Prophecies and Pottery

“And they weighed out as my wages thirty pieces of silver. Then the Lord said to me, ‘Throw it to the potter’—the lordly price at which I was priced by them. So I took the thirty pieces of silver and threw them into the house of the Lord, to the potter.” – Zechariah 11:12-13

The book of Zechariah, set after the Israelites’ return from exile, reads like a “wild ride” full of non-linear narrative and startling imagery (see Read Scripture video). The first eight chapters are a series of nighttime visions set in a chiastic structure; the last six are a series of Messianic visions. In fact, about 54 passages from Zechariah are echoed in about 67 different places in the New Testament, with the majority of those found in Revelation.

One prophecy I had never caught before occurs in this enacted parable in chapter 11. Zechariah becomes a shepherd who is rejected by his peers and paid out by sheep traders who plan to slaughter the flock. It’s a tragic story with a startling detail: Zechariah gets paid thirty pieces of silver to leave, the same amount that Judas got paid to betray Jesus. Lay this passage out next to Matthew 26-27, and other similarities emerge: there is haggling over the price (Zechariah 11:12, Matthew 26:15), an attempt to return the money by casting it into God’s house (Zechariah 11:13, Matthew 27:5), and ultimately the money’s use towards the potter (Zechariah 11:13, Matthew 27:7).

What is all this about the silver and the potter? Thirty pieces of silver was the amount paid if a slave was gored by an ox (Exodus 21:32)—it was what a slave, a damaged piece of goods, was worth. Zechariah speaks of it as a “lordly price” in sarcasm. A potter’s field was an area where clay was extracted, or a dump for broken shards of pottery—either way, it was cheap land. Zechariah experienced through this story what Jesus did: coming as the true shepherd who loves his sheep, only to be rejected and devalued. 

Ironically, Jesus was gored, by the nails and the spear. He died priced as a slave, his life worth only enough to buy a chunk of cheap land. Zechariah breaks his staffs of Favor and Union in this first parable only to take up the “equipment of a foolish shepherd” in the next, a shepherd who destroys and devours the sheep (Zechariah 11:15-17). We all follow some kind of shepherd. The question is which one: the shepherd who brings a favor and union that leads to life, or the one whose end is destruction?

Future Ambiguity

“Do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what a day may bring.” – Proverbs 27:1

This verse has acquired a whole new meaning these days, as we face navigating nearly every event in our future—schools, career, exercise, trips, ministry—with uncertainty. Will this open? If it does, what will it look like? What are my and others’ level of risk tolerance? Will it all change again in a few weeks? 

In a way, this time has brought into clearer focus the spiritual reality that we always have controlled far less of our future than we perhaps think we do. We tend to function with a degree of self-reliance that manifests as either over-confidence about the future, or anxiety over the future, and the Bible warns against both. James 4 says, “Come now, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go… and make a profit’—yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring… you boast in your arrogance.” Matthew 6 says, “Do not be anxious about your life… Look at the birds… your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?” Both tendencies stem from the same problem: making more of ourselves than we ought.

Proverbs says, wisdom is to accept a certain degree of ambiguity about your future. It is to realize how much we tend to be a victim of our circumstances, a victim of our perception of our future circumstances. It is to recognize how much the future controls how we feel in the present, and to be able to let go of some of that. Wisdom is to be honest about what our heart trusts and hopes in.

Fruitfulness vs. Success

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.” – Galatians 5:22

What is the difference between success and fruitfulness? They are not the same thing, at least in the way our world defines success. You get to success by striving, trying, making. You get to fruit by receiving, waiting, and growing. Success by definition usually involves visible and immediate results. Fruit is often hidden from you as it is happening and may not be fully recognized in your lifetime. Success deals in quantifiable currency like money, prestige, and influence. Fruitfulness deals in unmeasurable qualities. With success, the ends often justifies the means, whereas with fruit, the end exists as an indication of the means. Success leads to more and more success, in an ongoing cycle. Fruit exist to deliver the seed and die so that new fruit can grow. 

The Bible doesn’t talk much about success. But it speaks a great deal of fruitfulness: every healthy tree bears good fruit (Matthew 7); Jesus is the vine we abide in to bear fruit (John 15); the wisdom from above is full of good fruits (James 3); blessed is the man who yields his fruit in season (Psalm 1); walk in the fruit of the light (Ephesians 5); receive fruit that leads to sanctification (Romans 6). The story began with fruit taken when it should not have been (Genesis 3) and ends with the twelve kinds of fruit on the tree of life (Revelation 22).

It takes some learning, I think, to value fruitfulness over success in your life. To learn to point your life in the direction of fruitfulness rather than success, and to have the eyes to see the joy and reward that it brings. 

Nouwen puts it this way: “There is a great difference between successfulness and fruitfulness. Success comes from strength, control, and respectability. A successful person has the energy to create something, to keep control over its development, and to make it available in large quantities. Success brings many rewards and often fame. Fruits, however, come from weakness and vulnerability. And fruits are unique. A child is the fruit conceived in vulnerability, community is the fruit born through shared brokenness, and intimacy is the fruit that grows through touching one another’s wounds. Let’s remind one another that what brings us true joy is not successfulness but fruitfulness.” 

Godly Grief

“For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation without regret, whereas worldly grief produces death. For see what earnestness this godly grief has produced in you…” – 2 Corinthians 7:10-11

I never thought deeply about what it means to apologize until I had kids. As every parent knows, it’s only too easy for the words “I’m sorry” to actually mean “I want to get out of a consequence” or “I only regret getting caught” or “fine, whatever.” I remember breaking it down at one point into three parts: I’m sorry for what I did, this is how it hurt you, this is what I will do different (acknowledgement, remorse, restitution). Though it was probably good to talk through, I don’t recall it working very well. 

