, and a revelation of true kingship. These don’t exhaust the event’s meaning, by any means, although they do offer three convenient avenues towards greater understanding. I’ll examine each category in turn.

The Union of Humanity and Divinity

The ministry of Jesus Christ can be interpreted in a dizzying variety of ways. But one of the broad purposes of his appearing was to set in motion the (re-)union of humanity and God. More than that, it was by his own person that this cosmic reconciliation was to be accomplished. The pages of the New Testament are replete with references to what Christ achieved in this regard. In his second letter to the Corinthian church, for example, the apostle Paul waxes lyrical about the fact that in Christ, God was reconciling himself to the world (i.e., humanity; cf. 2 Cor 5:19). In a similar vein, 1 Timothy 2:5 refers to Jesus as the “one God and the one mediator between God and mankind”. These are just two of a multitude of texts that could be cited.

Reconciliation within a Christian schema, however, far exceeds the resumption of cordial relations between previously-estranged parties. For the writers of the NT, it means nothing less than the transformative union of God with his people. A battery of images is deployed, which try and convey the substantial nature of this divine-human concord. Paul compares the joining together of Christ with his church (and thus, with each individual Christian) to the “one-flesh” union between husband and wife. So profoundly intimate is the relationship between the Messiah and his people – one that is secured, of course, via the operation of the Spirit – that the apostle can use, as an analogy, the deep and comprehensive unity of the spousal bond (Eph 5:31-32). Or what about the Fourth Evangelist? In a stunning development of “new temple” theology, the Johannine Jesus speaks of making his “home” in the one who believes in him and does his will (John 15:23). This, too, surpasses mere unity of purpose or direction, and veers into the province of ontology [1]. It is why the author of 2 Peter could write that part of the goal of the Christian life is, remarkably, participation in the “divine nature” (2 Peter 1:4). This isn’t to say that Christians somehow become divine. But the consistent witness of the NT is that those who are “in Christ” are consequently joined to the Triune God, in a process that entails the fundamental re-ordering of their beings.

I say all this by way of context. Jesus’ birth represents this union, this “marriage”, in his own person. And whilst the incarnation (i.e., the act by which the eternal logos took on human flesh) was possible without a miraculous birth, his spirit-generated conception dramatizes the joining together of those two natures – divinity and humanity – thereby foreshadowing the salvific reality his people will enjoy as they become temples for his presence. This is no arbitrary point. We shouldn’t forget that just as the NT is adamant that God’s people will experience immersion in the unsearchable depths of divine reality, it is equally convinced that Jesus Christ exemplifies (and indeed, enables) this kind of life. He is the pristine model for a truly human existence – human, because it is joined to, grounded in, and pervaded by, God’s nature and life. What is true of him will, in a sense, be true of his people as well (e.g., 1 Cor 15:47-49).

Of course, Jesus was (and is) unique, in that he is truly God and truly man; as I have already noted, the telos of the Christian life is reformation and renewal via a mystical bond with the divine, not divinization in a literal sense. Still, we can look to Jesus’ conception and birth – where God graciously imparted his own life into the womb of a young Jewess (Luke 1:34-35) – as an embodied reminder that it was always the Creator’s intention to forge a people who would live in perfect and constant communion with him. It was there, in the darkness of that womb, that the Creator “stitched together” (as it were) two, apparently irreconcilable categories of being [2]. The manner of Jesus’ first advent was at once authentically human and entirely the product of divine grace – signalling, in concrete form, a believer’s transfiguration as he or she is drawn into the divine nature.

Earlier parts of Scripture bear faint witness to this glorious prospect. Genesis 1-2, with its positioning of God’s image-bearers as the capstone of his creative work, is one of the more familiar texts in this regard. But the Nativity signals something far more substantive for those who are found to be in Christ. Again, what it does is provide us with a vivid picture of the goal that lies at the end of God’s redemptive enterprise: the establishment of a body of individuals who have not only conformed themselves to his will, but who are united to him in an act of spiritual betrothal.

A Signpost for New Creation

The prospective “marriage” between God and each believer (such that those who are being saved might enjoy the life-giving permeation of divine energy) is one element in the wider goal of liberating creation from its “bondage to decay” (cf. Rom 8:21). Here, too, the miraculous nature of Jesus’ birth is instructive. In addition to providing us with a picture of that perfect union between the human and the divine, the Nativity also acts as a signpost of new creation. To be sure, the Bible’s salvific narrative climaxes with Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection. It was there, and not at the point of his birth, that sin and death were broken; moreover, with the raising of Jesus from the dead, new creation truly began, breaking into the present, decaying world. One might even say that from a Christian perspective, history pivots on the resurrection, for in that event, we discover the commencement of the new age in microcosm – i.e., in the resurrected body of one man. Christ’s birth did not change the course of history per se, so to that extent, it differs structurally from the event of his resurrection. Nonetheless, it points (however unobtrusively) to the dawning of that greater reality. The birth of Jesus represented a fresh act of the Creator God, who imbued life into a willing Mary. With it, something unprecedented happened, as the fecundity of the divine took root in a broken, earthen world. This wasn’t simply the product of the created order’s internal drives and forces. Rather, it was the result of an apocalyptic work of God, who pierced the veil of death shrouding the old world with the shear of fresh life. His was an incursion into creation, achieving what no natural process could. In this way, then, the virgin birth continues to offer Christians an incarnate symbol that directs them to creation’s renewal – something that includes, of course, God’s reclaimed image-bearers, who experience their own supernatural birth.

This brings me back to the Nativity’s significance as it applies specifically to the people of God. If Jesus’ birth unveils the goal for redeemed human beings (whose lives are being conformed to his), then it also offers up a symbolic parallel for the spiritual “new birth” that every Christian enjoys. Latent in that term is an idea drawn from the third chapter of John’s Gospel. During a night-time rendezvous, the Johannine Jesus declares to an uncomprehending Nicodemus that anyone seeking entry into God’s kingdom “must be born again” (John 3:3, 5). With the assured finality of God’s incarnate logos, he claims that this is the only way a person can enter salvation. What Jesus seems to be saying is that the believer must undergo such a radical change of one’s being, one’s nature, that it can only be described as being “born again”. It is a deep-rooted transformation that God alone can accomplish (which explains why the phrase is sometimes rendered as “born from above”).

The beginning of one’s life in God is indeed akin to a new birth, for it represents a comprehensive break with the old world of sin and death. Jesus’ birth – and behind that, his conception – offers a concrete sign of this reality. Commenting on John’s theological perspective in the first few chapters of his gospel, the theologian, A.N.S. Lane, wrote that the evangelist may have even drawn a deliberate correlation between the believer’s regeneration and Christ’s virginal birth (cf. John 1:13) [3]. In any case, it is both a signal that new life had been unleashed upon creation, and, within that process of renewal, a witness to the Christian’s own “transfer” from one realm to another. The virgin birth reminds us that what is required is nothing less than the commencement of a new form of existence – a “supernatural begetting” (C.K. Barrett) – wrought by God’s (re)generative power. At this point, I can do no better than quote from N.T. Wright, who wrote about the miraculous nature of Christ’s birth thus:

“And if we believe that the God we’re talking about is the creator of the world, who longs to rescue the world from its corruption and decay, then an act of real new creation, anticipating in fact the great moment of Easter itself, might just be what we should expect…it is the notion that a new world really might be starting up within the midst of the old…”

A Revelation of the True King

So far, I have examined the birth of Jesus using the categories of biblical and systematic theology. Its function as a revelation of Christ’s kingship, on the other hand, is tied more closely to the biblical narratives themselves. Matthew, for instance, has Magi from the East visit Jesus, who worship him and present gifts as a form of tribute (Matt 2:1-12). The royal overtones of those acts are difficult to miss. The First Evangelist also quotes from Micah 5:2, applying that messianic (read: kingly) prophecy to the remarkable baby born to Mary and Joseph. Luke, for his part, sets his infancy narrative within the context of Roman history. His reference to an imperial decree, ordering all subjects of the Roman Empire to return to their ancestral lands for a census (Luke 2:1-3), subtly establishes a contrast between the earthly power of Caesar and the cosmic power – then hidden – of the world’s true Lord.

Strictly speaking, a miraculous birth was not necessary to ground an acclamation of Jesus’ kingship. However, it witnesses to the unique form that kingship took. Not only was Christ Israel’s king and a rightful heir to the throne of David; not only was he the nation’s messianic saviour; he was also her (and the world’s) transcendent king, having come in the flesh – a remarkable fulfilment of Yahweh’s promise to return to his wayward, exiled people (note the use of Isaiah 40:3ff, not only in Matthew in Luke, but in Mark and John as well). As I have already suggested, the virgin birth reveals the perfect union of humanity with divinity in the person of Jesus. But in so doing, it testifies to the fact of Jesus’ cosmic lordship.

Luke’s retelling of the event is illuminating in this regard. In his account, an angel appears to Mary and declares to her that she will bear a son. The language used to describe the still-future child is of a clearly regal nature: “Son of the Most High”, a descendant of David, and king over an eternal dynasty (Luke 1:30-33). When Mary asks how all this can be (given the fact of her virginity) the angel states that God’s own spirit and presence will “overshadow” her (v.35), enabling the young Jewess to conceive. The second half of verse 35 is crucial. Application of the title “Son of God” to Jesus is somehow linked to his spiritual conception, as if the latter is reason for the former being given (cf. v.35b: “So…”). Now, “Son of God” was a term familiar within Jewish culture, given its traditional connection to royal/Davidic figures. This is seen, for instance, in a passage like Psalm 2:7, which bears some affinity with 2 Samuel 7:14. By the time of Jesus’ advent, it had come to be associated with hopes for a messianic deliverer. However, the title was also used of the emperor at the time, Caesar Augustus – the adopted son of Julius Caesar, who himself had been formally deified after his assassination in 44BC. It is no accident, then, that Luke lodges his birth story within the context of a manifestation of imperial power; the fact that the emperor appropriated the status of God’s son only serves to sharpen the implied contrast I have already noted.

Paired with the promise of a miraculous, spirit-impelled birth, Luke’s use of “Son of God” functions as an important titular signpost, not merely to Jesus’ status as Israel’s anointed liberator, but to something far loftier. Like the other evangelists, Luke often employs the phrase in an elevated sense; as his own gospel unfolds, it’s apparent that Jesus conceives of his relationship with God in a way that only a son would with his father. It was a relationship that stretched back to the very beginning of his earthly life (and beyond); an intimate reality, in other words, to which the virgin birth testified. The NT scholar, Darrel Bock, observesd that “the presence of a divine element in [the Lukan] Jesus’ birth” suggests that for the Third Evangelist, “Jesus is from God in a unique way” (emphasis mine). It provided evidence that Christ was not merely sent by God, as an emissary might be commissioned by his master, but that he proceeded from the eternal Godhead as someone who, remarkably, shared the same nature.

The Lukan rendition of the virgin birth vividly shows that Jesus’ sonship was not exhausted by the prerogatives associated with mundane royalty. To be sure, it encompassed such notions, such that it was co-extensive with the belief that he was the promised Davidic heir. But that status – and the title through which it came to be expressed – exceeded all previous understandings of the concept, touching upon the very being of the transcendent Creator. Although Luke does not greatly emphasise the ontological overtones of Jesus’ sonship in his birth narrative (and is certainly not as explicit as, say, the Gospel of John), the basic contours of his theological convictions can still be detected. Whatever declarations others might have made regarding a unique, filial relationship with the Deity (particularly Caesar), they remained mere charlatans – parodies of the reality to which they aspired. Eclipsing them all was the world’s true sovereign, who alone could claim divine “parentage”: singularly conceived by God’s own creative power, and born to a poor Jewish couple on the margins of imperial society.

Conclusion

Hopefully, this little essay has revealed new insights into the significance of Jesus’ birth. Much more could be said, of course. But in it, I have tried to set down some markers for how to think about this momentous event. This is important amidst ongoing scepticism, even among Christians. In some quarters, the virgin birth is relegated to the status of mere myth or legend (where the term “myth” is synonymous with what is historically dubious). Aside from a philosophical prejudice against miracles, such a conclusion seems to be driven by the unstated assumption that Jesus’ birth constitutes an act of arbitrary wonderworking – and as such, is unworthy of God. But as I have sought to demonstrate, the virgin birth pulsates with theological meaning. It was not the work of a capricious deity, keen only to advertise his supernatural “bag of tricks”. Rather, it offered, and continues to offer, a window into the nature of the One who even now presides over creation. In his birth, Jesus was revealed as the true Son of God, who proceeded from the Father to assume his rightful role as saviour and regent. Moreover, the Nativity brims with the promise that those who are “in” him – who yield to his loving authority – will shed their old lives and enjoy life in union with their redeemer. These are things we can, and should, joyfully celebrate this Christmas.

[1] Using a term like “ontology” in relation to a believer’s relationship with God is always fraught with danger. Let me emphasise that I do not want to suggest that as Christians are conformed to the likeness of the Son, or participate in the divine nature, they thereby become gods (“quasi-divine”) themselves. This is idolatry. However, one gets the sense when reading the NT that what is envisioned is a substantial transformation of the redeemed individual, down to the very roots of his or her nature. Indeed, when Paul spoke of those in Christ being “new creations” (2 Cor 5:17), I think he intended his words to be read as more than mere metaphor or hyperbole.

[2] Again, care is required, lest one takes the birth of Christ to be an instance of two natures being brought together in such a way that the resultant individual is half-human, half-God: a tertium quid, but neither wholly human, nor wholly divine. This is not what I am aiming at with my (admittedly) metaphorical use of language. I merely mean to suggest that the virgin birth, in witnessing to the union of divinity and humanity in the person of Christ, functions as something of a symbol and pattern for Christians’ own lives.

[3] It’s quite possible that John was aware of a tradition concerning the unusual circumstances surrounding Jesus’ birth. See John 8:41b.

“They Will Come and See My Glory”: An Exegesis of Isaiah 66:18-24

Note: I originally penned this piece for my theological studies at Ridley College. It is a short, exegetical essay on Isaiah’s ultimate passage, Isa 66:18-24. I also don’t mind saying that I did pretty well on it! The essay certainly isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but for the exegetically-minded, it may well provide some food for thought. 

Introduction

The book of Isaiah contains some of the loftiest language in all Scripture, its pages replete with remarkable visions of divine majesty. Isaiah 66:18-24 is no different: there, the prophet’s audience is treated to an eschatological vista, as the nations stream into a restored Jerusalem to worship the one, true God. The revelation of Yahweh’s glory, the universal reach of his salvation, the triumph over idolatry and false worship, and the final distribution of rewards and punishments – these and other Isaianic themes are dramatically drawn together in 66:18-24, which sets them within an ultimate frame of reference.[1]

Such will form the backdrop for my examination of 66:18-24, as I argue that it provides a fitting coda to Isaiah. Indeed, its structurally significant position at the close of the Isaianic corpus is manifested in the multifarious connections it bears with the rest of the book. Depicting God’s universal revelation within a renewed creation, the passage reflects an eschatological longing[2] that also resolves the book’s basic tension between judgment and salvation. Finally, I’ll briefly sketch some of the text’s important hermeneutical points, showing that whilst salvation is offered to all, persistent rebellion exacts a sure and terrible price.

Contextualizing Isaiah 66:18-24

Questions concerning the context of Isaiah 66:18-24 – both historical and literary – have yielded multiple positions. Scholars have made numerous, sometimes speculative, suggestions regarding the passage’s historical background,[3] with many thinking it dimly reflects a post-exilic setting.[4] Gardener, for example, argues the international convocation and dispersal of emissaries (vv.18-19) suggests just such a period, when Jerusalem was still populated by foreigners. Though not unreasonable, one should be cautious about reducing the elements of the passage to “mundane” occurrences.[5] Trying to “establish an absolute dating” for the text is fraught with difficulties, given it lacks the expected historical anchors tying it to a particular period.[6] Ultimately, 66:18-24 is “eschatologically oriented” – inviting the audience to cast its collective vision forward to an as-yet unrealized era of creational and corporate renewal.[7] Not that the passage is completely severed from the general historical process (e.g., 66:20; cf. 64:10-11; 65:18-19); however, it does suggest a period that exceeds the limits of purely historical or temporized events.[8]

The literary context of Isaiah 66:18-24 can be discerned with greater confidence, for it bears multiple, overlapping links with the surrounding textual neighbourhood. Although the text constitutes a distinct unit, a clear connection exists between it and the preceding passage: a universal missionary effort succeeds universal judgment (vv.15-17), even as the consequences for the rebellious are severely felt (vv.16,24).[9] Concluding ongoing tensions between Yahweh’s servants and the apostates (cf. 65:13-15), 66:18-24 envisions the finality of deliverance and reprobation – part of a broader relationship between Isaiah 65-66.[10] Moving further afield, 66:18-24 picks up several prophetic threads in Trito-Isaiah,[11] (e.g., the interchange between judgment and salvation,[12] the inclusion of Gentiles into the redeemed community [56:1-8; cf. 66:18-21]). Indeed, commentators have noted numerous verbal links between the prophet’s final vision and the rest of Trito-Isaiah – particularly 56:1-8, with which 66:18-24 constitutes an inclusio around the book’s last major division.[13] Finally, the text constitutes a counterpoint to the opening indictment of Isaiah 1 in another inclusio, framing the book with contrasting pictures of false and true worship.[14] I shall explore these points further as I proceed.

Exegeting Isaiah 66:18-24

Isaiah 66:18-24 can be divided further into two sub-sections: vv.18-21, in which Yahweh draws together people from all nations, Jew and Gentile; and the resulting convocation of vv.22ff, where the pilgrims engage in ceaseless worship of the one, true God.