What do I want from my kids when they apologize? I don’t want them to regret what they did only because it caused them inconvenience or embarrassment. I want them to see their action from the perspective of the person they offended and within the context of their relationship with that person. I want them to care about that other person and their relationship with them so much that they feel saddened by what they did.

I wonder what God thinks of our apologies. I wonder how many of mine revolve around myself: words I say to make myself feel better, to achieve self-liberation from guilt, or simply out of thoughtless habit. I wonder how much of it is primarily motivated by regret over circumstantial consequence or embarrassment to my pride. But true remorse is “godly grief”: sorrow for my sin as it relates to God and in view of my relationship with Him. It is not ultimately about me but about Him, the one I have offended. It produces true repentance, produces earnestness, indignation, fear, longing, zeal, the avenging of wrong. “Repentance,” writes Tim Keller of this passage, “is a deep experience which profoundly affects the mind, will, and emotions.”

And true repentance leads somewhere. Self-centric sorrow traps us in the same place: it causes a kind of self-obsessed regret, a wallowing in our mistakes, a replaying of what might have been or how people think of us, that ultimately paralyzes us. Paul says it produces death. But godly grief is mobilizing. It leads to life and growth because it brings us right to the heart of the gospel. As the old hymn goes, “Could my zeal no respite know / Could my tears for ever flow / All for sin could not atone / Thou must save, and Thou alone.” There is something so sweet, so powerful in the salvation we experience through Jesus that our regret is actually gone. I don’t know about you, but sometimes my regret is so overpowering that it is an act of grace itself to find that I can be freed from it. We find, rather, that we are able to rejoice (6:9) and find comfort (6:13). “Blessed are those who mourn,” Jesus says, “for they shall be comforted” (Matthew 5:4).

The Way of the Request

“Then the king said to me, ‘What are you requesting?’” – Nehemiah 2:4

When Nehemiah hears the news that an attempt to rebuild the wall of Jerusalem had failed (Ezra 4:23), he responds with weeping, fasting and prayer. As a cupbearer, he was the chief financial officer, bore the signet ring, and likely served as the wine taster. He had ready access to the king, yet it was nearly four months before he made his ask. When the king finally noticed his sadness, Nehemiah felt “very much afraid” (2:2), perhaps because the king was known to punish those who were sorrowful in his presence (Esther 4:2). Nevertheless, after hearing the reason for Nehemiah’s sadness, the king puts this question to him: what are you asking for?

When was the last time you asked for something? Not used a question as a veiled command (“can you take out the trash?”) or request for information (“why did you do that?”), but as a genuine request? It’s hard to ask. It’s easier to take and demand, or deny and ignore. True asking requires I give attention to what I truly need or truly want. It requires that I share that vulnerably. It puts the power of granting entirely in the other’s hands. It leaves me only able to receive. To ask is to approach in humility. Dallas Willard writes, “We try to ‘manage’ or control those closest to us by blaming and condemning them and by forcing upon them our ‘wonderful solutions’ for their problems. [God] then shows us a truly effective and gracious way of caring for and helping the people we live… It is the way of the request, of asking.”

Nehemiah makes his asks of the king. But the king was not the first one he asked. Months before this (4:11) and even during it (2:4), he had been asking God. Jesus says, “ask, and it will be given to you” (Matthew 5:7). Asking exposes the nature of our relationship with someone, and Jesus says there is something about our relationship with God the Father that we can only experience when we ask. What are you asking for today?

Time Traveling

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” – Psalm 22:1

I’m a bit of a sucker for a good time-traveling novel. Sometimes, during a walk around the neighborhood, I imagine that I’ve stepped into another time, into some dystopian world where everything is the same and yet strikingly different. Those are the same neighbors, but now we cross into the road to avoid each other; those are the same roads, but now they are bare of cars. There is a blanket of post-apocalyptic stillness upon the world, the silencing of all regular markers of life, and in some ways time has lost its meaning.

Psalm 22 is a time-traveling psalm. Within the text itself, David takes himself from present (verses 1-2), to past (verses 3-5), to present (verses 6-8), back to past (verses 9-10), to present (verses 11-21), then to the future (verses 22-31)—as if it is only be revisiting the past in the context of his present affliction that he can be driven to a glimmer of future hope. It is only by stepping outside of his present moment that he can reconcile himself to it.

But the psalm also reappears hundreds of years later when Jesus speaks its first line on the cross. There is no way David could have known how closely he was describing the passion of Jesus as he wrote these words, and yet they could not have been more eerily accurate if Jesus himself had traveled back in time to write them. Matthew goes to particular trouble to show this in chapter 27 of his gospel: “All those who see me mock me; they make mouths at me; they wag their heads” (Psalm 22:7) parallels “And those who passed by derided him, wagging their heads” (Matthew 27:39); “ ‘He trusts in the Lord; let him deliver him’” (Psalm 22:8) parallels “ ‘He trusts in God; let God deliver him now’” (Matthew 27:43); “they divide my garments among them, and for my clothing they cast lots” (Psalm 22:18) parallels “they divided his garments among them by casting lots” (Matthew 27:35). Jesus’ hands and feet were pierced (Psalm 22:16) and he thirsted (Psalm 22:15, John 19:28). It is not difficult to imagine that Jesus had this entire psalm in mind when he spoke on the cross. 