Much of the passage is rather elliptical, making interpretation difficult. Those challenges begin with v.18, which apparently details God’s response to the iniquity of the irreligious.[15] We may draw some tentative conclusions, however. The most likely antecedent of “they” (v.18a) are the rebellious of vv.16b-17, who exposed their obstinacy through corrupt and idolatrous worship[16] (cf. 57:12; 59:6-7; 65:2).[17] Their iniquitous actions somehow “trigger” Yahweh’s decision to call people from the nations – i.e, a foil for his determination to unveil his glory (v.19).[18] Verse 18b is the first of several references that give 66:18-24 a decidedly universalistic hue, thus taking up themes broached earlier in Trito-Isaiah (e.g., 56:1-8) and Isaiah 40-55 (45:22-25).[19] The consequent international assembly will “see” God’s “glory” (thrice-underscored in vv.18-19; cf. 42:8), which in context could refer to the revelation of his unique splendour, associated with his status as the world’s only Lord.[20]

In concert with this great ingathering, Yahweh will establish a “sign” among “them” (v.19a). Some argue that where v.18 summarises God’s plan in this passage, vv.19-21 detail its unfurling.[21] However, the construction of v.19 suggests a sequential relationship with the previous verse (otherwise, “them” in v.19a lacks context). Identifying the sign has also generated debate, given its ambiguity (cf. 11:10-11). A number of suggestions have been made: e.g., the restoration of Jerusalem (cf. 62:1-2,11-12), or the sending of the emissaries themselves (v.19b).[22] The first option ties 66:18-24 to earlier portions of Trito-Isaiah, but lacks positive warrant from within the passage; the second alternative also seems unlikely, for the act of disseminating heralds appears to be distinct from the sign itself. It’s entirely possible the author has been deliberately non-specific, in keeping with the eschatological, visionary complexion of the passage.[23]

“Survivors” will be sent to declare Yahweh’s glorious fame (v.19b). The term evokes images of people enduring a great catastrophe; some commentators reason that this reference ultimately finds inspiration in the experiences of post-exilic Jews.[24] This cannot be ruled out, although like the rest of 66:18-24, v.19 lacks historical markers. Again, it’s perhaps best to interpret this clause in association with vv.15-17, where Yahweh poured out his fury upon “all flesh”. If vv.18-24 follows in sequence, then the “survivors” are probably those who underwent the universal execution of Yahweh’s judgment. A related issue is whether the survivors-cum-heralds are Jews or Gentiles. Some argue for the former position, given earlier references to survivors from the Judahite community (4:2).[25] But the natural antecedent of “those who survive” are the members of the international gathering (v.18b) – i.e., non-Jews who endured the conflagration of vv.15-17 (cf. 45:20)[26] – obviating the need to look beyond the passage’s literary environs to determine their identity. Of course, this raises the question: if the envoys are Gentiles, how should they be distinguished from those foreigners who have not heard of Yahweh’s “fame” (v.19b)? The most reasonable interpretive course is to argue that the distinction is based on proximity to Jerusalem.[27] Those from Israel’s near-neighbours – who would themselves be adherents of Yahwism – will travel to the farthest reaches of the earth (cf. the impressionistic list of countries in v.19b) to announce Yahweh’s splendour.[28]

Verse 20 sees those from the far-flung nations convey “[your] brothers” to the holy mountain in a restored Jerusalem (see 64:10-11; 65:18-19; cf. 1:26-27; 36:1-37:37).[29] This image shouldn’t be taken too literally – as if so many millions could fit into such a small parcel of land – and is more intelligible on a visionary interpretation.[30] Jerusalem’s presence here coheres with the Isaianic commitment to the city as the centre from which Yahweh’s glory will be revealed.[31] Similarly, “holy mountain” features in other texts envisioning eschatological renewal (2:2-4; 65:25c; cf. 56:7).[32] Its present inclusion offers an implicit contrast with 65:11, which has the disobedient abandoning God’s sacred mountain. Here, however, his servants venture towards it. Some argue that “your brothers” are ingrafted Yahweh-fearers from among the Gentiles.[33] But v.20 seems to distinguish between this group, and those who ferry them. If indeed both cohorts are composed of non-Jews, we may ask what differentiates them – i.e., why only one group is explicitly said to enjoy fraternal standing with God’s covenant people (“your”). Conversely, understanding the term as referring to Jews comports with passages alluding to the hope that Abraham’s scattered descendants will be re-gathered (11:11-12; 49:8-12).[34]

Gentiles will therefore transport members of the diaspora on a variety of vehicles and domesticated animals – an image evoking urgency and alacrity, as this great multitude descends on Jerusalem. Their actions are compared with the “pure” offerings of Jews before Yahweh (v.20b), which suggests acceptable worship and thanksgiving.[35] This represents a “striking reversal of” attitudes concerning “unclean” foreigners.[36] Remarkably, these same Gentiles will even be elected to cultic office as priests and Levites (“some of them” – v.21). Although some exegetes contend that the verse refers to diaspora Jews,[37] such a claim is unlikely: to say that would hardly be remarkable, and indeed, rather anti-climactic.[38] Verse 21 not only corresponds to, but also “escalates”, the vision of 56:1-8, where foreigners were permitted to enter the sanctuary.[39] Further emphasising the text’s universalism, 66:21 affirms the role of Gentiles as ministers and facilitators of pure worship in the New Jerusalem, further dismantling distinctions between Jew and non-Jew in the redeemed community (cf. 56:8).[40]

Verses 22-23 unveil the final goal of this multi-national congress: worship of Yahweh as the world’s true sovereign, set within a renewed creation. Together with vv.18-21, these verses counterpose the perversity of religious formalism in the physical Jerusalem (Isa 1:1ff) – part of that wider inclusio at work in Isaiah[41] – by envisioning true worship in a New Jerusalem. They also constitute a capstone to the book’s polemic against idolatry, supplanting false worship with global recognition of Yahweh (“all flesh”; cf. Isa 40-48 and Yahweh’s cosmic “lawsuit” against idols).[42] The term, “New heavens and new earth” corresponds closely to 65:17-25;[43] although some contend that it’s merely a poetic description of the new order or restored city (65:17ff),[44] the language evokes the totality of creation (Gen 1:1). In addition, the verb “make” may well correspond to the thought behind a text like Genesis 2:4, whilst 65:17-25 contains its own references (long life, the fruitfulness of toil and child-bearing) which represent an undoing of the primordial curse (cf. Gen 3:15-19).[45] The new creation’s endurance – free from death and despoliation – is analogous to the persistence of Yahweh’s servants, who will enjoy permanence of posterity (cf. 56:5).[46] This may ultimately reflect the incipient universalism in Abraham’s originating call (“seed”; cf. Gen 12:1-3).[47]

Jewish and Gentile pilgrims will engage in purified worship of the one, true God (v.23b: “…bow down before me…”).[48] The clause, “From one New Moon…” implies that it will also be perpetual (v.23a).[49] We may discern another contrastive link – anchored in the dual references to Sabbaths and New Moon festivals – between this uncorrupted activity and the religious formalism within the Judahite community (1:13ff).[50] The faithful worshipers are, of course, sharply distinguished from the corpses of the rebellious, which lie outside the city walls (v.24).[51] The Isaianic interchange of salvation and judgment thus reaches a climax in the final consignment of the obedient and the obstinate. Yahweh’s servants will exit Jerusalem to “observe the grim fate” of those who stubbornly persisted in their rebellion. Verse 24 implies that the corpses are exposed (hence, the worshipers being able to view them). Their lack of proper burial is a fitting testimony to their own shamefulness: indeed, such a state represented the ultimate indignity for a Jew.[52] The makeshift graveyard may have been inspired by the Hinnom Valley, located just south of Jerusalem; as a place of child sacrifice in OT times, it would have supplied a suitably gruesome image for the appalling destiny of the wicked.[53] That the author speaks of “their worm” and “their fire” only serves to underscore the responsibility the unrighteous have for their own judgment, which here continues into the eschaton.[54] Less clear is whether this can be taken as a picture of conscious, post-mortem anguish (as per later depictions of Hell). The punishment seems permanent, but the clear reference to “dead bodies” indicates literal death. Meanwhile, “worm” and “fire” signal the permanent state of dissolution and judgment, respectively (cf. 1:31)[55] – a terrible fate, and a sobering reminder of rebellion’s consequences.[56]

Conclusion

Isaiah 66:18-24 concludes the overarching trajectory of the book, weaving many of its themes together in a most astounding eschatological vision.[57] It remains now to uncover some of the passage’s primary hermeneutical implications. The passage’s deep-rooted universalism immediately springs to mind, which is of a piece with the NT’s insistence that the message of salvation through Christ is, in principle, for all (John 12:32). God’s children are so, not because of ethnic lineage, but because they are born of him (John 1:13; Acts 8:26-38). A narrow, ethno-centric cast of mind may have been scandalized by such texts. But the church is also guilty of trying to restrict the gospel’s reach, often on the basis of cultural and social mores masquerading as the fundamentals of orthodoxy. Isaiah 66:18-24 reminds us that the gospel stands as God’s promise to welcome “[every]one who fears him and does what is right” (Acts 10:34). The passage confirms what much of Isaiah has already indicated – namely, that the primary metric of membership within the covenant community is not ethnicity (or any external trait), but humility before his word (Isa 66:2). Of course, this is not the whole word, for the offer of salvation does not remain open in perpetuity; judgment is still a reality. Isaiah 66:18-24 strongly implies that actions have moral consequences, even beyond this present life. Apart from humble adoration before Yahweh, one can only expect wrath and loss.[58] Difficult though it may be, this, too, cannot be ignored.

[1] See the summative statement concerning Isa 66:18-24 in Joel S. Kaminsky and Anne Stewart, “God of All the World: Universalism and Developing Monotheism in Isaiah 40-66”, HTR 99 (2006): 160. Cf. Brevard Childs, Isaiah (OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 542: “A succinct summary of the eschatological themes that occur throughout the entire book…”

[2] Andrew T. Abernethy, The Book of Isaiah and God’s Kingdom: A Thematic-Theological Approach (NSBT 40; Downers Grove: Inter-Varsity Press, 2016), 193.

[3] See R. Reed Lessing, Concordia Commentary: Isaiah 56-66 (CC; St. Louis: Concordia Publishing House, 2014), 29-30, for a brief survey of the various hypotheses that have been put forward. Lessing’s conclusion – that in many cases, such reconstructions illegitimately attempt to historicise what appears to be an eschatological text – is a wise one.

[4] See Michael J. Chan, “Isaiah 56-66 and the Genesis of Re-orienting Speech”, CBQ 72 (2010): 449-450, who says that some scholars date the pericope to the Persian period, subsequent to the building of the Second Temple. Chan acknowledges that the material in this entire section “eludes precision of dating or exactitude of allusion” (451).

[5] Anne E. Gardner, “The Nature of the New Heavens and the New Earth in Isaiah 66:22”, ABR 50 (2002): 15, n.18. This isn’t to disparage the view that certain elements in Isa 66:18-24 may have been inspired by historical events – merely to suggest that such occurrences do not exhaust the significance of the pericope.

[6] E.g., Childs, Isaiah, 444.

[7] Gary V. Smith, Isaiah 40-66 (NAC; Nasville: B&H Publishing, 2009), 65, 69, 519.

[8] William J. Dumbrell, “The Purpose of the Book of Isaiah”, TynB 36 (1985): 128.

[9] Pace Joseph Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 56-66: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 19B; New York: Doubleday, 2003), 312, who argues there is no relationship between these passages whatsoever. Cf. Lessing, Isaiah 56-66, 492.

[10] Smith (Isaiah 40-66, 521) argues that Isa 66:18-24 is part of a larger literary unit stretching back to 63:7. This is true, although it should also be noted that whilst 63:7-64:13 are a lament in the face of corruption and devastation, chapters 65-66 seem to constitute Yahweh’s response.

[11] I am using the term “Trito-Isaiah” in a purely heuristic sense.

[12] John N. Oswalt, “Judgment and Hope: The Full-orbed Gospel”, TrinJ 17 (1996): 197.

[13] See Edwin C. Webster, “A Rhetorical Study of Isaiah 66”, JSOT 11 (1986): 103.

[14] Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 56-66, 38.

[15] Alec Motyer, The Prophecy of Isaiah (Leicester: Inter-Varsity Press, 1993), 541; John Goldingay, Isaiah 56-66: A Critical and Exegetical Commentary (ICC; London: Bloomsbury, 2014), 512.

[16] See Motyer, The Prophecy, 541. Conrad argues that the identity of those referred to in v.18 is especially hard to uncover if, as some maintain, the verse is unrelated to what precedes it. See Edgard W. Conrad, Reading Isaiah (OBT; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1991), 92.

[17] Goldingay, Isaiah 56-66, 512. References to deeds and actions in those passages are all cast in a negative light.

[18] Oswalt, Isaiah – Chapters 40-66 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 687. Cf. Goldingay, Isaiah 56-66, 512.

[19] Goldingay, Isaiah 56-66, 513.

[20] Goldingay, Isaiah 56-66, 513. Whybray reasons that the reference to glory has a “restrictive and intensive sense” associated with the temple (cf. Ezek 11:22-23). See R.N. Whybray, Isaiah 40-66 (NCBC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1975), 289. Abernethy plausibly suggests that Yahweh’s glory should be seen in conjunction with the restoration of Zion (Isa 60). See Abernethy, The Book, 193-194.

[21] Jan L. Koole, Isaiah III: 56-66 (HCOT; Leuven: Peeters, 2001), 522.

[22] Claus Westermann, Isaiah 40-66: A Commentary (OTL; London: SCM Press, 1976), 425.

[23] Oswalt, Isaiah, 687. Whybray, Isaiah 40-66, 290.

[24] Whybray, Isaiah 40-66, 290.

[25] E.g., Oswalt, Isaiah, 688-689, who argues there is nothing explicit in this passage about Gentiles experiencing judgment (but see 66:16 and “all flesh”). Moreover, the textual links between vv.15-17 and vv.18-19 favour the position I take. Cf. Goldingay, Isaiah 56-66, 514.

[26] John D.W. Watts, Isaiah 34-66 – Revised (WBC 25; Waco: Thomas Nelson, 2005), 940. Cf. Emmanuel Uchenna Dim, The Eschatological Implications of Isaiah 65 and 66 as the Conclusion to the Book of Isaiah (Bern: Peter Lang, 2005), 176, 182. Cf. Willem A.M. Beuken, “Yhwh’s Sovereign Rule and His Adoration on Mount Zion: A Comparison of Poetic Visions in Isaiah 24-27, 52, and 66”, in The Desert Will Bloom: Poetic Visions in Isaiah, eds. Joseph A. Everson and Hyun Chul Paul Kim (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009), 105.

[27] Whybray Isaiah 40-66, 290; cf. Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 56-66, 314.

[28] Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 56-66, 314; cf. Koole, Isaiah III, 520; Dim, The Eschatological, 183.

[29] Dim, The Eschatological, 187. See also Shalom M. Paul, Isaiah 40-66: Translation and Commentary (ECC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012), 626, 628.

[30] Oswalt, Isaiah, 692.

[31] Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 56-66, 314.

[32] Dim, The Eschatological, 186-187.

[33] E.g., Motyer, The Prophecy, 542, who partly bases his argument on the assumption that “your brothers” and those being made priests and Levites (v.21) should be identified.

[34] Goldingay, Isaiah 56-66, 516.

[35] See Paul, Isaiah 40-66, 628-629 for comparable practices of tribute levied before potentates in Mesopotamia.

[36] Whybray, Isaiah 40-66, 291.

[37] E.g., Jose Severino Croatto, “The ‘Nations’ in the Salvific Oracles of Isaiah”, VT 55 (2005): 157. Croatto also claims that the nations in 66:18-24 play a purely servile role (hence, his interpretation of v.21). This seems clearly to run against the grain of the text.

[38] Blenkinsopp, “Second Isaiah – Prophet of Universalism”, JSOT 13 (1998): 103, n.51; Oswalt, The Holy One of Israel: Studies in the Book of Isaiah (London: James Clarke & Co., 2014), 104.

[39] See Goldingay, Isaiah 56-66, 520, who refers to a “suggestive sequence” of expansion in Isa 56-66, climaxing with the “globalization” of the priesthood in 66:21.

[40] Westermann, Isaiah 40-66, 426. See, too, Mark T. Long, “The Inclusion of the Nations in Isaiah 40-66”, TE 44 (1991): 91; Gary Stansell, “The Nations’ Journey to Zion: Pilgrimage and Tribute as Metaphor in the Book of Isaiah”, in The Desert Will Bloom: Poetic Visions in Isaiah, eds. Joseph A. Everson and Hyun Chul Paul Kim (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009), 246.

[41] Dumbrell, “The Purpose”, 128; Motyer, The Prophecy, 543; cf. Dim, The Eschatological, 183.

[42] On the universal implications of “all flesh”, see Goldingay, Isaiah 56-66, 521. Cf. Childs, Isaiah, 542; Paul, Isaiah 40-66, 632; Koole, Isaiah III, 528; Kaminsky and Stewart, “God of All the World”, 160-161; Gardner, “The Nature”, 15, 26.

[43] Koole, Isaiah III, 526; Oswalt, Isaiah 40-66, 691.

[44] E.g., Goldingay, Isaiah 56-66, 527. Calvin argues that the reference to a renewed heavens and earth refers to the “inward renewal of man”. This represents an unwarranted spiritualisation of the text. See John Calvin, Commentary on the Prophet Isaiah – 33-66 (trans. William Pringle; Grand Rapids: Baker Books, 2009), 437.

[45] Koole, Isaiah III, 526.

[46] Childs, Isaiah, 542; Dim, The Eschatological, 193.

[47] Motyer, The Prophecy, 543. See Gardner, “The Nature”, 26, and Isaianic references there to “seed” as a reference to the descendants of the patriarchs.

[48] Goldingay, Isaiah 56-66, 521.

[49] Calvin, Commentary, 437.

[50] Motyer, The Prophecy, 543; Dim, The Eschatological, 195; Koole, Isaiah III, 528.

[51] Lessing, Isaiah 56-66, 29.

[52] Dim, The Eschatological, 197.

[53] Oswalt, Isaiah 40-66, 692.

[54] Childs, Isaiah, 542.

[55] Calvin, Commentary, 439, correctly judges “fire” to be a metaphor for judgment. Whether “worm” symbolizes a troubled conscience, as he contends, is less certain. For the connections between v.24 and Isa 1:29-31, see Smith, Isaiah 40-66, 744; cf. Oswalt, The Holy One, 70, n.41.

[56] Goldingay, Isaiah 56-66, 524; Calvin, Commentary, 440; See also Paul D. Hanson, Isaiah 40-66 (Int; Louisville: John Knox Press, 1995), 252. I regard Goldingay’s contention that the passage has nothing to do with individual eschatology (or cosmic eschatology) as somewhat reductive.

[57] Stansell, “The Nations’ Journey”, 244.

[58] Goldingay, Isaiah 56-66, 525.

True Religion According to Isaiah 58

Note to non-Ridley College readers: I have produced this piece as part of an exercise for my study of the book of Isaiah. The intention is to try and contextualize a portion of that book for a particular audience, drawing out the passage’s significance for people today. After posting their work, students taking the subject have to examine and comment on their classmates’ efforts.

This is a blog post-cum-article, such as you might find in an online publication like The Gospel Coalition, or a print publication like The Melbourne Anglican.

***

I didn’t agree on all that much with the late biblical scholar, Marcus Borg. His Jesus seemed more like a 1960s radical than a first-century Palestinian Jew; his doctrine of Scripture was a little too low for my taste (Borg probably would have said that the Bible is the product of various communities that were confronted by the ineffable power of the numinous); and his understanding of biblical politics – such as they are – bore an uncanny resemblance to modern-day progressivism.