Spurgeon wrote: “For plaintive expressions uprising from unutterable depths of woe we may say of this Psalm, there is none like it. It is the photograph of our Lord's saddest hours, the record of his dying words, the lachrymatory of his last tears, the memorial of his expiring joys… We should read reverently, putting off our shoes from off our feet, as Moses did at the burning bush, for if there be holy ground anywhere in Scripture, it is in this Psalm.” That is how I find myself wanting to read it, this Good Friday season. Sometimes dystopian experiences provide valuable perspective; new times lend fresh meaning to old words. I have here a picture of the heart of my beloved Jesus as he hung on the cross for me, and it is as real for me now, in my time, as it ever was before.

Naaman

“But Naaman was angry and went away, saying, ‘Behold, I thought that he would surely come out to me and stand and call upon the name of the Lord his God, and wave his hand over the place and cure the leper. Are not Abana and Pharpar, the rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel? Could I not wash in them and be clean?’ So he turned and went away in a rage.” – 2 Kings 5:11-12

When the servant girl tells Naaman that a prophet in Samaria can cure him of his leprosy, he takes her advice, but on his own terms. He goes to Samaria, but he doesn’t go to the prophet. He goes to the king. He goes along VIP channels. As commander of the entire army of Syria, Naaman was a successful man, and thought he could use his success to obtain what he needed. So he tells his king, who writes a letter to the Israelite king, which lands him in that king’s presence.

From there, it was a series of surprises. Not only was Elisha not able to be summoned, Naaman himself had to go to knock on Elisha’s door. Not only did Elisha not give him an elaborate welcome, he didn’t even bother greeting him at the door. Not only did Elisha not examine or treat him personally, he sent a messenger with do-it-yourself instructions. 

The response Naaman makes in his rage is telling: my expectations were not met. This is not how I thought I would be served. I didn’t inconvenience myself for something no better than what I already have. We may roll our eyes at this, but don’t we sometimes approach God with the same kind of entitled consumerism? “I thought that he would surely…” I thought that God would surely give me what I wanted by now. I thought that God would surely have worked in this situation in this way. 

In the end, it is another servant who talks him into trying Elisha’s instructions. Instead of standing while another called on God, Naaman has to go himself, and dip in the river not once, but seven times. Then “his flesh was restored like the flesh of a little child, and he was clean.” If you’ve ever gotten close to a child, you’ve probably marveled at their skin: so smooth and unblemished, without sun spots or wrinkles or scars. Naaman’s skin was restored like that, because he was willing to listen to a servant and humble himself and walk the road to the Jordan. His story reminds me of the wise men in Matthew 2, who also had to course-correct when they stopped following the star and instead went to look for a king in a palace. But Jesus did not come in a royal room. He came in a manger, a little child sent to restore us to life, defying our entitled expectations from the moment he was born. 

Released For A Purpose

“But during the night an angel of the Lord opened the prison doors and brought them out, and said, ‘Go and stand in the temple and speak to the people all the words of this Life.’” – Acts 5:19-20

This is one of the most curious prison-breaks, for sure. The apostles had already been doing a lot of ministry, for which the jealous Sadducees ended up arresting them. They were released that night by an angel, but his words must have been surprising. They weren’t to go and have a well-deserved break. Maybe take a shower, get what sleep they still could, lie low until the opposition died down, avoid getting caught again.

When I think about what God wants me to do, very often I’ve already applied the filter of my own common sense or comfort. What I’m really asking is, what might God be asking me to do within the bounds of what makes logical sense and wouldn’t disrupt my comfort too much? What do I want to do, that I think God would approve of? Not that there isn’t a place for prudence and rest, but passages like these challenge me. The angel released the apostles not to comfort, but to ministry; not to return home, sit and rest, but to go to the most public place there was, stand, and continue to speak. What happened was a miraculous victory not because it involved the end of suffering or avoidance of persecution, but because it publicly demonstrated the sovereignty and power of God within that very suffering and persecution.

When others revile us, persecute us, and utter all kinds of false evil against us, Jesus said, we should “rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you” (Matthew 5:12). As Martyn Lloyd-Jones puts it, “we know who we are, where we are going, and what awaits us when we get there.” And indeed, even after they were found again that same day, brought before the council and beaten, the apostles left “rejoicing” (Acts 5:41). Comfort and logic had nothing to do with it. What they had was purpose and what they experienced was power. And they continued in it every day.

Let Me Hear Joy And Gladness

“So David sent messengers and took her, and she came to him, and he lay with her.” – 2 Samuel 11:4

“Let me hear joy and gladness… Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and uphold me with a willing spirit.” – Psalm 51:8, 12

In this section of 2 Samuel, we see the horrific results of sexual sin in David’s life. And yet, in his prayer of repentance in Psalm 51, he does not mention sex at all. As one person wrote, “Why isn’t he crying out for sexual restraint? Why isn’t he praying for men to hold him accountable? Why isn’t he praying for protected eyes and sex-free thoughts? The reason is that he knows that sexual sin is a symptom, not the disease. People give way to sexual sin because they don’t have the fullness of joy and gladness in Christ. Their spirits are not steadfast and firm and established. They waver. They are enticed, and they give way because God does not have the place in our feelings and thoughts that he should.”

I don’t know how intentional this lack of mention of sex in Psalm 51 is, but it is interesting to read it as a response to sexual sin. Circumstantial accountability and other practical measures may be important, but that is not what David asks for—he asks for a renewed spirit. He asks for restored joy in his salvation. And something about that rings true to me. Pathological guilt is of limited help in combating sexual sin. Sometimes it isn’t even about sex at all, but rather anger, boredom, weariness, insecurity, or some other underlying issue. The battle at heart is a spiritual one, and the solution ultimately must be as well. We learn to fight sexual sin by learning to love God more. We cry out, let me hear your joy and gladness. We learn to hear by marinating ourselves in the Word, by seeing Jesus as so holy and precious to us that we hate anything that keeps us from seeing and following him better. In moments of struggle we cry out for the Holy Spirit to uphold us with a willing spirit.

I was reading Thomas Merton’s writings on solitude when I came across this unexpected passage: “One vitally important aspect of solitude is its intimate dependence on chastity… Nowhere is self-denial more important than in the area of sex, because this is the most difficult of all natural appetites to control and one whose undisciplined gratification completely blinds the human spirit to all interior light… self-control is not only desirable but altogether possible and it is essential for the contemplative life. It demands considerable effort, watchfulness, patience, humility and trust in Divine grace. But the very struggle for chastity teaches us to rely on a spiritual power higher than our own nature, and this is an indispensable preparation for interior prayer. Furthermore, chastity is not possible without ascetic self-sacrifice in many other areas. It demands a certain amount of fasting, it requires a very temperate and well-ordered life, modesty, restraint of curiosity, moderation of one’s aggressivity, and many other virtues. Perfect chastity establishes one in a state of spiritual solitude, peace, tranquility, clarity, gentleness and joy in which one is fully disposed for meditation and contemplative prayer.”

Jesus said, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God” (Matthew 5)—and while this refers to much more than sexual purity, that is certainly included. It’s interesting to consider this in light of Merton’s thoughts. It’s interesting to see how our conduct in this area of our lives bleeds so heavily, for good or ill, into other areas of our lives. If David’s story tells us anything, it is that we all can have these struggles. We all need to pray his prayer.

Prudent In Speech

“Behold, I have seen a son of Jesse the Bethlehemite, who is skillful in playing, a man of valor, a man of war, prudent in speech, and a man of good presence, and the Lord is with him.” – 1 Samuel 16:18

David will go on to become the most frequently mentioned man in the Bible aside from Jesus, but it’s interesting that here, the first time we really hear about him from someone, we learn that he is “prudent” in speech—Hebrew biyn, meaning discerning, eloquent. Perhaps the speaker was providing assurance that David was sufficiently politically correct for a royal court, but regardless, the statement is made. It stands in striking contrast to a story just two chapters earlier, in which Saul makes a rash vow that results not only in the fatigue and sin of his people, but in the near-death of his own son: “Cursed by the man who eats food until it is evening and I am avenged on my enemies” (14:24). Saul speaks in the heat of the hard-pressed day. His words are a curse. He is motivated by self-concern. We do not hear a word from David at all yet: but apparently he speaks with such prudence that he has acquired a reputation for it.

Our language matters: it is highlighted in both the downward trajectory of Saul, and David’s first rise to notice. What does it mean to be prudent in our speech? Prudence implies a kind of sagacity and judgment. To speak with prudence is to speak out of a right view of things. Jesus says in Matthew 5, “Do not take an oath at all, either by heaven, for it is the throne of God, or by the earth, for it is his footstool, or by Jerusalem, for it is the city of the great King. And do not take an oath by your head, for you cannot make one hair white or black.” We understand how to speak when we understand God’s place in this universe, and when we understand ours. We understand how to speak when we understand that our words carry weight: they refer to real things with real spiritual realities. They reflect the ordering of our hearts and minds. They shape the realities of the people and world around us.

Eugene Peterson writes, “Every time we open our mouths, whether in conversation with one another or in prayer to our Lord, Christian truth and community are on the line. And so, high on the agenda of the Christian community in every generation is that we diligently develop a voice that speaks in consonance with the God who speaks, that we speak in such a way that truth is told and community is formed.” Our language matters. May we cultivate through our speech a consonance with the God who is always speaking. May we be known for our prudence.

What We Consume

“I will ponder the way that is blameless. Oh when will you come to me? I will walk with integrity of heart within my house; I will not set before my eyes anything that is worthless.” – Psalm 101:2-3

Being healthy in what we read or watch in our spare time is challenging for many reasons. It’s easy to follow cultural cues and norms. It’s easy not to be accountable for it. It’s easy after a hard day to feel entitled to whatever provides momentary pleasure or escape. Because so much of what we consume is impure, not in a moral sense (though that may be true too), but in the sense of having degrees of good and bad mixed in together, it’s easy to be led along by the good bits and be careless of the bad bits. It’s easy to be blind to how thoroughly we are affected by what we consume, in our fantasies, moods, mindsets. It’s easy to ignore the evolving nature of it all, the fact that our very appetites are changed, our prohibitions numbed, along the way. 

The word for “worthless” here is Hebrew beliya’al, which is a combination of two words. Beliy means “consumption, wearing out.” This is a movement that is not cataclysmic, but erosive, gradual, insidious. Ya’al means “to ascend on high, to rise above” or “to excel, profit, benefit.” 

We see that the focus here is not on sin at all. The focus is on ya’al and what consumes it. This is not a list of rules but a love song: “I will sing of steadfast love… to you, I Lord, I will make music.” The precedence here is not legalism but longing: “oh, when will you come to me?” The psalmist has purposely put his mind to what is blameless; he attends to every step (“I will walk”); he desires transparent integrity in the most private spheres of life (“integrity of heart within my house”). The focus here is not moral code—it’s not where the line of sin is, and getting as close to that line as possible without crossing it—the focus here is longing and love that leads to a desire for integrity and blamelessness, that leads to a vow to avoid anything that would not be of benefit towards that. It is Paul saying, all things are lawful for me, but not all things are helpful. All things are lawful for me, but I will not be dominated by anything. I am meant for the Lord, and He is meant for me (1 Corinthians 6).