But one area in which I found Borg to be quite insightful was his insistence on the deep, abiding connection between one’s relationship with God (or “the holy”, as Borg might have termed it) and a commitment to justice in the world. For him, the two went hand-in-hand; anything less was a betrayal of true religion. Reading Marcus Borg at this point was to be reminded afresh of a fundamental truth that had become lost amidst hurly-burly of everyday life.

***

Isaiah 58:1-14 perfectly distils this theme, one that is found repeatedly throughout Scripture. In the space of a few verses, the prophet denounces a narrow, restrictive kind of religion, concerned mainly with empty ritual and ceremony. In its stead, he places a full-bodied spirituality front-and-centre, one that is focused on both God and neighbour – a religion that is both “vertical” (in relation to the Creator) and “horizontal” (in relation to one’s fellow image-bearers).

For Isaiah, labouring for justice is not an adjunct or an add-on; rather, it is a manifestation of true religion. In response to the complaints of God’s people – who petulantly ask why they have bothered fasting and humbling themselves, for no apparent gain (v.3) – the prophet exposes their hypocrisy. They might have prided themselves on their holiness, but as the succeeding verses demonstrate, their vaunted religiosity was hollow, a sham. Their fasts ended in conflict (v.4), whilst the fleeting moments they gave to God (v.5a) paled into insignificance next to the large swathes of time spent living for themselves and ignoring the plight of the poor (vv.6-7). I like the way Paul Hanson, an OT scholar, summed up the predicament of Israel at this time:

“[They were a] community where those who regarded themselves as the most religious had converted religion into private acts of study and ritual, thereby leaving the entire realm of social relations and commerce under the dominion of ruthless, self-serving exploitation”.

Quite so. The Israelites of Isaiah 58 had allowed a corrupt form of their religion to colonize the far loftier requirements of devotion to Yahweh, confining their obligations to discrete acts of piety. Meanwhile, those weightier matters of justice and liberation were forgotten about, left to wither away like the poor wanderers among them.

What God commands for his people in Isaiah 58 is a “fast” that conforms to, and reveals, his deeper intentions for those who call themselves his disciples. It is a “fast” from injustice, oppression and exploitation, and studied neglect of the downtrodden. It is, indeed, a “fast” that aims to satisfy the painful longings of the empty and broken. If the people do these things, Isaiah says, their light will break forth like the noonday sun (vv.8-10), and God shall truly be their delight. They will, in other words, reveal the light (=truth) of God (cf. 2:5), all the while being genuinely reconciled to their Creator and King.

***

This isn’t simply an OT concern – part of that dreaded law that Christians can now do away with. Jesus and the writers of the NT (most of whom were Jews) were deeply committed to the ongoing relevance of the OT Scriptures for the spiritual and moral formation of disciples in the early church. Indeed, the NT is suffused with this ethos, for both it and its predecessor are grounded in the fundamental belief that every single person is a precious image-bearing being, deserving of justice and respite from exploitation.

Examples are too numerous to list, but a few will make things clear. Just think about the way Jesus excoriates the “selective righteousness” of the religious leaders, who assiduously tithe their spices, but neglect the foundational matters of justice and compassion (Luke 11:42). Or what about his announcement in Luke 4:16-21, where he quotes from Isaiah 61, proclaiming himself to be the fulfilment of the anointed one, who would liberate the captives and loose the chains of injustice? In what could be seen as a programmatic statement, Jesus stands in the synagogue, and describes his mission as one marked by the coming of deliverance in a great act of Jubilee. And let’s not forget a NT writer like James, who says in 1:27 that one of the characteristics of “pure religion” is to look after orphans and widows (read: the vulnerable and weak). If one is to be a genuine worshiper of God, devotion to those who have fallen prey to the harsh vagaries of this world is non-negotiable.

For Christians, then, the values and principles enshrined in a passage like Isaiah 58 aren’t irrelevant, or a part of some by-gone era superseded by the coming of grace; they are part of the warp and woof of holy living, now fulfilled in the person and ministry of Jesus himself. The “light” of Isaiah 58, which he said would dawn with renewed commitment to justice, is seen in Jesus’ light, which pushes back the darkness (John 8:12). But it’s also not dissimilar to the light that Jesus’ disciples are meant to shine, by which they reveal in their good works the greatness and holiness of God (Matt 5:16).

***

The words of Isaiah 58 are bracing indeed. I’m not suggesting, of course, that anyone reading this is guilty of exploiting the poor, or of actively perpetuating oppression. But we need to take these words, echoed in the voices of Jesus and the first disciples, with a great deal of gravity. Moreover, we need to allow the God who inspired this passage then to use it now – searching our hearts for signs that we, too, may have slipped into conventional, narrow, or formal religion. I know that as I read these verses, I stand exposed as someone who all too easily falls into the trap of empty ceremony – thinking that my church attendance, for example, or my Bible reading is enough. And I cannot help but recognize that like the Israelites of this text, I am also guilty of “turning away” from other human beings (Isa 58:7c), of shutting my eyes to the misery and the brokenness around me. We may not be responsible for another’s exploitation; but how often do we ignore the plight of that person, or determine to remain uninformed about the travails of the oppressed?

How does one respond? It’s true that we live in a culture of self-interest, marked by materialism and a spirit of acquisitiveness. Such is the culture’s strength that it can be difficult to fully embrace the vision of Isaiah 58. But there is hope. Although each of us may have fallen short of these ideals, let us also remember that God is able to do exceedingly more than we can imagine. He is more than capable of re-making us; indeed, that is the whole point of being welcomed into his redeemed community. Moreover, he knows we are dust and ashes, and prone to following that which is merely convenient or comfortable. His grace is all-abounding, and is more than sufficient to forgive us our failings, and equip us for a life spent in service of others.

This is God’s promise. But what else should we do to live as people who manifest the spirit of Isaiah 58? Well, it is important to remain consistent in prayer. It’s unlikely God will change us without some openness on our behalf. Prayer avails much, and if we think we are lacking when it comes to a commitment to the poor and vulnerable, then it’s incumbent upon us to petition God for transformation. He will do much for us – and within us – but that comes with a receptive heart, made all the more so through prayer. Next, we might think about our posture: how do we position ourselves in this world? Do we open ourselves up to opportunities to assist and support those who broken or downtrodden? Or do we confine ourselves to acts of devotion and piety that allow us to remain walled-off from the discord around us? Along with prayer, then, a re-orientation of our goals, attitudes and way of life may well be necessary. It requires a conscious, intentional change – at least at some level – of one’s habits and daily rhythm. Such a posture means being alive to the possibility that God might use us in even the mundane moments of life. It entails deliberation about how we can reach out beyond the merely conventional or socially acceptable to those who are suffering. I think we’d be surprised by the opportunities that present themselves, right before our eyes.

Finally, there are practices, which are closely allied to our basic stance towards the broken. I’m not suggesting that we all need to abandon our current lives, move to a developing nation, and minister to people living in a slum. Practicing justice and loving-kindness could be as simple as reaching out to a neighbour you know facing financial hardship; or befriending someone at church who (as it were) comes from the “wrong side of the tracks”; or writing letters to your local MP on a raft of justice issues (asylum seekers languishing on Manus Island, abortion, or what have you). These are but a few examples.

We all face the cacophony of modern-day life, and we may often be distracted by all it has to offer. However, even in the midst such a dazzling array of amusements and consumer delights, there exist opportunities – even in the most “ordinary” of circumstances – to put the ethos of Isaiah 58 into action. In that way, we shall show ourselves to be God’s true people, following in the footsteps of his Son.

***

One final point before rounding off. I have focused mainly on what Isaiah 58 says about one’s commitment to justice. But remember what I said in reference to Marcus Borg: he talked of the indivisible bond between that commitment and devotion to God. If it’s easy to restrict one’s piety so that it has absolutely no effect on the world around us, then it’s also easy to think that social concern and a thirst for justice are enough. However, Isaiah 58 doesn’t promote a secular political programme. Rather (and as Marcus Borg recognised), it offers a distillation of the two halves of true religion, both of which are necessary for it to remain genuine. Here, I cannot help but end with another quote from Paul Hanson:

“Acts of loving kindness toward the neighbour do not exhaust the life of faith. They culminate in worship. The life of compassionate justice comes to its most sublime expression in the delight one finds in the Lord (v.14)…Isaiah 58 states God’s will with a clarity that wins the assent of all that is true within us…[evoking] our deepest sense of joy with the invitation to delight in the Lord through worship purified by loving-kindness”.

Amen.

Reflections on Ruth

Recently, my wife and I read through the book of Ruth as part of our devotional time. It’s a beautiful little story, composed of a series of tautly narrated scenes that are all the more powerful for their understated grace. Artful and elegant, it manages to convey its message in a few, quick strokes. And, of course, I shouldn’t forget the memorable characters featured in the book – Naomi, Boaz, and above all, Ruth herself. Given its succinctness, Ruth can easily be read through in the space of about 15 minutes, and provides the reader with a satisfying and cathartic experience. There’s also much by way of rich theology that can be extracted from the book; indeed, though it is short, Ruth is far from superficial. It contains reflections on friendship, covenant, sacrifice, the scope of salvation, the power of the noble, independent woman, and the unseen hand of a providential God.

These are important themes, and I certainly want to touch upon some of them. Reading the book, however, led to me to look afresh at the character of Ruth. I must admit that I haven’t always given her the attention she deserves. When I was growing up, sermons or studies about Ruth tended to focus on Boaz and his role (from a Christian perspective) as a “type” – a prefiguring, that is – of Jesus. The main thrust of the message was that just as Boaz redeemed Ruth and Naomi from a precarious existence and an uncertain future (thus fulfilling his role as kinsmen-redeemer), so Jesus redeems us from sin and estrangement from God. This is true so far as it goes, and we should always be ready to adopt a Christological lens as we read the OT. But an all-too-hasty reliance on this sermonic trope means that not only do we fail to read Ruth on its own terms (as opposed to a mere prelude to Jesus); we tend to marginalise Ruth herself. Restricting ourselves to Boaz’s typological status, and the function he plays in the narrative, has the perverse effect of reducing Ruth to a patient – a passive recipient of another’s activity. Perhaps this reflects the male-dominated nature of theology and pastoral ministry: it’s easier to interpret the narrative from the point of view of the male protagonist than it is someone of the opposite sex. It might also have something to do with the concerns of low-church evangelicalism, which tends to read Christ into as much of the OT as possible. A figure like Boaz is certainly ripe for such an interpretation, even if that means neglecting other features of the text. But my point is that this focus drastically minimises Ruth’s central importance to the narrative. She is hardly a mere respondent to a male actor’s primary role; rather, she herself is a powerful, independent, savvy individual, whose own actions propel the narrative forward.

***

In any case, it’s on Ruth that I want to concentrate my (sometimes recursive) reflections, drawing on the main elements of the book as they relate to its eponymous character. From the very beginning of the narrative, she proves her enduring worth to those around her, particularly her mother-in-law, Naomi. Just as Boaz tends to be the focus of many a sermon, to the exclusion of the story’s female characters, so is his evolving relationship with Ruth foregrounded within narrative synopses. But I’d say that the relationship between Ruth and Naomi is just as crucial. Certainly, Naomi’s shift from bitter emptiness to fulness of joy was in no small measure due to the actions of her daughter-in-law. We tend to take for granted the deep compassion Ruth extended towards Naomi, as well as the degree to which she relinquished her own rights for the sake of her mother-in-law. However, it’s precisely this familiarity that means a closer examination is warranted.

To appreciate just how radical Ruth’s actions were, some context is probably necessary. Within the first five verses of the book, Naomi is rendered widowed and childless, having witnessed the deaths of both her husband and her adult sons (1:3-5). Having moved with Elimelech to Moab to escape famine, she was now isolated in a foreign land – a stranger with no one to care for her. In the patriarchal societies of the Ancient Near East, a woman without a male relative to provide guardianship was in a very precarious position. We might recall that brief episode in Luke 7, where Jesus raises a woman’s son in the town of Nain (vv.11-17). Not only are we told that the woman was a widow; Luke also informs us (quite deliberately) that the man who had died was her “only son” (v.12). Of course, in raising a dead person to life, a great and awesome miracle had been performed. But lying behind the spectacle was Christ’s deep concern for the woman’s parlous social and economic condition, given her last male relative was dead. The evangelist’s aim is to underscore Jesus’ compassion for the vulnerable and marginalised, here rendered to a grieving widow by miraculously re-uniting her with her son (v.15). Naomi was in much the same position as that woman. For all intents and purposes, she had been left with nothing – save for the apparent knowledge that she was bound to die alone, bereft, crushed and empty (cf. Ruth 1:21).

This is what Naomi believed – indeed, it is what she was bitterly resigned to. Even in the narrative’s initial scenes, however, there are seeds of hope, of redemptive transformation. That hope is embodied in Ruth the Moabitess. We may note in passing the interesting, perhaps deliberate, parallel between the two women: both of them travelled from one country to another, with Naomi migrating to Moab and Ruth journeying to Israel with her mother-in-law. But whereas Naomi’s time in Ruth’s homeland occasioned grief and loss, Ruth’s relocation was accompanied by – and actively presaged – the eventual transfiguration of Naomi’s present emptiness (cf. 4:14-15). That transfiguration began with Ruth’s signal decision to remain with her mother-in-law (1:16-18). She, along with her sister-in-law, Orpah, sought to go with Naomi back to her homeland. But whilst Orpah eventually returned to her own people, Ruth did not. Instead, she committed herself entirely to Naomi, renouncing her own rights – indeed, her own life – to care for her mother-in-law.

Ruth 1:16-18 is a “hinge” moment in the narrative, on which much of the rest of the story turns. Refusing Naomi’s exhortation to go home to her own family, Ruth pledged her undying loyalty. She promised to be with Naomi, and to make her mother-in-law’s people her own. Just as noteworthy, of course, was Ruth’s commitment to Naomi’s – and Israel’s – God. The words of 1:16-18 bear the unmistakable marks of a covenantal promise, in what amounts to a triumph of precise narrative art. The “You/I will” (or “Your/will be my”) contrast occur no fewer than five times in this excerpt, which reflects what I have already said about Ruth’s comprehensive and unwavering commitment to bind herself to Naomi’s fate. This was solidarity in its truest sense: Ruth identified her own life trajectory so completely with her mother-in-law’s that what was true for the latter was to be true for the former. Moreover, she placed herself under the weight of divine punishment if anything but death itself separated her from Naomi (“May the Lord deal with me…”). Ruth not only promised to unite her life to Naomi’s; she also rendered herself accountable before Yahweh, thereby accepting the consequences of failing to fulfil her vow. This was no cheap boast, but rather the perfect expression of covenantal devotion, sealed with an oath before Israel’s great lawmaker and sovereign.

Talk of such friendships is somewhat foreign to our modern ears. A covenant implies a legal agreement, something that has binding force on the parties involved. It’s the very antithesis to what an “authentic” relationship should be, so one might say. It’s true that we have probably become somewhat inured to the liquidity of contemporary relationships. Many friendships (though not all) tend to be characterised by a kind of casualness – a transience that is often allied with a basic regard for one’s own convenience, preferences or interests. Call it the consequences of radical individualism, if you like, or the reification of the autonomous self. The point is that people aren’t likely to place themselves under the stringencies of what amounts to a legal obligation, where their rights may be curtailed, and they themselves may be called upon to walk the difficult road of self-abnegation; even marriage, which is probably the closest approximation we have to the idea of a bond grounded in covenant and law, is becoming far rarer – and, where it does occur, seems far more fluid and impermanent.

So, when we read something like Ruth’s vow of loyalty, we might be surprised by the self-relinquishing depth of her decision. It seems a little strange: who, after all, “forgets” themselves in such a profoundly comprehensive way for another person? Perhaps some do, but in the ordinary course of events, it’s hardly common. Ruth would seem to be something of an anomaly. But is that because she made a foolish decision to give so much of herself to Naomi, without properly thinking through the consequences of her actions? Or is it because we (and by “we”, I mean the culture at large) have drifted away from what true friendship is meant to look like – that is, the kind of self-giving friendship as the Creator designed (cf. John 15:13)? When even the ties of marriage can dissolve with the rapidity of melting snow – and often do so with the tacit approval of a permissive culture – we shouldn’t wonder why we might find a story of bold, robust, covenant-making friendship to be rather startling.

***

As such, we cannot miss the radical nature of Ruth’s actions; nor should we downplay the total sacrifice she was undertaking. Think, for example, of the great cultural and geographical shift she had to undergo. Even today, migration from one country to another is no small feat, often entailing a significant amount of upheaval: an unfamiliar environment, social and cultural dislocation, possible loneliness, uncertain prospects, weak or ambiguous social networks, and so on. Imagine, then, someone making that choice without the benefits of modern telecommunications or international travel, migrating to a land where, historically, his or her people are regarded with suspicion (cf. Num 25:1ff). A sombre finality would have cast itself over Ruth’s decision, for she was not likely to see her family again (cf. 2:11). She was going to leave everything she knew – everything that anchors and grounds and stabilises a person – to take up an uncertain existence in a foreign land, with a people who considered those of her ilk to be idolaters and scoundrels. For all intents and purposes, Ruth’s decision meant permanent separation from her past. What, in turn, could she realistically (from this point in the narrative, at least) look forward to? As I have noted, Naomi was fatalistic about the loss she had experienced, and the diminishing likelihood that life would issue in anything else but gnawing emptiness. And yet, Ruth appeared to be entirely undeterred by such unwelcome prospects, so determined was she to forsake her life for her mother-in-law.

We ought not neglect the religious-spiritual concerns underpinning Ruth’s decision. Her choice to cleave to her mother-in-law was governed, not only by her concern for Naomi, but by the recognition that the God her mother-in-law followed was, in fact, the true Lord (cf. 2:12). Naomi even urged Ruth (implicitly, perhaps) to return to the deities of her own tribe and family (1:15). But Ruth was unswayed: she determined to follow Yahweh, as Naomi did, and in fact showed a purer faith at this point than her mother-in-law. Although she was about to embark on a journey with a woman whose own prospects were very dim indeed, Ruth seemed to understand that by doing so, she was actually joining the community of the elect, and cleaving to the world’s rightful sovereign. To anticipate some of what I want to say below, Ruth combined the basic tenets of God’s will in her person and promise: to love him, and to give of oneself to others. Ruth recognized the truth of Israel’s chosen status before a holy God, even as she recognized the consequent demands that flowed from this identity.

***

Ruth’s actions have been described as an example of “excessive altruism” (Martin Luther King, jnr.). This is quite true: Ruth was driven only by a selfless, unerring concern for Naomi’s welfare. And she proved her worth, substantiating her earlier promise to bind herself to her mother-in-law. Reading through Ruth 2, for example, we find the Moabitess expending herself in service of her mother-in-law, engaging in the arduous task of gleaning grain so that they had enough to eat (vv. 3, 17-19, 23). During this time, she encountered Boaz, one of the family’s kinsmen-redeemers (vv. 8-13). The chapter ends, poignantly enough, by telling us that “[Ruth] lived with her mother-in-law” – a reminder that Naomi, despite her embittered complaint (cf. 1:21), was neither bereft nor alone. The scene is set, of course, for Ruth’s night-time rendezvous with Boaz, and their eventual union.