This is a particular area of struggle for me: maybe because of cravings for story, or an unusually vivid imagination and memory, I have found that I need to be more careful than most about what I read or watch, and the learning of that was a long and painful process, with some regrets along the way. It wasn’t until I changed that I realized the depth of this truth that what I set before my eyes is everything. It both reveals and transforms who I am, how I think, what I desire. Jesus put it best: “The eye is the lamp of the body. So if the eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of light, but if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!” (Matthew 6:22-23). May I walk with integrity of heart within my house. May I not set before my eyes anything that is worthless.

Give Me Oil In My Lamp

“Then the kingdom of heaven will be like ten virgins who took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom… the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps.” – Matthew 25:1, 4

This passage goes back in our reading a bit, but I thought about it during an Advent retreat this week. This is a story about waiting, waiting in the dark. Those days, the groom and his men would come get the bride and her entourage from her parents’ house, to go with music and dancing to the wedding site. Since the groom often came after dark, the bridesmaids’ job was to provide light for the procession: these could be small handheld oil lamps, or more likely, torches made from oil-soaked rags wrapped around sticks. These torches would have to be refilled with oil and the rags rewrapped every fifteen minutes.

We lit oil lamps at the retreat. Unlike candles, the wick never burns down: it needs to be trimmed to prevent smoking, but it’s the oil that is consumed. Unlike a candle, it has the potential to last forever, but the oil must be refilled; it needs active tending. What separates the wise from the foolish in this story? The ability to anticipate delay. All of them brought oiled lamps; all of them had the same intentions; all of them fell asleep. But only some had prepared for a wait. And when the bridegroom came delayed, at the darkest hour, only some were prepared to tend their lamps. 

Jesus says there is a wise and a foolish way to wait. Waiting well is to wait with diligence, looking forward to something with such expectation and belief that it causes you to live in a different way while you wait. Good waiting is active. It is having the foresight to be prepared for what will matter most when the bridegroom returns. 

In this case, it is coming with not just the oil in the lamp, but oil in the flask. The oil in the lamp is visible, used, obvious. But the oil in the flask is what will sustain us. I’m much better at performing in the moment than at maintaining margin. I tend to give to present needs rather than receive what I myself may need. I tend to be quick to sprint and poor in pacing. But wisdom in the kingdom of God is to tend the oil in the flask. In the Bible, oil is a symbol of blessing, honor, joy, gladness; it is used for anointing of kings and objects in the tabernacle. Jesus himself is the light; we are given the oil of blessing, joy, the very Holy Spirit. But we must be diligent to receive, to receive for ourselves what cannot be borrowed from others. What does receiving mean to you this Advent season? What in your life is evidence that you are not only anticipating, but preparing, for Jesus’ return? What sustains you in your purpose within this dark world?

An Excellent Wife

“An excellent wife is the crown of her husband, but she who brings shame is like rottenness in his bones.” – Proverbs 12:4

Most of us think a good deal about how to excel in parenting, in our careers, in housekeeping, in organizing events, in working out. How often do I think about what it means to be an excellent wife to my husband? My marriage matters the most for anything else I do: as Tim Keller says, “if your marriage is strong, you step out into the world in strength; if your marriage is weak, you step out into the world in weakness.” My parents always say, “the most important give you can give your children is a healthy marriage.” My marriage is also one my greatest callings in life: as Francis Chan writes, “Because I am crazy about Lisa, I want her to have a great life. But more than that, I want her to have a great eternity. I want her to look back at her life without regret. I want her to be confident that the time she spent on earth prepared her for heaven. Most importantly, I want her to hear God say, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master’ (Matt. 25:23).”

I know these things, but sometimes the most important things are also the least urgent, the least vocal ones. My work and ministry ask me for things. My kids ask me for things. Dave does not go around asking me, “have you thought about me today? Have you prayed for me today? How are you preparing me for eternity?”

But Proverbs tells me that what I bring to Dave in my marriage will be evident over time. A crown is by nature external and visible. It proclaims and reflects the glory, identity, and worth of the person wearing it. In contrast, osteomyelitis is initially invisible and can take a long time to develop. But bones are meant to support and move the body; they are the very scaffolding of life, and when they become infected, fever, pain, fatigue, immobility and permanent damage results. 

The word “excellent” here is Hebrew chavil, most often translated “army.” It refers to a person of valor and strength, to forces in battle, which lends perhaps a more military connotation than would be apparent in the English reading. Crowns were often given after battle, as we see with David in 2 Samuel 12:30.

I am going to end up being one of two things for Dave: someone who battles with all my strength for his eternal good, who becomes his very crown, his reward and glory—or someone who saps his energy, cripples him for the fight, is a caries in his life. The contrast is drastic, but consider that there is not a middle option described here. I am living towards one or the other of these ends in some way every day in our marriage. I can think of couples who have been together a long time, where the wife has strengthened her husband, proclaimed his worth, and herself become more beautiful by it. I can also think of couples where the wife has immobilized and drained the life from her husband. Where are we on this spectrum? What does it mean for me to be an excellent wife today?

Growing All The Richer

“One gives freely, yet grows all the richer;

another withholds what he should give, and only suffers want.

Whoever brings blessing will be enriched,

and the one who waters will himself be watered.”