There is much that we ourselves may glean. We should not simply understand Ruth’s altruism in a merely secular sense. The author shared with his or her contemporaries a thoroughly spiritual worldview, where one’s moral actions were inseparable from one’s religious identity. More to the point, Ruth’s acts of compassion – expressed in the humble earthiness of her work – clearly distilled the core demands of Torah. As the biblical scholar, Isabel Docampo, has written, “From the moment she uttered her pledge to Naomi in the middle of Moab’s fields, Ruth enacted God’s love as taught by the Torah”. Her actions not only reflected concern for the needs of another; they were deeply linked, by way of obedience to the demands of holy love, to her promise to serve Yahweh. True piety so often finds its expression in charity, especially as it is directed towards the lowly and the weak (cf. Jas 1:27a). Seen in the context of her double pledge (1:16-17), Ruth’s sacrificial love beautifully embodied (prospectively, of course!) Jesus’ admonition that the whole Law is summed up in the two greatest commandments: love the Lord with all your soul, heart, mind, and strength; and love your neighbour as yourself (cf. Mark 12:29-31). Ruth’s was a demonstration of obeisance to the deepest intentions of the Law – thus marking out this Moabitess as a true follower of Yahweh.

We would do well to appreciate this point. I have already noted that Ruth’s devotion to Naomi outweighed whatever regard she had for her own security, and that she understood Yahweh to be the One in whom she might take refuge. In all of this, Ruth completely subverted then-conventional notions concerning the identity of the righteous, and the boundaries of the covenant community. Recall that for many Israelites, Moabites – and Moabite women, in particular – were indelibly linked with that notorious incident in Numbers 25. Such “heathens” were but a snare to God’s elect, and allowing them entry to the covenant community was inviting spiritual and moral pollution. Biblical tradition holds that Moab’s kings had either waylaid or actively oppressed the Israelites (Judges 3:12-30; 11:17). More relevantly, Moab’s women were associated with harlotry in biblical imagination, having seduced God’s people to commit both sexual immorality and idolatry (Num 25:1-3). However, Ruth stood these traditions on their heads. Not only did she not undermine or sully the purity of the redeemed community; she positively enriched it with her lavish, unwavering commitment to love of God and love of neighbour. Rather than leading local Israelites astray, Ruth offered her contemporaries an unsullied distillation of what it meant to truly align oneself with the purposes and will of Yahweh.

How one reconciles this with the stringent demand of Deuteronomy 23:3-6, I’m not entirely sure. Perhaps the one tradition was intended as an abstract legal requirement, to be “relaxed” in the face of the irresistible fact of a non-Israelite’s allegiance to Yahweh. Perhaps we have here more than one tradition pertaining to the nation’s relationship to foreign peoples. Whatever the case, Ruth’s participation in the redeemed community – culminating with her marriage to Boaz – was a sign that the ever-present temptation to limit God’s covenant blessings on the basis of ethnicity was, in fact, a violation of the basic thrust of the Abrahamic covenant (Gen 12:1-3). One commentator has said that Ruth shows us – and, one would think, its original audience – that “true religion is supranational”, such that a “foreigner who trusted in God and wished to be identified with the people of God was worthy of full acceptance” (Charles Oxley). The reality of Ruth’s membership within the covenant community looked forward to the great vision of the prophets, who held out the eschatological hope of the universal reach of Yahweh’s blessings (e.g., Isa 2:1-5; 25:6ff; 56:3-8). With the actions of its central character, the book of Ruth functions as a rebuke to a narrow cast of mind that rigidly ties true religiosity to a person’s ethnic or cultural features (cf. John 1:12-13). At their worst, such characteristics can become pernicious idols in the life of those who are bound by them, restricting thereby the extent and scope of God’s grace. For the book of Ruth, on the other hand, ethnicity is completely de-coupled from piety; what counts is, again, obedience before God, of which charity and selfless devotion towards others is a key manifestation (cf. Micah 6:8).

***

If Ruth the woman disturbs settled accounts of foreigners, then her character and actions also help to overturn other accepted notions – this time around gender, sex, and male-female relations. Her efforts, of course, were instrumental in Naomi’s own journey from emptiness and loss to redemption and fullness. I noted earlier the seeds of hope, even as Naomi resigned herself to the bitterness of death, that lie in the narrative: Ruth’s vow to remain with her mother-in-law, despite their being no obligation to do so; and the author’s subtle comment in 2:22 that Naomi returned to Israel – not alone, but “accompanied” by Ruth, at the time of harvest. Throughout the narrative, Ruth is presented as someone who takes the initiative, who does not wait to be acted upon, but engages decisively in action. It is action that is neither rash nor foolish. If wisdom could be seen in part as the artful calibration of ends with means, so that the desired result is brought about, then Ruth was very wise indeed. However, this was more than mere shrewdness. As Boaz himself remarked, Ruth was already known as a “woman of noble character” (3:11), which suggests that not only did she possess practical nous, but integrity and honour in abundance.

Far from being a mere recipient of paternalistic largesse, Ruth forged her path through adversity and loss. Instead of remaining helpless and inert before the welter of economic and social challenges she likely faced (migration, cultural dislocation, relative poverty, “outsider” status, etc.), this Moabitess laboured with tireless determination to provide for both herself and her mother-in-law. Ruth is presented as the very epitome of the savvy, independent woman, who engages with others in the open, public realm of the field and the workplace. It was her initiative that sustained Naomi upon her return to Bethlehem; and, even if we grant the necessity of Boaz’s decision to welcome both Ruth and Naomi into his household as their kinsmen-redeemer (4:9-10, 13-15), this was the direct result of Ruth’s earlier approach (3:7-13). His immediate response, we might recall, suggests that he saw her actions as a gracious gift to him (v.10). Certainly, it reverses the usual train of events, where masculinity is often associated with activity and initiative, and femininity functions as a passive, demure counterpoint. We are thus left with a narrative construction of women that would have challenged the prevailing patriarchal ethos. As the great OT scholar, Claus Westermann, perceptively argued, the book of Ruth “is one of the few [ancient] narratives in which the thoughts and actions of a woman comprise the events that to a large degree characterize the story…” He went on to observe – quite rightly – that Ruth’s actions effectively “upend the established order”, for she is neither “dependent” nor “subordinate”. Yes, Boaz is important to the story, and it would be a mistake to marginalize his role. But it is Ruth who drives the narrative forward, to such an extent that her decisions – the decisions of a poor, foreign female, no less – determine the trajectory of events. If one were wanting to use story to challenge or undercut dominant notions concerning social hierarchy and value, one would be hard pressed to do better than this subversive little romance.

***

One final comment, of a Christological nature, before drawing my reflections to a close. I said earlier that many sermons on Ruth emphasise Boaz’s role as a type of Christ: as the ageing Bethlehemite (cf. 3:10) redeemed Naomi and Ruth from a spectral existence lived on the edges of local society, so Christ redeems us from the perils of our sin-soaked alienation from God. This is true, and we ought not to dismiss the various signs the OT holds up to the final messianic revelation. But if what I have said about Ruth is true, could it not also be the case that she be seen as a kind of pre-figuring of Christ? After all, who was it that acted faithfully and compassionately, extending herself for another’s good? Who laboured and toiled and sacrificed to sustain their life? Who ensured that they would not be left alone, condemned to a life of scarcity and want? Who identified herself so radically with another’s fate? Who summed up the deepest demands of the Law in her own person? And whose actions guaranteed her mother-in-law’s transfiguration from emptiness to wholeness? In all these ways, Ruth acted out the kind of grace that Christ embodied in excelsis. Even without the obvious conceptual link of redemption (Boaz, Naomi’s and Ruth’s kinsmen-redeemer; Christ, our redeemer [cf. Mark 10:45; 1 Cor 1:30; Gal 3:13; Eph 1:7; Col 1:14]), I think we’re on solid ground in seeing certain parallels between Ruth’s sacrificial efforts, and the (far greater) sacrifice undertaken by Jesus (again, see John 15:13). Not only men, but women, too, may be assured that they have the chance to reflect the gracious, self-abnegating love of the divine in their own lives – love that redeems and heals and transforms and comforts. Apart from anything else, the story of Ruth shows us, I think, that the spirit of Christ may be witnessed in even the most unlikely of individuals. The liberality of God in calling a people to himself – a people formed by his word and spirit to embody the character of his Son – knows no bounds. If we restrict it on the basis of nationality, culture, gender or social status, then we do so to our own loss.

One Same-Sex Marriage, a Conscientious Objector, and Three Failed Arguments (Part Two)

Introduction

A few weeks ago, I began a short series examining several arguments that have been put forward by Australian advocates of same-sex marriage, many of whom think that conscientious objectors within the commercial wedding industry should not be allowed to withhold their creative talents from a same-sex wedding. In my first post, I critically engaged the claim that a dissenting wedding operator is analogous to a racist business owner who refuses to serve certain people based on the colour of their skin. As anybody who read that piece will know, I found the argument sadly wanting, even as I acknowledged that efforts like mine to rebut it aren’t likely to make a substantial difference to the overall trajectory of the debate. Nevertheless, I continue in the hope that conducting discussions on the basis of a shared commitment to reason and civility — not to mention a sincere and open pursuit of the truth — remains a worthwhile enterprise. This is particularly so in a liberal democracy, which can only properly survive if such conduct is not just accepted in theory, but adhered to in practice.

Religious Expression and Journalistic Fallacies

In this post, I want to tackle a slightly different attempt to legitimize restrictions upon dissenting wedding operators. Like the focus of my previous piece, this argument is based on the alleged analogy between opposition to SSM and forms of conduct that are widely (if not universally) condemned. Unlike the analogy between race and SSM, this one is concerned with narrower questions regarding acceptable (and indeed, unacceptable) manifestations of religiosity.

On the day the results of Australia’s SSM plebiscite were revealed, the journalist Michael Bachelard wrote a piece for the Fairfax press, in which he averred that “religious freedom is, and should be, limited”. This basic thesis formed the backdrop to his specific point: namely, that there is no reason to allow a wedding vendor to refuse service to a same-sex couple on the grounds of a sincere religious belief. In fact, he claimed that there are obvious reasons why such practices should be prohibited, and went on to cite several examples of religiously-inspired activity that is nonetheless deemed illegal. Among them were the Jesus People and Children of God (cultish groups that have engaged in the violent sexual abuse of women and children) and certain Muslim sects that practice female genital mutilation (hereafter, FGM). Bachelard seemed to think that because Australian law already prohibits sexual abuse and FGM — even if they are practiced by sincere religious individuals — there exists clear and principled precedent for restricting the ability of a religious wedding operator to refuse to service to a same-sex wedding.

At a glance, the argument appears to be quite persuasive. But in this instance, outward appearance and substantive reality enjoy little more than a passing acquaintance with each other. Beneath its superficial cogency lie several problems, which taken together prove to be fatal. Bachelard’s claimed analogies aren’t really analogous at all, at least in the relevant sense. Quite the opposite: as we shall see, there are a number of crucial differences between Bachelard’s selected examples, and the case of a dissenting wedding vendor.

Excursus: Pre-empting a Predictable Objection (Yet Again)

I will examine those differences shortly. But before I do that, I want to briefly highlight another erroneous element in Bachelard’s argument. At one point, he criticises the (since aborted) attempts by Liberal Senator, James Paterson, to introduce a SSM bill into parliament, which would have given conscientious objectors in the commercial wedding industry the right to refuse service to a same-sex wedding. Bachelard contends that everyone ought to abide by anti-discrimination laws, “in the name of a civilized society, in not discriminating against people for who they are” (emphasis mine). Bachelard wants to say that a religiously conservative wedding vendor who does not wish to service a same-sex wedding is in clear violation of anti-discrimination law — and is, to that extent, engaging in self-evidently unlawful activity, just as the abusive member of the Jesus People is when he molests children.

Such activity would of course be unjust if it were done on the basis of the italicised portion of the quote above. But is someone who refuses to lend his creative talents to a same-sex wedding really “discriminating against people for who they are”? As I sought to show in my previous essay, that refusal is grounded in one’s beliefs about the true shape and nature of marriage. It is not about the identities or attributes of the participants per se, but about the structure of the event in which they are participating. Indeed, as I also demonstrated in that earlier piece, the parties to an event and the event itself are logically distinct; to oppose the latter does not require a person to hold any animus against, or evince bad faith towards, the former. Dissenting wedding operators who have been hauled before judges and anti-discrimination boards have made it abundantly clear that they are more than happy to serve gay and lesbian couples for a variety of occasions. In addition, the recent ruling by a Californian judge in just such a case suggests that not only is a refusal to service a same-sex wedding not a genuine instance of unfair discrimination; being compelled to provide that service may actually constitute a violation of the rights of the wedding vendor in question. So it’s not at all clear that what Bachelard assumes (which is precisely what he does) is correct. This will be important as we proceed, lest anyone reading this is tempted to rest on the facile riposte that conduct of this kind is unjustly — and obviously — discriminatory.

Same-Sex Weddings, FGM and Sexual Abuse: Some Crucial Dis-analogies

Let’s return, however, to Bachelard’s alleged analogies, and why they fail on multiple levels. To begin, there is a wide gulf in the degree of harm experienced by those who have supposedly been wronged. I would argue that the examples in Bachelard’s article are, in fact, vastly different in their effects. For example, a girl who endures FGM suffers injury in a way that a same-sex couple — who might be faced with the indignity of a religiously conservative florist refusing to arrange their wedding bouquets — does not. Apart from the excruciating pain of the procedure itself, a victim of FGM will likely experience a combination of some (or all) of the following symptoms, often for many years: painful periods, excessive bleeding, labour difficulties, infections, urinary problems, unhealed wounds, or even death.  Of course, a same-sex couple confronted with an unwilling wedding operator is likely to feel aggrieved and embarrassed. No one would want to deny that such an experience could well leave one feeling quite humiliated. Nor would one wish to trivialise such experiences. But the question of degree or proportion is paramount. Certainly, it’s difficult to equate that kind emotional hardship — which may be rather ephemeral, depending on the circumstances — with the acute, long-term physical and psychological suffering a young female experiences as a result of a forced clitoridectomy.  The severity of the one is, I would suggest, far outweighed by the other.

This is not to say that such differences are sufficient in themselves to secure dissenting wedding vendors a reprieve (even if they should give us pause to wonder whether Bachelard has been too hasty in grouping these examples together): if publicly manifesting one’s religious beliefs occasions injury (whether physical or emotional), then perhaps it doesn’t really matter how severe or enduring that injury is. One may argue that even if they do differ in degree, they might nonetheless fall under the same broad rubric of “harm”; as such (so the argument might go), they should be liable to penalties commensurate with the severity of the offence.

But in this instance, a difference in degree is accompanied by, and connected to, a qualitative distinction. Whilst measuring the harm experienced by the victim of FGM or sexual abuse is relatively straightforward, at least in legal terms, things are not so easy in the case of a same-sex couple claiming emotional or dignitary harm as a result of being refused service by a wedding vendor. The former case involves material injury to one’s person — in other words, harms that can be publicly identified and verified. They possess a tangibility that injuries associated with supposedly insulting conduct by another person lack. Indeed, the relationship between a certain act and one’s subjective experience of offence or emotional distress is more remote than the tight, causal connection between the practice of, say, FGM and the experience of personal suffering. Whilst the latter is, by its very nature, bound to cause harm, the extent to which the former causes injury is based on the internal states and perceptions of those who may be in a position to make such a claim. This renders the notion of dignitary or emotional injury far more slippery: whilst the consequences of FGM can be readily defined and substantiated, it is much more difficult to obtain proof of emotional harm that can be publicly countenanced.  This is not to say that it does not, in general, exist, or that those making such claims are lying. It is merely to argue that they are far harder to capture legally than actions that quite clearly violate the liberty of another individual by causing material — and, supervening upon that, psychological — injury.

This brings me to a further dis-analogy: that which concerns the distribution of rights and possible harms between the two parties. In the case of religious leaders practicing FGM or sexual abuse, there is a clear, even radical, asymmetry of rights or entitlements. The right of vulnerable individuals not to be violated by the activity of others automatically negates the alleged “right” of the person perpetrating those acts to manifest his religious convictions in this way. The sacrosanct nature of one’s person is part of the bedrock of our legal system. It is regarded as morally and legally inviolable, such that an act that attempts to impinge upon that status is necessarily deemed unlawful. Religious motivation, however genuine it may be, is irrelevant in these circumstances — as are any claims of “harm” that might be “suffered” by the perpetrator if he were compelled to cease his activity. Moreover, whilst the injuries associated with Bachelard’s examples are readily apparent in the case of the victims, corresponding claims made by perpetrators would be so intangible — so indefinable — as to defy verification.

However, there seems to be a much closer balance between the alleged rights or harms of a dissenting wedding vendor and those of a same-sex couple wanting to wed. Whatever rights a same-sex couple may claim in this context, and whatever alleged distress they may have experienced as a result of being rebuffed — these must be weighed against the rights of a person to maintain integrity and cohesion between inner conviction and outward expression. On the one hand, we have noted that claims of emotional injury or dignitary harm are theoretically problematic. Even on the assumption that such notions could be defined coherently and measured intelligibly, it does not follow that precipitating conduct should be penalized (in the way that conduct causing material or bodily harm ought to be). Indeed, as the American legal scholar, Andrew Koppelman (himself an advocate for SSM) has pointed out:*

“The dignitary harm of knowing that some of your fellow citizens condemn your way of life is not one from which a law can or should protect you in a regime of free speech”.

On the other hand, dissenting wedding vendors can also claim that they possess certain rights. Religiously conservative wedding vendors can assert that having to lend their creative talents to a same-sex wedding potentially violates their deeply-held convictions: engaging in activity that implicitly legitimizes a ceremony of which a person disapproves forces them to dis-integrate their views and their conduct. It is at least arguable that the religiously conservative cake-maker (for example) has the right not to participate in something he regards as immoral, in order to avoid complicity. We might recall what I said earlier about the Californian judge, who recently ruled that forcing a Christian baker to bake a wedding cake for a lesbian couple was a violation of her right to freedom of speech and expressive conduct. In addition, Bachelard’s argument ignores the possible harms such vendors may have to endure, regardless of the choice they make. Those who do not wish to participate in a same-sex wedding are, in many instances, confronted with the prospect of two unwelcome alternatives: violate their consciences and sacred convictions; or succumb to often hefty financial and pecuniary penalties.