- Proverbs 11:24-25

There’s a scene in the TV show Parenthood where someone is amazed Kristina Braverman can get her son to do homework. Without saying a word, she reaches under the counter and pulls out a huge tub of candy. The other day, we had a family meeting because the boys had been fighting more than usual, and after a prolonged discussion of factors and possible solutions (Esme’s suggestion: pay them all money not to fight), we settled on stickers. If they could go half a day without fighting, all four get a sticker. If someone is a peacemaker at any point, all four get a sticker. It actually worked for the few days we tried it. Man, I’m going to miss the days the kids could be bribed with stickers.

These verses don’t say, “one gives freely, because one mustn’t be selfish.” Or, “whoever brings blessing will be a nice person.” We aren’t supposed to not desire wealth, riches, and return. This runs all through the Sermon on the Mount: “rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven… for if you love those who love you, what reward do you have?... for then you will have no reward… And your Father who sees in secret will reward you…” (Matthew 5-7). We aren’t supposed to not lay up treasures. We aren’t supposed to be above reward.

What we ought to do is see how reward and true wealth work. If I operate only in a material, immediate plane, these verses don’t make any sense—and too often, my first instinct is to hoard what I have. But there’s botanical element weaving through this chapter in Proverbs. The Hebrew for “gives freely” means literally “scattered,” as in seed, which only yields crop if one lets go of it, dies to it. True generosity requires perspective, seeing that we grow rich not through what we hang on to, but what we give up, because it brings us eternal rewards and earthly non-material rewards. Because the act of giving is itself a reward, which, as David preached, transforms us. True generosity requires we have something to give, a deep experience ourselves of the seed of the Word and the living water. May we receive these verses as rebuke, encouragement, promise; may we see how they work true in our lives. 

A Test For Adultery

“And the priest shall bring her near and set her before the Lord.” – Numbers 5:16

It’s helpful to know when reading this passage that trials by ordeal were a familiar judicial practice in the ancient world. The guilt or innocence of the accused would be determined by subjecting them to a painful experience, wherein the proof of innocence was life or lack of harm. Historically this has involved walking over hot coals, holding a red-hot iron, dipping a hand into boiling water or oil, or ingestion of poison. In the Code of Hammurabi, if a citizen accused a woman of adultery, the woman would have to jump into the river: if she died, it was proof of her guilt; if she lived, proof of her innocence.

Consider the contrasts here. Instead of any citizen bringing a charge, it had to be the husband. The odds were not stacked against her; she wasn’t considered guilty by default until proven innocent (in fact, one could argue the bias was towards innocence as drinking dusty water doesn’t tend to cause bodily harm). She is brought before a priest, within the tabernacle, in a controlled environment, with a mediator. The process itself was not physically painful. The judgment was in the hands of God, not her husband or other men, and it was definitive, presumably doing more to restore the marital relationship were she innocent, than a more inconclusive ruling by a human court of law. There are elements of redemption, even of protection for women, that one could tease out here. It’s interesting that God does not do away altogether with the culture in which the Israelites lived—he rather chooses to speak into it in this way.

I’m struck by the ritualistic and detailed nature of this passage: this may be the only place in the Bible where specific words for the priest’s prayer is given. I think about the woman, literally taking holiness into her body—holy water, dust from holy ground—which cannot reside together with sinfulness without physical disintegration. I think about her placing her hands into the barley, literally feeling her husband’s jealousy. All so symbolic and sensory. The verb that stands out is “bring”: bring to remembrance, bring her near, bring the offering. “Bring it to the altar” (Numbers 5:25).

We like to keep unseen sins secret, perhaps sexual sin most of all. “But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart” (Matthew 5:28). It’s difficult to take those words seriously without being convicted on some level. There were separate laws for those caught in the act of adultery (Deuteronomy 22:22, Leviticus 20:10), but God goes to the trouble of addressing adultery that is “hidden from the eyes,” “undetected,” where “there is no witness,” because he cares about sexual purity. Our sexual purity is not a private issue. It affects our relationship with God. It affects others, potentially many others, more than we like to consider. Inward jealousies matter. God asks us to bring these matters before him. 

Feasts Of The Lord: A Primer

“Speak to the people of Israel and say to them, These are the appointed feasts of the Lord that you shall proclaim as holy convocations; they are my appointed feasts.” – Leviticus 23:2

The feasts in Leviticus 23 are a fascinating map of the past and the future. There are 7 feasts (Sabbath, Passover/Unleavened Bread, Firstfruits, Weeks, Trumpets, Atonement, Booths); one of them occurs every 7 days (Sabbath); two of them last for 7 days, beginning on the 15th day or after the completion of 2 cycles of 7 days (Unleavened Bread, Booths). Seven, the number of perfection and wholeness; God’s whole, created plan over time. The word “appointed” is the same Hebrew word translated “seasons” in Genesis 1:14: “And let them be for signs and for seasons, and for days and years.”

Of the six annual feasts, the first three occur in the spring. The first two occur over a span of 8 days. On day 1, the Passover Feast is celebrated. This looks back to the tenth plague, and looks ahead to the crucifixion of Jesus, which occurred on this day (“Christ, our Passover lamb, has been sacrificed,” 1 Corinthians 5:7). On day 2, the Feast of Unleavened Bread occurs and lasts until day 8. This looks back to the hurried exodus from Egypt, and looks ahead to Christ in the tomb. The leaven points to the old self, the sin, that he cleanses us from: “Cleanse out the old leaven that you may be a new lump, as you really are unleavened” (1 Corinthians 5:7). 