Active and Passive Manifestations of Religion: A Fundamental Difference

There is one final difference between Bachelard’s chosen examples, and that of the dissenting wedding vendor. In many respects, it is fundamental to the entire debate. It centres on the direction of activity between the two parties, and the asymmetry between passive and active manifestations of one’s (in this case, religious) beliefs. I have hinted at this difference already, in referring to the kinds of violations of which a practitioner of FGM is guilty, but which appear to be absent in the case of a religiously conservative wedding vendor. However, I think it important to flesh this out a little more.

In the case, say, of an acolyte of the Jesus People abusing a minor within their spiritual community, we have a clear example of one individual acting upon another, thereby curtailing his right to liberty and freedom from degrading treatment. Indeed, I think most would agree that the act, by its very nature, violates the victim’s person, and, in most cases, harms them materially. The religious believer in this instance manifests his convictions in an active manner; he commits a certain act against another individual, which necessarily restricts or smothers their rights. In that sense, it’s a zero sum game: the active party imposes himself upon a vulnerable, unconsenting or unwilling recipient, which entails the simultaneous extension and restriction of one’s freedom of action. As I have already noted, it is for this reason that such behaviour, whatever its inspiration, is rightly considered unlawful — and indeed, criminal.

However, the religiously-inclined wedding vendor who refuses to lend his creative talents to a same-sex wedding is engaged in passive abstention. Here, the question of (religiously-motivated) imposition is irrelevant, for it simply does not exist. The vendor seeks to preserve coherence between inner conviction and outward activity, whilst avoiding duplicitous, hypocritical or morally inconsistent behaviour, and does so by refraining from participation in the event. In other words, he merely omits to do something. As the American columnist David Brooks (another advocate of SSM) has recently written, religiously conservative wedding operators who refuse to participate creatively in a same-sex wedding aren’t trying to restrict others’ (in this case, gay) rights; nor are they imposing themselves on other people. They are simply asking not “to be forced to take part” — i.e., they seek leave to abstain from contributing materially to something with which they disagree. Where someone who practices FGM assumes an active, dominant role in the relationship with the victim of such a procedure, a Jack Phillips or a Barronelle Stutzman is simply “withdrawing” from certain activity. This does not affect the hypothetical same-sex couple in the same way that sexual abuse, say, affects its victim: apart from the relative difficulties surrounding the notion of dignitary harm, the couple in this scenario is not restricted or coercively acted upon, as the passive parties in Bachelard’s initial examples most certainly are.

Indeed, whereas the individuals in Bachelard’s opening examples necessarily violate the integrity of another’s person, the same cannot be said of the hypothetical wedding vendor. In arguing for limits to expressions of religious belief, Bachelard presumes that anything less would lead to the unwelcome expansion of pernicious activity, under the guise of maintaining religious liberty (Bachelard even dismisses countervailing calls as “bogus”, clearly implying that those who advocate in this direction are cynically using religious freedom as a veneer to advance oppressive practices). This, of course, would explain why he has framed the debate with examples that most people are likely to see as clear and violent threats to civil liberties. But again, he overlooks key features of the active-passive distinction I have tried to highlight. Religious practices such as FGM and cultish sexual abuse are what we might term inherently “expansionist” — that is, they expand the range of the perpetrator’s activity at the expense of his victim. By contrast, the actions of conscientious objectors within the commercial wedding industry are “preservationist”: as Brooks’ earlier observation suggests, they seek merely to preserve what they believe could be undermined through participation in an event that contradicts their basic convictions. Limiting freedom of religion in the former instances goes without saying, given their active tendency towards the suppression of rights and the generation of suffering. The notion that similar restrictions should be applied to the latter is, at the very least, a contestable proposition.

Final Reflections

Bachelard’s argument is likely to appeal to those who already agree that withholding commercial wedding services to a same-sex couple is an egregious example of invidious discrimination. It’s also bound to appeal to many of the uncommitted, who aren’t likely to ask whether his contention has any merit, or whether it’s fair to group an unwilling baker (say) with child rapists and mutilators of the flesh. In that sense, Bachelard’s not unlike the targets of my last piece on this topic, since they also sought to draw connections between superficially similar acts. Intentional or not, his rhetoric has the effect of circumventing a person’s critical faculties: having first been confronted with examples of religiously-motivated violence, the unwary reader is lured into docile acceptance of the proposition that the sacred convictions of religiously-sensitive wedding operators should be met with the same kind of righteous fury. This is simply guilt-by-association, but without the label.

Lest there be any misunderstanding, I am not arguing that there should be no limits on alleged expressions of religious belief. What I have written here should make that clear. But I also think that there are principled reasons for allowing some religious freedoms whilst disallowing others. That, too, should be clear from what I have written. But the problem, as I see it, lies in the basic orientation of a piece like Bachelard’s. Underlying the words themselves is the fundamentally negative belief that religion is, and has been, a largely malignant influence on society. Whether one is referring to an imam who mutilates young girls or a dissenting wedding vendor, it is important that manifestations of religious or spiritual belief — especially those in the public arena — be kept on a taut leash. That leash, of course, is to be held by the secular state, which (to change the metaphor) must corral such expressions so that the baleful forces of superstition and religious bigotry do not corrode our modern, progressive way of life. If anyone objects to this project, their claims can safely be dismissed as a rear-guard action, aimed at  shoring up the last vestiges of religious privilege. Or so the assumption goes, anyway.

But it’s time to conclude. Despite his own certainty on this question — one might call it a kind of secular zeal — Bachelard’s claimed analogy breaks down at almost every relevant point. He is left with the mere shell of an argument, which not only fails to advance a good-faith dialogue, but positively frustrates it. Unfortunately, given the times in which we live, his offering is likely to fuel efforts that further restrict the right of religious conservatives to live in harmony with their deeply-held convictions.

*Please note that the article to which I have linked was not penned by Koppelman, but by the legal academic, Sherif Girgis, who quoted the same excerpt that I did. It appears the original piece is no longer available for viewing online (it was originally published in the Southern Californian Law Review).

 

Resurrection and the Restoration of God’s People

This is the next instalment of a series of articles I have written on the multi-layered significance of the resurrection of Jesus (a series I began some years ago). Fair warning: this one is long. Very, very long! Hopefully, though, your persistence will be rewarded.

Introduction

John 20 contains a rather intriguing moment. Having discovered that Jesus’ tomb was empty, Mary Magdalene remains outside the holy sepulchre, weeping (v.11). Jesus then appears to her – although she mistakes him for the gardener, and pleads with him to tell her where the Lord’s corpse might be. But once Mary realizes who it is, she cries out in recognition, and tries desperately to cling to him (v.16). Jesus then responds, but in so fleeting a manner that one could be forgiven for overlooking what he says. Nevertheless, it is of seminal, even revolutionary, import. I’m not referring to the fact that Jesus bade Mary to let go of him; it’s what he says next – commanding her to convey the good news of his coming ascension to the disciples – that is worthy of attention.

What is it about Jesus’ directive that is so noteworthy? Notice what he says: “Go instead to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am returning to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God” (v.17). This is a remarkably significant moment – particularly given the way the Johannine Jesus uses familial language in the rest of the narrative. Throughout the Fourth Gospel, Jesus speaks exclusively of his close filial relationship with the Father. Consistently referring to God as “my Father” (5:17, 43; 6:32, 40; 8:19, 49, 54), Jesus deliberately distinguishes the relationship he enjoys with the Almighty from that of his contemporaries. Up until this point, he nowhere said that God was anyone else’s father, expect in an oblique, ironic sense (John 10:34-36). But now, he includes the disciples in the pattern of sonship he alone had enjoyed. They, too, have the privilege of relating to God in a relationship of filial love, and to Jesus in the context of a fraternal partnership.

But why the sudden change? Why does Jesus now broaden God’s spiritual paternity, having earlier marked out his own unique sonship? Why can the disciples count themselves as his brothers? According to John, it is Jesus’ resurrection that has led to this shift, this epochal expansion. Brief though this moment may be, John 20:17 offers us a window, a glimpse, into the deep theological and eschatological connections between resurrection and the re-establishment of the covenant community, or a divinely-authored family (to borrow John’s language). The crucial role the raising of Jesus played in the restoration of God’s people is, therefore, the focus of this article.

Getting a Sense of the Eschatological Terrain

The task of unpacking the above connections will occupy us soon. But first, it is worth sketching the backdrop against which the drama of Jesus’ ministry – culminating in the events of Easter – took place. The man from Nazareth appeared at a time of great tumult, marked by (among other things) the intensification of eschatological expectations. For many years, Jews had grappled with what appeared to be their ongoing exile, centuries after the Babylonian captivity. Despite their return to the land that had been given them, God’s people still experienced the hardships associated with that catastrophic expulsion. Theologian N.T. Wright has argued that whilst the Jews’ geographical exile had ceased, their theological exile persisted. Riven now by conflict and factionalism, they were not the holy people God had summoned them to be. He himself appeared to be absent, having apparently abandoned his treasured possession. Moreover, the land was not under Jewish control; by the time of Jesus’ advent, most of his co-religionists were chafing under the weight of Roman occupation. Where there existed some superficial autonomy, it was invested in local client rulers: vain men, who gloried in their venality and corruption.

These depressing realities provoked a diverse array of responses, running the gamut from collaborationist to outright – and violent – opposition. Despite the multiplicity of views and attitudes that prevailed, however, an enduring current of hope ran through a great swathe of first-century Judaism. This hope centred upon the promise of the eventual restoration of the Jewish nation, in a decisive unveiling of Yahweh’s reign. It was a longing that God would do for Israel what he had repeatedly vowed through the prophets – namely, that he would cleanse and redeem his people, bringing the long, dark night of exile to an end. OT texts such as Isaiah 40-66, Jeremiah 30-31, Ezekiel 36-37, and even Amos 9:11-15, buoyed the faith of many first-century Jews, fuelling their expectation that God would eventually manifest his saving sovereignty. The late NT scholar, C.H. Dodd, offered an apt summation when he wrote that “behind all the programmes [current within first-century Judaism] there remained the august idea of God himself coming to reign as sovereign, the living God, present and powerful”. The biblical touchstone for such anticipation was, of course, the exodus itself. It was thought to provide the paradigm which all later acts of divine liberation were to recapitulate.

As an associated idea, it was common (though not universal) for first-century Jews to conceive of liberation in terms of a militarized victory over the pagan enemies of God. Such a victory would, it was thought, be won through the agency of a specially anointed individual – the Messiah, in other words. Certain OT texts envisaged a royal, Davidic figure acting decisively as God’s man, defeating the nation’s oppressors on its behalf. Indeed, texts such as 2 Sam 7:14, Psalm 2, or Ezekiel 37, were cited to help sustain the hope that a Davidic descendant would reveal himself in messianic glory to rescue God’s people from those who’d tyrannized them. By the early decades of the first century, this belief was being refracted through the experiences of the Jewish nation, subject as it was to Roman dominion. Consequently, the violent overthrow of the nation’s pagan rulers was, in many quarters, anticipated – and, in the case of a few, actively sought.

This eschatological expectation was at a fever pitch when Jesus appeared, and forms the necessary background to his ministry. At this point, it’s worth concentrating on two, basic features of Jesus’ mission. These features tapped into a common yearning for Israel’s deliverance, even as Jesus radically re-configured such expectations. On the one hand, Jesus headed a kingdom of God movement. Such a declaration, at least in outline, was not unusual: he was preaching the coming of God’s sovereign rule, the converse of which was liberation for his people (Matt 4:17; Mark 1:14-15). This, as we have seen, was common coin in first-century Judaism, forming the eschatological bedrock of Jewish hopes for the future. One key difference, however, was that Jesus claimed the kingdom was in some sense already present in his own person and ministry; the end of exile was now apparent in and through his work. For the authors of the Gospels, Jesus not only pointed to the work of Israel’s king: he somehow embodied Yahweh’s royal glory. Through his healings and miracles, for instance, Jesus enacted the liberating power of God’s sovereign rule. The deliverance of a crippled woman on the Sabbath (Luke 13:10-17) was a microcosmic fulfilment of the hope of restoration for which so many Jews ached. Jesus acted as if God’s rule was actually becoming a reality in him; that the return of Israel’s king was at last occurring, presaging the inauguration of his saving reign.

On the other hand, Jesus led what might be called a renewal movement, inviting people to pledge allegiance to the kingdom programme he was announcing. Of course, the kingdom Jesus preached was quite unlike that of conventional expectation. Although he claimed a certain royal mantle, he did not envisage himself as the leader of a violent uprising or rebellion. Nor did he interpret his mission as one of anti-imperial revolution – though it was revolutionary nonetheless. Jesus was calling God’s people to renewal and moral-spiritual reformation, much as the prophets envisaged (e.g., Jer 31:33-34; Mal 4:5-6; cf. Luke 1:16-17). He was summoning his co-religionists to be a different kind of Israel, enjoining them to practice a fresh – and indeed, more faithful – way of living out the divine mandate. Not the Israel of violent, anti-pagan revolt, nor the Israel of arrogant religious nationalism, nor even the quiescent Israel of collaborationist design – but the true Israel of OT prophetic vision. It was the call to be a people marked by righteousness and peace, fulfilling its raison d’etre to act as the channel through which God’s redemptive purposes would embrace the entire world. All told, it was the call to be a people properly prepared for the Lord’s decisive coming (cf. Luke 1:16-17).

Jesus condemned as idolatrous prevailing approaches that other Jews took, even going so far as to warn of God’s imminent wrath if the nation did not abandon its present, sinful path (e.g., Luke 19:41-44). Both he and John the Baptist before him emphatically rejected the notion that Jews could look forward to vindication and redemption, simply by virtue of their ethnic heritage. Again, the words of C.H. Dodd are appropriate: according to Jesus, “hereditary membership of the chosen people is no passport to membership of the true people of God”. What his ministry pointed to was the need for a fresh work of divinely-wrought restoration; a new beginning for the people of God, necessitating his creative action. In tandem with his pronouncements of judgment upon God’s people, Jesus called them to repentance. He was not only promising the end of exile; as part of that redemptive package, he was also commanding the comprehensive reformation of the community itself. The Gospels show Jesus building a new people, a new family of God – one that did not revolve around the symbols of Temple, ethnicity, intensified Torah-observance, or land, but around himself. In language reminiscent of John 20, Jesus at one point declares that those who do God’s will are part of the new, re-defined family he is creating (e.g., Mark 3:31-35). Jesus’ mission entailed nothing less than the reconstitution of “Israel”, in fulfilment of ancient prophecy, with him at its heart.

Approaching the Resurrection: The Re-constitution of God’s People

Having provided some context, we’re now in a position to draw some more explicit links between the resurrection of Jesus and the establishment of a new people of God. Every feature of Jesus’ ministry we have touched on – his announcement of the kingdom’s arrival, his call for renewal, his creation of an alternative community, and his promise of the restoration of Israel – found its appropriate climax in the events of Easter. In particular, the resurrection, being the divine seal of vindication upon Jesus’ claims, guaranteed the ultimate success of his mission. Along with his crucifixion, the raising of Jesus was both the capstone to his ministry and the first step in the establishment of God’s renewed people. But behind the proximate culmination of his vocational aims lay the fulfilment of Israel’s enduring hope (found repeatedly in the prophets) for liberation and restoration.

Quite simply, Jesus’ resurrection meant restoration: the re-formation, by an act of divine sovereignty, of a covenant community dedicated to God’s purposes. Jesus’ efforts to call into being a new people of God required his resurrection, for the very reason that such a reality could only be secured by a fresh and epochal act of divine re-creation. It marked out God’s salvific reign through the victory of his anointed agent, whose triumph saw the emergence of this new community, delivered from the judgment that had been pronounced upon the nation. Dodd wrote that the raising of Jesus saw not only the irrevocable transformation of that first band of followers, but also “the rising of Israel from the dead.” The coming wrath, about which Jesus had preached, finally fell on his shoulders. His resurrection, however, signalled vindication – not only for himself, as the one who had ostensibly died an accursed death, but also for those who aligned themselves with his kingdom programme. Surprisingly, he was revealed to be Israel’s Messiah, who acted to usher in the divine kingdom.  It was the divine imprimatur upon a ministry which had been viewed as a betrayal of Israel’s ancestral traditions by many of Jesus’ contemporaries.  Equally surprising was the fact that with the resurrection, the long, dark night of exile had ceased. The “death” of God’s people had now been reversed, their sins expunged. This was the true deliverance awaiting them, running far deeper than any merely political liberation: the creation of a new Israel; a holy remnant, emerging out of the ruins of the old, freed from the enervating blight of corruption, and restored to its place as an object of divine affection.

Of course, equating death with exile, and restoration with resurrection, was no innovation, even if the application was unprecedented; though fleeting, there are hints in the OT that Israel’s return and reconstitution was seen as a kind of new birth, a fresh creation. Ezekiel’s vision of the valley of dry bones (Ezek 37:1-14) is particularly germane. As many commentators have correctly noted, it is set amidst a series of prophetic oracles which promise the return of God’s people to their land, and his determination to care for – and tend to – his “flock”. Having suffered the consequences of Yahweh’s judicial wrath – wrath which manifested itself as eviction from the promised land – Israel, according to Ezekiel, could now look forward to a divinely-authored act of re-gathering. Ezekiel 37:1-14 fits snugly within this broader context, providing a vivid metaphor for what God was going to do. The story itself is well-known: Ezekiel is brought to a valley by God’s Spirit, and is commanded to prophesy life into scattered bones. Having witnessed the sheathing of these bones in muscle and sinew, the prophet listens as God explains the meaning of this “resurrection”: Israel, which had experienced the “semi-death” of exile, was going to experience restoration as her king led her back to the land of promise. In fact, verses 11-14 make the connection explicit, even going so far as to use the image of the dead being liberated from the grave to describe the process (v.12). What Ezekiel envisaged as the re-animation of lifeless human remains denoted nothing less than the re-constitution of the redeemed community, the re-affirmation of the covenant, the cleansing and ingathering of God’s scattered people, and the end of divine-human estrangement.

The connection between Ezekiel 37 and Jesus’ resurrection, then, ought to be clear. What was treated as metaphor by the exilic prophet became a concrete reality in the raising of one man. The restoration for which many Jews longed – pictured here as the divine inspiration of dry bones – had been achieved, astonishingly, in Jesus’ triumph over death. In seed form, his resurrection concretized the primary referent of Ezekiel’s prophetic vision — inaugurating the end of exile and the re-constitution of God’s holy community. To be sure, the relationship between Jews and the land of promise continued to be marked by ambiguity, even after the events of Easter. I’ll have more to say about that apparent “failure” below. But the shifting of the eons, and the implications for the rising of God’s people, should not be missed. In the mind of a first-century Jew, resurrection from the dead meant restoration of the covenant community’s fortunes – the re-establishment of the divine family, now cleansed of its sin. Returning to John 20:17, we might now have the chance to see an otherwise enigmatic statement in a new light. With the raising of Jesus, his first followers had passed into a fresh phase of salvation history, which saw them bequeathed the fundamentally new status of “sons”. They could now count the God whom Jesus addressed as “Father” in the same manner, for his triumph meant their entry into the new family (i.e., the new covenant community) that he had launched. They were indeed his children, having been drawn into an entirely new relationship on the basis of what Jesus did (cf. John 1:13). Where John uses familial language – referring as he often does to sonship and divine fatherhood – others employ the language of nation, body or community. Nevertheless, though these terms may capture different dimensions, their basic referent remains the same: namely, the “reanimated” people of God, whose restoration was not of the kind that could be won by military prowess, but one which only divine re-creation could secure.

Excursus: Jesus’ Resurrection and The Enigma of Israel’s “Unrequited” Hope

The NT is emphatic that with the raising of Jesus, God’s rule had been unveiled; his saving sovereignty had become manifest; a powerful victory had been won over his enemies; and, of course, the renewal and vindication of his people – commenced with Christ’s pre-resurrection ministry – had been achieved. But how could this be? The kingdom had not arrived in the way most Jews imagined: the Temple remained incomplete, and was eventually destroyed by the Romans in AD70; Israel was still under the thumb of pagan rulers; and liberation – at least physical-political liberation, of the kind that might entail the (violent) overthrow of Israel’s enemies – seemed a forlorn hope. Granting the vision of corporate restoration in Ezekiel 37 was fulfilled in the individual resurrection of what appeared to be a Galilean peasant, how could the raising of a single individual possibly signal the deliverance of a community – particularly when it was clear that the form this deliverance was expected to take had so obviously failed to materialize? How could the resurrection function as the means by which God rescued his people if the conditions of their enslavement apparently persisted?

At this point, we ought to examine further the ways in which the course of Jesus’ life (including his death and, especially, his resurrection) led to the re-configuration of central Jewish beliefs. We go firstly to the question of how the early Christians (including the four evangelists) distinguished between the present age and the age to come. Jews who believed in resurrection were largely convinced that the raising of the righteous would occur at the end of history – that is, at the end of the present, corrupt age – when God would come to rescue those who were his, fully unveil his kingdom, bring about the consummation, and usher in the new age of peace, justice, harmony and renewal. The idea of an individual being raised from the dead in history, however, was unheard of. But the startling sight of the empty tomb, along with the disciples’ encounters with the risen Jesus, signalled precisely that. It represented the beginning of the new epoch within the old. In contradistinction to prevailing eschatological convictions – i.e., that the age to come would dawn only with the passing of the current one – Jesus’ resurrection was a preview of the future, now bursting into the present; its end had already begun, at least in an anticipatory sense. Indeed, and to pre-empt the central topic of a later blog article, it “[was] the beginning of the ontological renewal of creation that will come to completion” when God fully realizes his redemptive aims (J.C. Beker). Within the promise of this wider renewal sat the redemption of the divine commonwealth.

If you read John’s Gospel, you’ll notice that the Fourth Evangelist assiduously foregrounds the idea of the proleptic nature of Jesus’ vocation, to the extent that some have suggested he operates with a thoroughly realized eschatology. Leaving aside the merits of that argument, it’s true the John portrays the ministry of Christ – and indeed, his resurrection – as the overlapping presence of the new age with, and upon, the old. When Martha professes conventional belief in the resurrection of the righteous at the end of time, Jesus declares himself to be the “resurrection and the life” now, in whose very person the in-breaking of God’s saving sovereignty is being actualised. And with that, of course, would come the advance restoration of his people (John 11:24-26). The deep-rooted longing for renewal, for cleansing, and for deliverance, were fulfilled in the prototypical raising of God’s anointed. This wasn’t simply a case of individual re-embodiment (though it certainly was that). Again, if Ezekiel 37 is to be believed, then resurrection denoted the re-invigoration of the covenant community. What happened to Jesus three days after his death marked the beginning, the decisive inauguration, of that redemptive process, one that was to be consummated later. Despite the ongoing reality of Israel’s subjection to pagan rulership, the resurrection secured present justification (and eventual glorification) for those who yielded to him (cf. Rom 4:25): not to the old symbols of Temple or ethnic identity – the function of which had been reduced to the talismanic – but to the One who forged a path through death and out the other side into new life, experiencing both judgment (via the cross) and deliverance (through his resurrection) on behalf of his people.

This brings me, secondly, to Jesus’ representative status. The notion that Jesus was in some sense the “first fruits” (cf. 1 Cor 15:23) of the vindication and restoration of God’s people is deeply related to his portrayal in the Gospels as the Messiah. Messianic fervour was certainly endemic within first-century Palestine, as I have noted. The evangelists, it seems, were quite innovative in their use of this concept, fusing messianic currents with the Isaianic picture of the suffering servant (e.g., Isa 52:12-53:12) in their portrayal of Jesus. He undertook the representative functions of God’s anointed, embodying those who were his. Establishing the divine kingdom in the epochal events of Easter, he acted on behalf of God’s people, as they longed for an end to their suffering. Of course, he also re-configured those hopes, and subverted conventional expectations as to what the liberation and renewal of the covenant community would look like. Still, the Gospel writers are united in their conviction that Jesus’ resurrection was an indissoluble part – nay, the validating climax – of his messianic vocation. The “split-nature” of Christian eschatology is tied to Jesus’ status as a divinely-anointed pioneer (cf. Heb 12:2). Through his death and resurrection, he broke out of the confines of the old age, ushered God’s new world into the present era, and acted as forerunner for those whose allegiance lay with him.

A helpful way of describing the representative dimensions of Jesus’ messianic status, particularly as it pertains to the present topic, is via the term “incorporative Messiahship”. There is some evidence that OT kingship could be seen in just this way (recalling that the Messiah was invariably viewed as a royal, Davidic figure), such that the destiny of the king’s subjects was somehow bound up with his own. In the NT, Paul uses the phrase “in Christ” to denote the fact that those who have yielded themselves to Jesus are somehow “incorporated” into his death and resurrection – thereby experiencing the same vindication that Jesus himself did when God raised him from the dead. Those who have placed their faith in Jesus “participate” in his achievement, such that they can experience the benefits of Easter. He summed up in himself Israel’s story, undergoing both the pain of death (read: exile), and the joy of resurrection (read: restoration). As biblical scholar Crispin Fletcher-Louis has noted, “[Jesus] incorporates the people in such a way that in him, their representative leader, the people find the fulfilment of their own destiny; they get to be the people they were created and called to be”. Or, to quote Wright again, “Jesus had somehow borne Israel’s destiny by himself, was somehow its representative”. Jesus functioned as a corporate figure, the messianic head of a new people who would share in his fate. His resurrection, then, entailed their own; as Michael Bird has written, what was true of Jesus would be true of them.

When we combine these two elements – a staged eschatology, on the one hand, and Jesus’ incorporative Messiahship, on the other – what are we left with? Jesus’ resurrection marked the proleptic invasion of the new age into the old one. Whilst it’s true that Israel’s material situation was left apparently unchanged, the framework of inaugurated eschatology allows us to see in the events of Easter the emergence of God’s final purposes – where every force arrayed against his people would eventually be defeated – in the present. Those events represented an epochal moment in salvation history, where God’s plan took a decisively new turn (appearances notwithstanding). The representative vindication of Jesus through his resurrection provided concrete evidence that God’s people had and would experience the same vindication, in both its present and future dimensions. Because Jesus was raised as a summative figure – encapsulating the fate of God’s people in his own person – members of the redeemed community could, by virtue of their corporate solidarity with him, also enjoy the present “down-payment” of complete, eschatological renewal.

Resurrection and the Composition of God’s Restored People

It remains now to say something about the complexion of God’s restored people, and the manner in which Jesus’ resurrection formed the basis for both its re-definition and (paradoxically, perhaps) its fulfilment.

The raising of Jesus had profound implications for the composition and identity of God’s restored people. In the first century (as we have seen), many Jews took it for granted that Abraham’s descendants – aside from apostates and the incorrigibly wicked – would enter the covenant community when God came to restore it, simply as a consequence of their ethnic and ancestral heritage. They clung to the aforementioned symbols of Temple, ethnicity, etc., as key markers of their distinct – indeed, unique – identity as Abrahamic children, chosen by God. But whilst Jesus’ resurrection meant the re-constitution of God’s people, it would be a mistake to think that this merely entailed a re-affirmation of national Israel.

John 2:12-22 provides a telling example. When confronted by the ruling elite of Jerusalem, who demand to know by what authority he claimed to cleanse the Temple, Jesus enigmatically says that if the great building is destroyed, he “will raise it again in three days” (v.19). The Fourth Evangelist, in an editorial aside, informs us that Jesus was actually referring to his own body – which means that the “raising” of which he spoke likely denoted his own resurrection (v.21). For many Jews in Jesus’ day, the Temple was, “…the sacred precinct…located at the cosmic centre of the universe, at the place where heaven and earth converge and thus from where God’s control over the universe is effected” (Carol Meyers). It was the central symbol in Israel’s national life, representing in stone and wood Yahweh’s decision to dwell specially with his people. The Temple was, in other words, the key identifying marker for the great swathe of first-century Jews – a sign, in other words, of Israel’s unique relationship with the creator God.

And yet here was Jesus prophesying the Temple’s destruction (see John 11:48; cf. Mark 11:12-21; Luke 19:41-44). In his riddling reply to the Jewish elite, he was claiming that the era of the Temple was coming to a (disastrous) end; all that it stood for, all that it symbolised, was now going to be fulfilled in his resurrection body. Its inevitable dissolution was also the prelude to the formation of a new, superior, “house of God”. For John, the raising of Jesus signalled the epochal “transfer” of the functions of the Temple to him. He would be the site of God’s special indwelling presence (cf. John 1:14); he would function as the unique meeting place between God and his people, and the convergence between heaven and earth (cf. John 1:51). No longer would Israel be defined by its relationship to the Jerusalem Temple, for God’s people would now be defined by its relationship to Jesus. This is of a piece with John’s Temple theology, which he has woven into segments of Jesus’ farewell discourse. His references to Father and Son making their home in the believer (14:23), and the mutually indwelling relationships that his followers will enjoy with the Godhead (17:23, 26) suggest that the redeemed community would operate (in a derivative manner) as the new dwelling site of God’s glory – glory that had been supremely revealed in the resurrected Jesus. This corresponds closely to what Paul says in his first letter to the Corinthian church. NT scholar, James Dunn, comments that it is “striking” the way Paul likens the church to God’s house, which is founded upon Jesus himself (1 Cor 3:16-17). No longer a structure composed of stone and wood, the true Temple is formed out of the mass of those men and women who are “in” Christ, having willingly submitted themselves to him.

What does all this mean? What does it entail for the identity of God’s people? As John 2:12-22 suggests, Jesus’ resurrection signified the fundamental transformation of Israel, and as a result, the re-definition of membership within the covenant community. We witness this in seed form in the Gospels (cf. Luke 15:1ff). They are replete with references to Jesus gathering a motely crew of people around himself, many of whom were viewed as “unclean” or “sinful” by the religious establishment. His advent introduced a radically new metric of covenant membership. Devotion to the symbols of the Jewish nation – chief among them the Temple, but also including land and Torah – no longer mattered. What mattered was one’s relationship to Jesus (cf. John 14:6).

This not only meant the creation of an alternative community, composed of the so-called dregs of first-century Jewish society; the same logic of Christo-centric membership demanded the eventual inclusion of those outside historic Israel, in fulfilment of ancient prophecy. With entry into the kingdom now grounded in one’s  fealty to Jesus, the way to divine sonship (or daughtership) was thus open to all, whether or not one’s lineage could be traced back to Israel’s patriarchal ancestors. This is at least part of the meaning of a verse like John 1:13. The Fourth Evangelist doesn’t spell out the full implications of this momentous shift, but as Acts amply demonstrates, the early church came to realize – aided by God’s revelatory activity – that with the resurrection of the Lord, the prophetic promise of liberation for the nations was now coming to pass (see also Matt 28:19). Indeed, as Paul notes in his letter to the Romans, the gospel he preached was for all, Jew and Gentile, who could win for themselves salvation by the same means: faith in the Messiah, Jesus (cf. Rom 3:29-30). Gentiles were to be welcomed into the divine community, but not as converted Jews; they were accorded membership within the reconstituted family of God because of that faith.

Of course, the in-grafting of Gentiles qua Gentiles into the people of God was bound to ignite controversy within first-century Israel, steeped as it was in nationalist fervour. But the NT is adamant. The Gospels contain hints that the inclusion of the Gentiles was all along the intended goal of Jesus’ ministry – in fulfilment of the prophetic vision (e.g., Luke 4:25-27). However, I think we can go further than this in drawing out the link between resurrection and the re-configuration of God’s people. Take Paul, for instance, who seems to touch upon these themes in Romans 4. For him, the death and resurrection of Jesus meant (among other things) the death of “fleshly” Israel and the raising of a newly-created community of justified individuals, centred upon the Messiah (Wright). Such individuals were no longer united through blood, location or ethnic identity, but again, through common faith in the resurrected Lord. Paul’s exposition in this chapter positions Abraham as the father of all who believe in the God who “gives life to the dead” (Rom 4:17). Of course, this characteristic act of divine power found its highest – nay, its paradigmatic – expression in the raising of Jesus, and it is something to which Paul refers at the end of that chapter as he draws a causal connection between the Messiah’s triumph and the justification of those who are his (v.25).

What Romans 4:25 also implies, when seen in its wider salvation-historical context, is that entry into God’s community no longer rests on identification with physical Israel (with all its key identity markers), but upon the vindicated Christ. On this view, those tokens of Jewish covenantalism – upon which many a first-century Jew relied (cf. Luke 3:8) – are irrelevant. A person’s justification and the restoration of Israel as a community of Jew-plus-Gentile are indelibly linked: the righteous standing of the believer is secured by faith in the resurrected Jesus, whose own acquittal forms the pattern for his followers. The saving significance of the raising of the Messiah, therefore, operates on both the individual and the corporate plane. What I have already said about the incorporative nature of Jesus’ messianic vocation is relevant here. Those who have been justified because of that faith participate in his representative triumph. As Paul seems to imply in Romans 4, it is not Israel according to the flesh (i.e., national Israel) that will be saved; since Jesus summed up the fate of God’s people in himself, what is of ultimate concern is trust in him and participation in his body. Dodd’s earlier reference to the “rising of Israel” find clear application in the creation of a new holy “nation”, membership of which is grounded entirely in one’s relationship to the Messiah. The “resurrection” of the covenant community thus entails the fulfilment of the prophetic vision – namely, the expansion of the circle of redemption to embrace people from every tribe and nation and culture and tongue. As Dunn notes in his study of Paul’s ecclesiology, the identity of the Christian assembly is no longer restricted by geography, or race (or social status or gender, for that matter), but by common allegiance to the Christ whom God raised from the dead.

Wealth and Poverty in the Letter of James

Introduction

The letter of James is famed for its stirring ethical clarity. This is especially true of its teachings on wealth and poverty, which constitute one of the leading concerns of James’ missive. In this essay, I will argue that James provides a coherent ethical view of wealth and poverty for his audience,[1] which undergirds his specific exhortations on the matter. The essay itself will unfold in three (unequal) sections. First, I will exegetically survey the relevant passages in James, parsing his main lines of thought according to three, conceptual categories: the epistle’s notion of eschatological reversal; its prophetic critique of wealth and economic injustice; and its forceful moral entreaties. Second, I will “delve beneath” those initial results and argue that the ethics of the OT and of Jesus have decisively shaped James’ economic teachings. Finally, I shall outline the implications of the aforementioned, particularly in relation to James’ overall theological-ethical agenda. Indeed, it is within this overarching framework that James’ economic counsel must be placed, as he sets out his vision for a people renewed, living in a liminal age.

James’ Teachings

The five main passages on wealth and poverty in James (1:9-11; 1:27; 2:1-7; 2:14-17; 5:1-6) reflect a cohesive programme for how to approach these matters. I have grouped James’ teachings within three inter-related categories, linked by his theocentric outlook: the eschatological reversal of status; prophetic denunciations of the (unrighteous) wealthy; and exhortations towards proper treatment of the destitute. These categories represent different facets of the larger issue of wealth and poverty in James’ epistle, evincing a spirit of social and economic egalitarianism.[2] Moreover, because these threads are woven into James’ controlling narrative, I shall pick them up at the essay’s end.

James’ teachings on wealth and poverty often focus on the eschatological reversal of the fortunes of rich and poor.[3] Indeed, James signals his conviction that present struggles (cf. 1:2-4) – borne out of economic deprivation and/or the exploitation of the poor by the rich[4] – are transitory, subject to God’s ultimate (i.e. eschatological) verdict and purposes.[5] This lies behind his initial exhortations on the matter, in 1:9-11: the Christian in lowly circumstances (“brother”) should exult in his “high position,”[6] whilst the “one who is rich” should focus upon his “low position.”[7] For James, present status and hierarchies will be overturned – reversed – when God’s purposes are fully and finally revealed. Poor believers are to “take pride” in their impending vindication in God’s kingdom, and are encouraged to look beyond their current earthly status (v.9);[8] the rich, on the other hand, are to “boast” in nothing more than the fact that they have been accepted as servants within that same kingdom (v.10-11).[9]

James 1:9-11 effectively argues that God will erase present injustices.[10] Believers should therefore evaluate themselves by spiritual, not material, standards, and orient their lives around God’s final purposes, rather than the present.[11] James underscores the ephemeral nature of riches when he says that the affluent believer may pass away even as he goes about his business (v.11). Life’s impermanence, James implies, should caution against overreliance on material goods for one’s security; thoughts of self-sufficiency, owing to economic security, are anathema (cf. 4:13-16). Significantly, James speaks of one’s future eschatological position as simultaneously present – of a status that is already a reality, even if it awaits final consummation.[12] I will return to the larger issue of this tension at the essay’s end.

Eschatological reversal also surfaces in Jas 2:1-7. There, James castigates his audience for discriminating between people based upon their socio-economic status – an issue that seems to have been very real in the communities to which James wrote, given the space he devotes to the matter.[13] James partly bases his criticisms on the fact that such favouritism is wholly contrary to God’s own special concern for the lowly and downtrodden – demonstrated particularly in the fact that he has “chosen” the poor to inherit his kingdom (v.5).[14] Like 1:9-11, the ethical exhortations in 2:1-7 are partly rooted in God’s eschatological judgments. Because the Creator and Judge has deigned to exalt the poor, any kind of behaviour within the church that mirrors the stratified world around it is sinful. James 2:1-7 also contrasts earthly poverty with spiritual wealth (esp. v.5), implying that worldly status and divine worth do not necessarily coincide. James’ point is clear: not only is it wrong to treat poor brethren so disdainfully, as it is they to whom God directs his mercy; a believer’s present earthly position, whether she be poor or rich, in no way reflects social relationships within God’s kingdom.