On day 3, the Feast of Firstfruits takes place. At that time, the barley crop would be planted and harvested first, then the wheat crop. The Feast of Firstfruits occurred at the time of the barley harvest, marking the beginning of the harvesting season; the Israelites ate no grain until an offering was made of the barley harvest. This looks ahead to Jesus rising from the dead, which he did on the day of Firstfruits. “But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep” (1 Corinthians 15:20).

Fifty days after the Feast of Firstfruits, the Feast of Weeks occurred. The term “weeks” refers to the period of time between the barley harvest and the wheat harvest. It was also called the Pentecost (literally “fiftieth”) or the Feast of Harvests (Exodus 23:16). This celebrated the end of the harvest season, included a wheat sacrifice, and featured 2 loaves baked with yeast. There is some speculation that this was the day the law was given at Mt. Sinai (Exodus 19:1). The Holy Spirit was given to believers on this day (Acts 2:1).

After a summer hiatus, the last three feasts were celebrated in the fall. The Feast of Trumpets is modern-day Rosh Hashanah, and many have speculated that it looks forward to some element of Christ’s return (Matthew 24, Joel 2, 1 Thessalonians 4). The Day of Atonement is modern-day Yom Kippur, which some speculate looks forward to future judgment. The Feast of Booths looked back to wanderings in the wilderness and some speculate that it points to the future reign of believers, the new Jerusalem, or some aspect of the joy that follows judgment.

I imagine how it would feel if all of life stopped, regularly, every week and on the same days every year, so that congregations and families could gather around altars and tables, telling through sacrifices and foods and forts stories of God from the past. In this chapter, God is saying, I want you to stop and tell those stories. I want you to understand how Jesus fulfills all of it, down to the very day. I want you to live in the hope of the feasts and harvests and fulfillments to come in the future, because they will come. They will.

Belief And Unbelief

“Immediately the father of the child cried out [with tears] and said, ‘I believe; help my unbelief!’” – Mark 9:24

In a faint echo of Moses coming down from Mt. Sinai, Jesus descends from the mountain here to find confusion and chaos: the scribes arguing, the disciples trying and failing to cast out a spirit due to lack of prayer. It’s difficult to have a child and not feel the pain of the father in this story, and when he first comes to Jesus, you get the sense he sees Jesus as another in a long line of attempts. His speech reminds me of what any patient walking into a clinic room would say. But in verse 24, there’s a shift of tone, focus, manner. He cries out from the heart. He believes. He doesn’t say, “I believe, help my child!” He sees that the issue is not Jesus’ willingness or ability, or even the situation his child is in: the issue is his own unbelief.

Spurgeon said, “Is it not a very singular thing that as soon as ever he had a little faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, he discovers the great abyss of his unbelief? … Until a man gets faith, he may think he has got it; but when he has real faith in Jesus Christ, then he shudders as he thinks how long he has lived in unbelief, and realizes how much of unbelief is still mixed in with his belief.” It’s true: whenever I read this story, I realize how much my struggles stem from a lack of belief in God’s power. My diligence veers into anxiety because I don’t really believe God has the power to control every detail of every situation. I over-process with myself or others because I don’t actually believe that God has the power to hear and respond to every word of prayer. I complain because I don’t actually believe in the power of God’s sovereignty to work every situation for eternal good and Christlikeness. 

But despite the presence of some measure of unbelief, Jesus heals the child. This is a piercing encouragement to me: that Jesus works in my life despite and into my areas of unbelief. Faith is not a state of psychological certainty or complete lack of functional doubts. It is a confession, a decision to believe and obey despite doubts and fears. It is a willingness to bring ourselves and our situations before him. It is being an attentive witness.

In the end, the father’s quest to find healing for his child led to healing for himself. That’s another thing I love about this story. Lately, as I’ve been reciting the verses in Matthew 7 about the speck of dust and the log, I’ve been thinking about parenting. I’ve been asking myself, how do the issues my children struggle with point to similar areas God needs to work in me? How must I come to Jesus to find my own healing before I can see clearly to help my children? The father’s recounting of his child’s issues ultimately led to his own confession. And that led to watching as his child rose up to new life through the power of the word of Christ. That must have been something to see.

Instructing And Constructing

“You shall make a table of acacia wood. Two cubits shall be its length, a cubit its breadth, and a cubit and a half its height. You shall overlay it with pure gold and make a molding of gold around it.” – Exodus 25:23-24

“He also made the table of acacia wood. Two cubits was its length, a cubit its breadth, and a cubit and a half its height. And he overlaid it with pure gold, and made a molding of gold around it.” – Exodus 37:10-11

The first time I ever did cataract surgery on my own in residency, one of my co-residents pulled me aside beforehand. He had gone through this rotation already, and offered this advice: “Every cataract surgery consists of the same basic steps; just know them and you’ll be fine.” He rattled them off to me, and I repeated them back, then said them again to myself in my head after I was gowned and gloved up, my attending watching me like a hawk through the observer scope. Paracentesis first, blade in, tilt down with exit. Viscoelastic goes into the anterior chamber…

It appears that the last few chapters of Exodus are a near word-by-word replay of earlier chapters in the book. The repetition seems a bit excessive. Moses could have saved a lot of ink by simply saying, “Bezalel did as the Lord commanded”—why doesn’t he? Why all the repetition?

For one, the details are so significant they bear repeating. My surgery mattered for the patient’s vision, and I wanted to pass muster in the eyes of my attending—but the construction of the tabernacle was a matter of life and death, the instructions given by God himself. It had to be gotten right. Most of the Israelites would never see parts of the temple that were accessible only to the priests, and so Moses recounts every detail to show that not one was missed.