James’ denunciations of the wealthy in 5:1-6 reflect similar concerns to 2:6b-7, and demonstrate the relationship between this polemical exposure and James’ belief in the eschatological erasure of status and hierarchy.[15] James 5:1-6 offers a trenchant critique of the rich, tinged with prophetic indignation.[16] His letter speaks not only about the future (though partly realized) upheavals of the present socio-economic order, where misery will befall the unrighteous rich (vv. 1-2, 5); the catalogue of sins listed in 5:1-6 reflects James’ warnings about the present dangers of “unrighteous Mammon”, cohering with passages elsewhere which evince a condemnatory attitude towards materialism and avarice (cf. 4:13-16).[17] Here, wealth’s transience gives way to the testimony of judgment (vv.2-3). Of course, James does not denounce the wealthy qua wealthy. He states precisely why they are liable to judgment: they have acted oppressively and exploited the poor (vv.4-6).[18] But he also criticises them for hoarding their wealth whilst others have suffered penury (v.3b). In any event, James writes convinced that the unrighteous rich will not be able to sin with impunity forever.[19]

As noted, these passages are joined together by an important theological point of orientation for James – the purposes and nature of God. James, for example, can say that the Lord hears the cries of the exploited (5:4c): in a world where they are defenceless, he is their guardian.[20] Rooted in God’s supreme compassion and mercy, Jas 1:27 and 2:14-17 exhort his audience to use wealth and resources righteously – upholding the vulnerable, and supporting those who are materially bereft. For him, the proper stance towards wealth and economic status is imitative of God. James 1:27 explicitly links care for the poor – exemplified via widows and orphans – to unsullied religion acceptable to God.[21] He condemns rapacity (4:2; 5:1ff), whilst commending generosity.[22] James calls the Lord “Father,” subtly suggesting that care for the fatherless recapitulates God’s own paternal largesse (1:27; cf. 1:17). So, too, 2:14-17, where authentic devotion, reflected in the language of “faith,” is expressed via deeds of mercy towards impoverished brethren.[23] Indeed, James’ illustrative choice is telling. One may also cite 2:1-7, which reflects James’ concern about honouring, godly attitudes towards poverty and the poor.

James’ Influences

Whether viewing economics through the lens of eschatology, or urging his audience to use what they have compassionately and justly, James grounds his teachings in God’s character and purposes. However, he did not create this perspective de novo; rather, his economic teachings reflect dependence upon a long and rich tradition, stemming from OT-Jewish thought regarding God’s just and merciful character, and the corresponding obligations placed upon his people.[24] James’ letter builds upon, and grows out of, this consistent biblical theme.

James’ reliance on OT prophetic and wisdom traditions has long been recognized, as has his use of categories of vulnerable people the OT frequently employs (Jas 1:27; cf. Deut 10:18; Ps 68:5).[25] Particularly influential for James’ teachings regarding wealth and poverty, however, is the law. This is clearly seen in 2:1-13, where James condemns partiality in the redeemed communities. He roots his condemnation in an extended application of the law of neighbour love, found in Leviticus 19:18 (cf. Jas 2:8ff), and his teachings reflect a broad dependence on the law’s social concern.[26] An expression of God’s character and will, the law informs James’ economic teachings, especially at this crucial point (cf. 1:27, applying the command to follow the word). Partiality (or selfishness and apathy in the face of poverty) is contrary to the law – and, therefore, contrary to the fundamental image of God as compassionate Father who treats all image-bearers equally.

However, James doesn’t simply allude to OT-Jewish tradition; his letter also echoes the voice of Jesus. For James, God’s attitudes to poverty and wealth – as well as the corresponding obligations of God’s people – are particularized and fulfilled in Jesus (e.g. 2:1).[27] Scholars note the many verbal links between Jesus and James.[28] For our purposes, Jesus’ social and economic teachings are relevant. Contrasts between listening to, and obeying, the word (Jas 1:22/Matt 7:24ff); promises to the poor of a royal inheritance (Jas 2:5/Matt 5:3); denunciation of the wealthy (Jas 5:1-6/Lk 6:24-26); the basic importance of eschatological reversal (Jas 1:9-11/Matt 19:30; 20:16); and, most saliently, the significance of the Levitical law of neighbour love (Jas 2:8/Matt 22:34-40), all suggest Jesus’ overriding influence upon James’ thought. Reference to the “royal law” (Jas 2:8) nuances OT legal codes according to the law of the kingdom (v.5; cf. 1:25), embodied in Jesus.[29] For James, the law – which helps animate his teachings on wealth and poverty – is taken up into the ethics of Jesus, becoming the implanted word that “can save” (1:21).[30] James views the communities to which he writes as the Messianically-renewed people of God (cf. the language of 1:1b),[31] and writes in the light of that reality. Jesus, God’s agent in eschatological restoration, constitutes the defining voice behind James’ economic exhortations and admonitions, shaping them at a deep, structural level.[32]

James’ Controlling Narrative

For James, God’s past revelation and future purposes – effecting justice, denouncing economic oppression and commanding mercy – are drawn together in Jesus’ establishment of a redeemed community, embodying God’s kingly righteousness. This leads us to James’ controlling narrative, tellingly illuminated by 1:18 (with its overtones of new creation):[33] the church is the “first fruits” of God’s redemptive reign.[34] His teachings on wealth and poverty reflect reliance upon this fundamental salvation-historical story.[35] Consequently, James urges his audience to live according to the requirements and implications of the eschatological inauguration of God’s kingdom, anticipating its consummation via a just, compassionate – indeed, counter-cultural – approach to the harsh socio-economic milieu they inhabit.[36]

And so we come full circle, returning to the fruits of our exegetical survey. James’ broader eschatological concerns and context,[37] within which he situates his teachings on wealth and poverty, are clear. Aside from the already-surveyed confluence between eschatology and economics,[38] James’ whole letter brims with eschatological conviction: he consistently invokes divine judgment to motivate right living (2:12; 4:12; 5:7-9), whilst picturing the Christian life as a trajectory moving towards its final goal (1:2-4). Moreover, James’ partly realized (i.e. inaugurated) eschatology suggests that he thinks of his audience as living in a liminal phase – the first of a burgeoning, divinely-ordained future (1:18; cf. 2:5). His audience, having been “birthed” through God’s saving word (v.18), operate as his redemptive vanguard. Through his instructions on wealth and poverty, James implies that the values of the kingdom should be practiced proleptically – offering an “advance model” of what God’s just reign will look like.[39]

Paired with this view is James’ sustained, thematic call to “wholeness,” “completeness” or “perfection.”[40] The audience’s obligation to approach wealth and poverty in the way(s) he urges are part of a complex of behaviours by which believers, both individually and communally,[41] demonstrate their devotion towards God and each other. James seeks to encourage economic behaviour that is oriented towards God’s present injunctions and his future rule. His letter is replete with terms that reflect this constellation of thought,[42] and it carries concern for ethical completeness (and within that, a godly approach to economics) in a number of ways: commendation of “pure religion” (1:27); a “whole” faith, manifested in good deeds; endurance towards one’s spiritual telos or goal (1:2-4); criticism of the “double-minded” (1:7-8); and, in a crucial passage, the excoriation of spiritual “adulterers” and encouragement towards purity (4:1-10). James urges unity within Christian assemblies (cf. 2:1-7), which coheres with the complete devotion and spiritual wholeness to which he enjoins individuals.[43] He repeatedly envisages eschatological “wholeness” as a present requirement; by calling them to live in an “undivided” manner – to which acting righteously in regards to wealth and poverty provides powerful attestation[44] – James instructs his audience to anticipate the ultimate perfection that a just and compassionate God will bring (cf. 2:5).

Conclusion

The foregoing analysis has attempted to provide a summation of the main facets of James’ teachings on wealth and poverty. His letter features several, related concerns that are especially prominent: the eschatological reversal of socio-economic status/hierarchy; the prophetic exposure of economic unrighteousness and oppression; and the corresponding regard for those who are impoverished and/or vulnerable. James evinces basic sympathy towards the victims of present injustices, grounding it in God’s nature and purposes, and the corresponding ethical implications for his people. James relies upon the consistent witness of the OT regarding treatment of the poor, evidenced in his use of the law to condemn practices contrary to God’s fundamental character. That character is, for James, exhibited in Jesus, the decisive voice in the letter’s economic-ethical teachings. These findings suggest that James’ instructions on wealth and poverty are situated within a controlling narrative, one which sees Jesus as the inaugurator of God’s (partly realized) eschatological kingdom. James writes to his audience as the “first fruits” of that inauguration, urging them to embody God’s perfect rule through economic justice and generous stewardship.

Bibliography

Bauckham, Richard. James. New Testament Readings. London: Routledge, 1999.

————————-. “Eschatology.” Pages 333-339 in New Bible Dictionary (Third Edition). Edited by I.H. Marshall, A.R. Millard, J.I. Packer & D.J. Wiseman. Downers Grove: Intervarsity Press, 2011.

Beale, Greg K. “Eschatology”. Pages 330-345 in Dictionary of the Later New Testament and its Developments. Edited by Ralph P Martin and Peter H. Davids. Downers Grove: Intervarsity Press, 1997.

Blomberg, Craig L. From Pentecost to Patmos – Acts to Revelation. Volume Two: New Testament Survey. Nottingham: Apollos, 2006.

Carson, D.A. “James,” Pages 997-1013 in Commentary on the New Testament Use of the Old Testament. Edited by G.K. Beale and D.A. Carson. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2007.

Davids, Peter. Commentary on James. New International Greek Testament Commentary. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1982.

Johnson, Luke T. The Letter of James – A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. 1 vol.; Anchor Bible 37A; Garden City: Doubleday, 1995.

————————. Brother of Jesus, Friend of God – Studies in the Letter of James. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004.

————————. Sharing Possessions – What Faith Demands, Second Edition. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2011.

Lemcio, E.E. “The Unifying Kerygma of the New Testament.” Journal for the Study of the New Testament 33 (1988): 3-17.

McCartney, Dan G. James. Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2009.

Martin, Ralph P. James. Word Biblical Commentary 48. Waco: Word, 1988.

Maynard-Reid, Pedrito U. Poverty and Wealth in James. Maryknoll: Orbis, 1987.

Moo, Douglas. James. Pillar New Testament Commentary. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000.

Ross, Allan P. Holiness to the LORD – A Guide to the Exposition of the Book of Leviticus. Grand Rapids: Baker Books, 2002.

Wachob, Wesley Hiram. The Voice of Jesus in the Social Rhetoric of James (Studies in the New Testament Series 106. Cambridge: CUP, 2000.

Wall, Robert. “James, Letter of.” Pages 545-561 in Dictionary of the Later New Testament and its Developments. Edited by Ralph P. Martin and Peter H. Davids. Downers Grove: Intervarsity Press, 1997.

Williams, Robert Lee. “Piety and Poverty in James.” Wesleyan Theological Journal 22 (Fall, 1987): 37-55.

Winbery, Carlton L. “The Attitude Toward Wealth in the Letter of James.” Theological Educator 34 (Fall, 1986): 26-34.

Witherington III, Ben. The Indelible Image: The Theological and Ethical Thought-World of the New Testament. Volume 1 – The Individual Witnesses. Downers Grove: Inter-varsity Press, 2009.

[1] See Douglas Moo, James (PNTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 22-24; Craig L. Blomberg, From Pentecost to Patmos – Acts to Revelation. New Testament Introduction and Survey, Volume 2 (Nottingham: Apollos, 2006), 390, for similar reconstructions of the identity of James’ audience.

[2] Luke T. Johnson, The Letter of James – A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (1 vol.; AB 37A; Garden City: Doubleday, 1995), 82.

[3] Ralph P. Martin, James (WBC 48; Waco: Word, 1988), 25-26; Dan G. McCartney, James (BECNT; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2009), 70-71.

[4] Moo, James, 65. On the socio-economic conditions of the first century, see Pedrito U. Maynard-Reid, Poverty and Wealth in James (Maryknoll: Orbis, 1987), 12-23.

[5] On eschatology and the later NT (and James esp.), see Greg K. Beale, “Eschatology,” DLNTD, 330-333, 335; Richard Bauckham, “Eschatology,” NBD, 333-334.

[6] Carlton L. Winbery, “The Attitude Toward Wealth in the Letter of James,” TE 34 (Fall, 1986): 28.

[7] Moo, James, 68, argues that the rich person is a Christian; cf. Martin, James, 25-26. I agree with Moo that the term “brother” (v.9) governs both individuals.

[8] Robert Lee Williams, “Piety and Poverty in James,” WTJ 22 (Fall, 1987): 43.

[9] Winbery, “The Attitude,” 29; Moo, James, 66.

[10] Winbery, “The Attitude,” 28.

[11] McCartney, James, 98.

[12] Martin, James, 25, 28; Johnson, The Letter of James, 185; Moo, James, 30.

[13] Moo, James, 98.

[14] Moo, James, 35.

[15] Winbery, “The Attitude,” 31-32.

[16] Moo, James, 211.

[17] McCartney, James, 232.

[18] Moo, James, 210.

[19] Johnson, The Letter of James, 309.

[20] Moo, James, 216.

[21] Martin, James, 52.

[22] Johnson, Sharing Possessions – What Faith Demands, Second Edition (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2011), 92.

[23] Martin, James, 52.

[24] See Moo, James, 35-36 for a discussion of this general theological-ethical trend; cf. Peter Davids, Commentary on James (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1982), 42.

[25] See D.A. Carson, “James” CNTOT, 997-1013. On the influence of wisdom and prophecy, see Johnson, The Letter of James, 32-34.

[26] See Johnson, The Letter of James, 30-32; Johnson, Brother of Jesus, Friend of God – Studies in the Letter of James (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), 127-135; Carson, “James,” 999-1000. On Leviticus 19, see Allen P. Ross, Holiness to the LORD – A Guide to the Exposition of the Book of Leviticus (Grand Rapids: Baker Books, 2002), 351-365.

[27] The consequential relationship between faith in Jesus and rejection of partiality is clear. See Wesley Hiram Wachob, The Voice of Jesus in the Social Rhetoric of James (SNTS 106; Cambridge: CUP, 2000), 77.

[28] See esp. Ben Witherington III, The Indelible Image: The Theological and Ethical Thought-World of the New Testament. Volume 1 – The Individual Witnesses (Downers Grove: Inter-varsity Press, 2009), 298; Wachob, The Social Rhetoric, 138.  

[29] Moo, James, 98, 112; Carson, “James,” 1000.

[30] McCartney, James, 110.

[31] The language suggests that James sees his audience as the renewed “Israel” of God. See Davids, Commentary, 63.

[32] Bauckham, James (NTR; London: Routledge, 1999), 147.

[33] McCartney, James, 111.

[34] Moo, James, 24, 80.

[35] On the unifying story of the NT, see E.E. Lemcio, “The Unifying Kerygma of the New Testament,” JSNT 33 (1988), 6.

[36] On the narrative cast of James’ letter, see Robert Wall, “James, Letter of,” DLNTD, 556-557; Bauckham, James, 100; Winbery, “The Attitude,” 33; Johnson, The Letter, 85-88.

[37] McCartney, James, 70-71.

[38] Cf. Moo, James, 36-37.

[39] Bauckham, James, 173; Moo, James, 24.

[40] See Bauckham, James, 165, 173-179, for an extended treatment; Martin, James, lxxix.

[41] McCartney, James, 71-72.

[42] See esp. Martin, James, lxxix.

[43] McCartney, James, 71-72.

[44] Moo, James, 97-98.

Postcards from the Marriage Wars – Part Three

The last time I examined the issue of same-sex marriage, it was by way of a response to the (predictable) views of a Fairfax journalist. However, it is one thing to hear from commentators on this issue; quite another to listen to those directly embroiled in the matter. Perhaps they have a unique insight that mere pundits lack. Roger Munson, a Uniting Church minister who conducted a wedding ceremony between two men during the ACT’s brief interregnum on SSM, is one such individual. Here he is in his own words, explaining his reasons for supporting such a momentous shift:

“Jesus never said anything against people who are homosexual…Jesus always welcomed people, had compassion and never judged people…These people should be allowed to marry because they want to express their love for each other through a public right as anyone else does.”

Leave aside the fact that Jesus’ personal opinion of homosexual individuals hardly settles the public policy debate regarding the nature of marriage; Mr Munson’s views are nevertheless likely to appeal to those of a more liberal persuasion (by the by, it’s interesting that one Christian can be feted for holding views that the Left has already embraced, whilst another Christian can be howled down and accused of illegitimately trying to inject religion into a public debate if he so much as breathes a conservative sentiment). I have already talked about the possible pitfalls of trying to ground marriage in the subjective and transient (if intense) emotions that exist between two people, so I won’t cover old ground. Suffice it to say, it seems that Mr Munson assumes precisely this: people who wish to marry should be able to “…because they want to express their love for each other.” Note the consequential word, “because”: marriage should in effect be afforded to those who declare their love for each other, based precisely on this quality. According to Mr Munson (if his stated view is any indication), the only thing required for a marriage to be codified is the presence of such feelings. On its face, this view is compelling, generous, open and seductive. It reflects the mores and norms of a permissive, liberal age, and is likely to be celebrated with increasing enthusiasm. There’s just one, small problem: it’s wrong. And it’s wrong on several counts, not least of which is Mr Munson’s analysis and application of Jesus’ alleged views. It is upon this particular dimension of Mr Munson’s argument that I wish to focus.

Now, Mr Munson is absolutely correct that Jesus never said anything explicitly about homosexuality – or at least it’s true that the evangelists never mention Jesus saying anything about it. We simply have no record of Jesus’ utterances on the matter. But that’s the first problem; suggesting that Jesus never said anything about homosexuality as a way of legitimising SSM is an argument from silence. Arguments from silence, I should point out, are notoriously feeble. Because the gospels – the only records we have of Jesus’ putative teachings – are so brief, we simply have no way of knowing whether Jesus did have anything to say about the matter. So basing one’s support for homosexual relationships upon the apparent silence of the founder of Christianity is fraught with difficulty. The most we could say is that if Jesus said anything bearing upon homosexuality specifically, the evangelists – for reasons known only to themselves – decided to omit it from their writings. Moreover, I am sure many people can think of other instances of (purported) moral impropriety – behaviour that might well attract near-universal criticism – about which Jesus was absolutely silent. A few examples come to mind; whilst attracting widespread opprobrium today, they are things on which we have no (expressed) opinion from Jesus. Ought we tale his silence on those matters as synonymous with approval? My point is that arguments from silence trade in ignorance – in this case, ignorance about what Jesus actually thought when it came to the question of homosexual acts.

But Mr Munson’s citation of Jesus’ (apparent) silence regarding homosexuality runs into another difficulty – namely, that it seems to reflect a fairly simplistic view of theological ethics. Let me explain. To ground (at least in part) the legitimacy of an act in Jesus’ silence on a particular matter is to give credence to the idea that ethical truths – in this case, prohibitions – are to be found only in explicit commands. But this is false, both in terms of ethics generally, and biblical ethics specifically. Surely Mr Munson knows that, when it comes to a biblically-informed ethical worldview, narrative substructure and underlying perspective are just as important as any explicit endorsement or proscription. This is germane, for once one introduces Scripture’s underlying narrative or ethical worldview, things take on a decidedly different complexion (as we shall see). Ironically, Mr Munson’s view seems to represent the worst kind of “reverse” proof-texting – the obverse of the sort of superficial ethical reasoning for which fundamentalist Christians are regularly (and often rightly) castigated. But of course, when such thinking is pressed into service to shore up presently accepted norms and mores, people are willing to overlook its demonstrable woolly-headedness.

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These are just preliminary remarks, of course. But they point to intrinsic weaknesses in Mr Munson’s position. Moreover, and contrary to what Mr Munson seems to think, I believe that it’s possible to suggest – at least with some justification – what Jesus might have thought about the vexed question of homosexuality. I cannot argue that this case is “air-tight”, for the argument from silence can be a double-edged sword: that Jesus didn’t say anything about homosexuality means that we cannot be certain – at least from the biblical evidence before us – that he condemned it outright. Still, by examining what Jesus did say about sexuality generally, as well as clear-headed reflection upon the religious-ethical matrix within which he and his primary interlocutors operated, I think we can reasonably suggest that Jesus held to what would now be seen as a “conservative” position on matters sexual.

To begin, Jesus’ comments on sexuality do reveal his views fairly clearly – and, by implication, his views on homosexuality. Take, for example, his debate with a contingent of Pharisees on the question of divorce in Matthew 19. His opponents come to him in order to test his devotion to the Law of Moses (v.3). There are interesting contextual roots to this discussion, pertaining to the differing interpretations of the relevant OT material. Two schools of thought, congregating around the rabbis Hillel and Shammai, debated the meaning and scope of passages such as Deuteronomy 24:1. The former was more liberal in his interpretation of the verse, particularly its references to “displeasing” and “indecent”, whilst the latter adopted a more restricted understanding of legitimate grounds for divorce.

Jesus’ reply to his interlocutors, however, seems to bypass this internecine debate entirely. Indeed, he seems to point to the central meaning of the marriage covenant. Over and against this kind of rabbinic minutia, Jesus holds fast to the underlying ideal of marriage, as outlined in Genesis 1:27 and 2:24, by stating in vv.4-6 that marriage was always meant to be the lifelong, one-flesh union between a man and a woman. If one were to say that Jesus didn’t explicitly rule out other kinds of couplings, it would appear that, implicitly at least, he did. Note verse 4, where Jesus quotes specifically from Gen 1:27 – humanity was created male and female. NT scholar Craig Blomberg, in commenting on this passage, has said that the Genesis text set the paradigm, by which “heterosexual, monogamous marriage” was established “as the most intimate of interpersonal relationships and as the only relationship in which sexual union was appropriate” (emphasis mine). The creational ideal, it would seem, meant the distinction between male and female – or sexual complementarity, if one wants to use contemporary language – as the underlying basis for the one-flesh union. The Genesis texts, which the Matthean Jesus took to be foundational and authoritative, offer us a picture of marriage marked by two, intrinsic features: sexual distinction; and fleshy union (i.e., sexual intercourse). It encompasses these complimentary dimensions as structural elements of its own reality. To say, then, that this is the ideal (as Jesus seems to have done), is to implicitly screen out other sexual combinations and permutations, whether they occur within, or beyond, the constraints of some kind of formalised commitment. This includes SSM; however much Mr Munson might like to believe that Jesus would have no problem with two men or two women marrying each other (assuming that such an event is ontologically possible in the first place), it seems that the data contained in the gospels present a rather different picture.

Mr Munson, and those who have trod this path before, might want to argue that even if Jesus presented marriage in these terms as the divine ideal, his silence on homosexuality specifically might reflect a lack of interest in the subject. But this represents a failure to take into account the context within which Jesus and his opponents operated, and the influence it likely had on the shape and complexion of the debates that took place. Let’s take Jesus first. His reliance upon the OT’s premier text as a way of cutting through the debate over divorce suggests that, whatever else might be said, he saw the Hebrew Scriptures as authoritative. Indeed, Jesus’ reliance upon the Genesis texts to make his case functions as a window through which we may glimpse his embrace of the OT’s normativity – particularly as it pertains, in this case, to sexual relations. Take Matt 5:17-20, for example, where Jesus spoke of his relationship to the Hebrew Scriptures, and the implications his coming had for its authority. Certainly, the advent of Christ meant (to some extent) the radical redefinition of the Torah and its place in the life of the people of God. But his words in this passage do not indicate that it was thereby abolished. Quite the contrary, in fact. Jesus declared the ongoing legitimacy of the “Law and the Prophets”, even as he fulfilled them. And this would have included everything pertaining to sexuality generally, and homosexuality in particular. Far from abolishing the law, or diluting its force, Jesus actually intensified it.

As noted, there are debates over what place the OT plays in the life of the church today, and how it is to be applied. Furthermore, Christological fulfilment meant, in some case, the rescinding of certain laws (think food laws). But it cannot be said that Jesus dismissed the authority of the OT as a result of his ministry, or implied that its ethical strictures – including those related to sexual relations – were thereby null and void. The Sermon on the Mount clearly illustrates the point; there, in talking about matters such as murder and adultery, Jesus deepened the righteous requirements to which disciples were beholden (Matt 5:21-30). He certainly contrasted his teachings with those found in the OT. However, he did not present a new, liberalised application of Torah, but rather something that went beyond the outward acts proscribed by the Hebrew Scriptures. The point is that on the evidence, it seems unlikely that Jesus would have held anything less than an orthodox understanding of the authority and interpretation of the OT. This has important implications for his views on sexuality. Even though the evangelists did not record anything Jesus might have said about homosexuality, his general attitude towards the OT suggests that he would not have endorsed it.

As a good Jew, Jesus would not have been unusual in this understanding; many, if not most, of his co-religionists and ethnic kin believed the same. This brings me to the other side of the historical-contextual coin: the beliefs and attitudes of Jesus’ interlocutors (whether hostile or otherwise) towards sexuality and sexual relationships. Far from being a strange omission, Jesus’ apparent silence on the matter of homosexuality is easily comprehensible – perhaps doubly so, when one takes into account his own (likely) attitudes – in light of the social, religious and cultural matrix within which the bulk of his ministry occurred. The main recipients of his mission, it would seem, were fellow Jews. To be sure, Jesus made occasional forays into Gentile territory, and spoke with non-Jews. Moreover, his ministry seemed to provide the guiding resources – and indeed, the theological legitimacy – for later missionary activity within largely Gentile areas. That said, it seems reasonably clear to me that Jesus directed most of his vocational energy towards his fellow Jews – urging them to be the Israel of God they had been called to be, and to turn with penitence towards their true sovereign. From the perspective of the evangelists, first-century Israel had many problems, but acceptance of homosexual practices was not one of them. Similarly, and despite its pluriform character, first-century Judaism was unanimous in its rejection of same-sex acts. If Jesus’ ministry took place largely within this context, it is hardly surprising that he should not mention anything on this topic. Arguing that Jesus’ silence in this regard is morally significant is like claiming that an archbishop’s silence on the question of papal authority amongst a gathering of priests has any bearing on whether the Pope is the acknowledged and infallible head of the Catholic Church. For first-century Jews, the moral propriety of homosexuality was uncontroversial, precisely because of it near-universal rejection. It was simply a given – part of the assumed “plausibility structures” of the Jewish worldview, in other words. As such, if Jesus was silent on the issue, we do not have to wander terribly far to discover why.

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Mr Munson’s views are neither new nor revolutionary. Rather, they simply reflect the dominant cultural and sexual narrative in today’s West. His Christological invocation, besides being simplistic and naïve, is little more than a veneer, masking a position that has been formed on quite different grounds. The “givenness” of sexual differentiation, as reflected in the biblical narrative (and which seems especially clear at key points) has given way to an individualised conception of marital relations – one that is largely based upon the pattern of desires and attractions of the participating individuals (whoever they may be). To be sure, Mr Munson is free to disagree with a biblical theology of marriage and the underlying significance of sexual difference. But one thing he is not free to do (logically speaking, anyway) is to pretend that a view owing much to late-modern Western constructions of sexuality and individual choice is, in fact, deeply and authentically Christian. Apart from anything else, I have tried to show that any such pretensions founder on the rocks of biblical and theological reality.

Ethics and the Birth of Jesus

It is a truism to suggest that Jesus’ life and teachings are inescapably ethical. Even a cursory glance at, say, the Sermon on the Mount reveals the moral hue of much of what Jesus’ claimed, did and taught. Less obvious is the way in which events that happened to Christ bear the unmistakable traces of ethical significance. It is one thing to argue that the life of Jesus, to the extent that he exercised authorship over its shape and trajectory, was a moral one; quite another to suggest the same of moments in his life over which he (ostensibly) had no control. Still, we must not forget that the New Testament presents Jesus’ earthly sojourn – all of it, from beginning to end – as an epochal event, pristinely reflecting the eternal will and nature of God. Birth was no different. It was something Christ chose; it was not foisted upon him, and nor was he the unwilling subject of divine fiat. No: he decided, in concert with the Father and the Spirit; he acted, in complete accord with the other members of the godhead; he sacrificed, the ground of which was the loving union of the Triune God. It is the very beginning of Christ’s life, when he entered the flow of creation and time, upon which I want to meditate; the moment at which sovereign divinity deigned to inhabit the fetters of mortal humanity. Clothed in the fine garment of infanthood, the Word incarnate demonstrated the full character of the godhead. Moreover, in doing so, he left an ethical model for followers past and present – one which remained consistent, and constant, until the very end of his life.

All this is very well; but even if we agree that Jesus’ birth was the result of God’s decree (whose identity, of course, cannot be separated from Jesus’ own), in what way does it constitute an ethical act? In what way does it function as a pattern to be imitated by Christians? I submit that it does so in three ways, by way of movement hierarchical, metaphysical and social. The first act of movement rests upon Jesus’ voluntary decision to lay aside his innate glory and live amongst his own image-bearers. The second act rests upon the singular, inimitable nature of his birth, by which he bridged the metaphysical [1] chasm between deity and humanity. And the third act rests upon his identification with the poor and disenfranchised. In reality, the various threads are deeply intertwined – the metaphysical “gap” that exists between the Creator and the creation is also a hierarchical one, whilst the social identification of Christ is an extension, or specification, of his entry into the realm of humanity. That said, for the purposes of this essay, I shall parse them out to make clearer my reflections – and, in the second part of this piece, the ethical implications thereof.

Let us begin with the hierarchical or vertical axis of the Son’s great migration. In becoming man, Jesus moved from the unshielded glory of God’s presence, as well as the acknowledged and unfettered glory of his own nature, to the “soft envelope” (to borrow Tozer’s phrase) of finite human existence. Paul’s Letter to the Philippians expresses well this aspect of Christ’s birth. In a few short verses, the Apostle deliberately establishes a contrast between the innate equality Jesus had with God prior to his advent, and the fact of his humble entry into the created world (2:6-7). In speaking of that great event, Paul uses language that conveys deliberation, control and voluntary self-abnegation – qualities that one might argue are necessary (though not sufficient) for any act to be considered ethical. Indeed, he declares that Jesus “made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant; he humbled himself”, and so on (Philippians 2:7-8; italics mine). Paul is emphatic, in declaring that Jesus made himself “nothing” (v.7). We might think that he is simply talking about Jesus entering this world as a powerless, impoverished individual – the son of parents who lived in penury and want. That is true, so far as it goes (I shall return to this theme below). However, what Paul means by “nothing” is humanity itself. Whether rich or poor, powerful or powerless, influential or marginal, humans are comparatively “nothing” when placed next to the infinite glory of God.

In a previous essay, I spoke about the incomparable nature of the Deity, whose awful majesty swallows up the grandiose notions of his subjects. Whereas humans are bound, God is boundless; whereas we are finite, he is infinite; and whereas we are subject to corruption and decay (physical, moral and spiritual), God – being uncreated – is utterly untouched by these forces, governing them with complete freedom. His resplendence is “above the heavens” (Psalm 8:1), which is a way of proclaiming his complete sovereignty over all there is. Time and again, the Psalms wax lyrical about Yahweh’s kingship. It is an apt metaphor that describes the hierarchical distinction between the Creator and his creation. Remarkably, however, he left what was his by nature, “emptying” himself to make possible the redemption of his creatures. Paul’s careful language preserves the paradoxical distinction between the first two persons of the godhead. Christ is at once the One who intrinsically possesses the essence of God and the One who can still relate to the Father, being as he is “with” him (Phil. 2:6). God is simultaneously transcendent and immanent, and it was the latter that was fully expounded in the humble person of Christ, whose self-oblation upon earth quietly began at the moment of his birth.

The NT elsewhere picks up on this theme of the king’s voluntary pauperism. Take Luke’s birth narrative, for example. He deliberately sets his account against the backdrop of national and international history. To set the scene of the announcement of John the Baptist’s birth – he who would herald the arrival of the Messiah – Luke mentions the reign of (the non-Jewish) Herod over Judea (the name given to Judah at that time) (1:5). As context for his account of the birth of Christ, Luke refers to the reign of Augustus Caesar over the Levant (2:1). Quite clearly, he wants his readers to note the jarring contrasts. On the one hand, God’s people were ruled by a petty tyrant, a vassal of Rome who was not even Jewish (cf. Matthew 2:6); on the other, they lived under the domination of a foreign overlord, whose pomp and power were unmatched. But with delicious irony, Luke subtly suggests to us the identity of the true king of Israel, and therefore, the world. Jesus, the One to whom the Baptist was to point (Luke 3:4-6), did not reside in a palace in Judea, or a royal house in Rome. Rather, he came as an infant, shed of all the overt trappings of deity in order to consummate the Father’s redemptive plan. For all their worldly claims to rulership, the men into whose realms Jesus was going to enter were mere parodies of the true king. The point here, however, is that the true king humbled himself deeply, adopting the limitations of his creatures and entrusting himself to their imperfect care. Once more, we see the willing self-abnegation of Christ demonstrated, as he bore the lowly circumstances of those made in his image.

In laying aside his heavenly glory – something which he did not have to grasp, as it belonged to him by eternal right – Jesus also traversed the metaphysical edges of heaven and earth, humanity and divinity. This particular aspect of Christ’s birth closely follows the already-discussed overtones of hierarchical movement, whereupon he added created existence to his pre-existent nature. One might say, then, that it was the crystallization of that impossible union. In his own, writhing body, the infant Jesus personified the union between God and man; between two, apparently irreconcilable natures. Moreover, his birth was the first concrete sign that heaven and earth – the spiritual and the material – were being drawn together in loving harmony by the Creator. His life was a microcosm of that union, and a foretaste of what will be the case universally. The Gospel of John, to which I often turn, marks out the transcendent nature of God’s wisdom. Jesus, the pre-existent Word, was God and was with God “in the beginning” (Jn. 1:1). This language, much like Paul’s ode in the Philippian Letter, preserves the paradoxical nature of the Deity: combining simultaneous affirmations of the Word’s eternal identity with God and his distinctiveness. That is important, for the supervening agent in creation, who proceeds eternally from the depths of the Father, in time became one of us. John declares that “the Word became flesh” (v.14; cf. Rom. 8:3; 1 Tim. 3:16). Here, “flesh” stands for mortal, created existence, in contrast with the utterly uncreated existence of Yahweh (cf. Isaiah 31:3a). How could these two states – these two metaphysical worlds – be bridged? More to the point, how was it possible that in one being, these two natures, so seemingly irreconcilable, could be united harmoniously? How could the eternal One take on the substance of those he created without ceasing to be what he always had been?

These questions are largely imponderable, and the metaphors that abound can only offer a dimly lit path towards the truth. One, for instance, likens the coming of Jesus to a person who adopts dual citizenship. The person is fully a member of two nations, of two political groups, by virtue of legal reality. Going further, one could use the example of someone with multi-ethnic parentage as a metaphor for the manifold identity the Son adopted at birth. Like an individual who is, say, Spanish and Fijian (to select two ethnic groups that are largely unalike), Jesus combined in his own person two natures, two identities – two “streams”, unified in one person. Even this image, however, is limited, for it cannot adequately repeat the utter dissimilarity between humanity and divinity. Unlike a dual citizen, or a bi-racial individual, divinity and humanity do not occupy the same ontological territory; there is no space – save for Jesus himself – where they mingle. It required an act of God to create this new reality, when he “came upon” a virgin by his Spirit, and poured his life into her womb (Luke 1:35).

Lastly, I come to the socially significant nature of Christ’s birth. Whereas the hierarchical and metaphysical facets of this movement lay behind material reality, the social and economic environment into which Jesus was born reflects more visibly the extent of his identification with the created order. Even allowing for the Son’s act of “emptying”, by which he condescended to humanity in the flesh, it was yet still possible for him to be born into, say, a royal family – or at least a family of some influence. Why should he, the radiance of the Father, not have taken his place amongst earthly powers? Of course, the possibility was always present, but in an act of sheer grace, he chose to identify with the lowliest of his image-bearers; to inhabit this world as a person of poverty; to enter the flow of creation and time as an occupant of social and economic weakness. Nowhere is that truth plainer than at the time of his birth. One small example will suffice. We read in Luke 2:24 that Joseph and Mary offered a sacrifice of two doves when they presented the infant Jesus at the Temple. A seemingly innocuous detail, perhaps – but the presentation of doves was a legal stipulation for people who were unable to afford a lamb (see Leviticus 12:8). Quite clearly, then, Jesus’ earthly parents were poor. They could not afford the normal offering, and were compelled to offer a sacrifice out of their poverty. Thus, Jesus went beyond mere identification with humanity in some vague and ill-defined manner. He did not appear in power and glory, taking for himself worldly riches. Indeed, it was precisely the opposite. Through his birth (not to mention his life), Christ identified deeply with the poor, the outcasts and the marginal.

We ought to remember that Jesus’ life was an unfurling of the nascent qualities glimpsed at the Nativity. It certainly does not stand in splendid isolation. However, far from simply marking the beginning of the Word’s incarnation, Jesus’ birth was an intrinsically ethical act. Indeed, it continues to possess moral significance in its own right. I trust that others reading this will be able to discern some of the ethical consequences of this act for those who claim to follow Jesus. In the second part of this piece, I shall sketch out some ideas in an effort to demonstrate the implications for Christians’ lives as they attempt to pattern them on the birth (not to mention the life) of Christ.

[1] By “metaphysical”, I am referring roughly to the substance, essence or nature of things.