The repetition emphasizes the inerrancy of God’s word. “Not an iota, not a dot, will pass from the law until all is accomplished,” Jesus says in Matthew 5:18. Down to the cubit, every word God spoke on the mountain is fulfilled. But the repetition also highlights how God works through his people. In contrast with the instruction-version, the construction-version has Bezalel—master craftsman, surgeon of metal and wood—as the subject of nearly every sentence. Bezalel and others, for every skilled craftsman came together, and many people contributed materially. We are all Bezalel’s, uniquely positioned and gifted to reflect God’s character and expand his place of dwelling, his kingdom, through our work. 

But it wasn’t all up to the people. It was God who called Bezalel, who filled him “with ability and intelligence, with knowledge and all craftsmanship” (Exodus 31:2-3). It was the Spirit of God who filled Bezalel, who moved the hearts of the people (Exodus 35:21). We see that God not only works through, but equips, those he calls. What are you creating, and how does it reflect the character of God and his dwelling with us? How is it being faithful to God’s given word? 

Confession

“I acknowledged my sin to you, and I did not cover up my iniquity; I said, ‘I will confess my transgressions to the Lord,’ and you forgave the iniquity of my sin.” – Psalm 32:5

“I confess my iniquity; I am sorry for my sin.” – Psalm 38:18

I often jump too quickly from confession to repentance. Maybe it’s because I tend to value efficiency and visible outcomes: I want to get to the change, to get the uncomfortable part over with and get to what will be different now. Over time, God slowly leaks out of the process: central instead is my own personal guilt, driving me to admit what I feel bad about, leading to a self-imposed solution to avoid recurring guilt. The source of guilt becomes a consciousness of moral law that is increasingly divorced from the character and glory of God that it reflects.

There is nothing like having children to make you consider thoroughly what it means to say sorry. I think of the many times my kids have paid lip service to confession so they can avoid a consequence, and I think, what do I really desire them to do instead? I want them to look at the person they’ve offended: to see that person’s perspective, to understand that person’s loss. I want them to look at their action in light of that, to respond from that place—rather than “okay, I feel bad because I should, but really I’m still thinking about myself and how to get this over with.”

That takes time, and attention. It moves beyond something we know with our minds to something we experience in our hearts. Sometimes it’s the work of the Holy Spirit in an unexpected moment. Sometimes it happens routinely, during various personal or congregational practices. 

When I think back on the few most powerful times of confession in my life, the primary word that comes to mind is sadness, a sadness akin to a grief so absorbing I couldn’t have just gotten over it if I’d wanted to. Of course, not all moments of confession are like that, but those moments are precious because I was pierced with the reality of my sin before God’s holiness in a way I’m often too self-absorbed or inattentive to see. And often there is something like what Thomas Merton describes: “We discover that as long as we stay still the pain is not so bad and there is even a certain peace, a certain richness, a certain strength, a certain companionship that makes itself present to us when we are beaten down and lie flat with our mouths in the dust, hoping for hope.”

This is the godly sorrow in 2 Corinthians 7:10; this is the mourning that brings comfort (Matthew 5:4). It may not come naturally to us: David had to enjoin himself to do it (“I will confess my transgressions to the Lord,” verse 5). Perhaps that is how he began, but what he found was great blessing (verses 1, 2) from a God who forgives (verses 1, 5). Ultimately, his words point to Jesus, the true “man against whom the Lord counts no iniquity” (verse 2), who “kept silent” (verse 3, also Matthew 27:14 from our reading today) who bore the heavy hand of God’s judgment (verse 4) so that our own sins can be covered (verse 1). Confession leads to true repentance and a change from the heart (verses 8-9), and it leads to joy (verse 11). The blessedness frames it all. Is this your experience of confession? Of forgiveness, and change, and joy? Oh God, make this a reality in our lives as we turn our eyes to you.

The Shape Of The Eucharist

“Now as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and after blessing it broke it and gave it to the disciples, and said, ‘Take, eat; this is my body.’” – Matthew 26:26

Four verbs that occur in this verse—took (lambano), bless (eulogeo), broke (klao), gave (didomi)—appear in the same sequence in the feeding of four thousand and five thousand (Mark 6:41, 14:22-24 and parallels), in the supper at Emmaus in Luke (Luke 24:30-31), and in how Paul describes taking communion (1 Cor 11:23-26; final verb not stated but clearly implied). Dom Gregory Dix is perhaps most known for exploring the implications of this in a piece he wrote in 1941 called “The Shape of the Liturgy”—I haven’t read it, but I like that phrase. These words trace out for us the essential movements of the eucharistic meal.

Take: Jesus takes what we offer, which in these passages is always something material, but represents what is personal as well. He does not find fault with what we bring: He receives us as we are. He does not force or coerce, but he extends an invitation.

Bless: “Eucharist” literally means thanksgiving. Jesus thanks God for what we have offered. Don’t we often neglect to do this? We rush from the taking to the doing. But Jesus pauses to bless, and when we follow him, we are present to what we have before us in a posture of thanksgiving.

Break: Jesus changes what we bring. Eugene Peterson writes, “At the Table we are not permitted to be self-enclosed. We are not permitted to be self-sufficient. The breaking of our pride and self-approval is not a bad thing; it opens us to new life, to saving action. We come crusted over, hardened into ourselves. We soon discover that God is working deep within us, beneath our surface lies and poses, to bring new life.”

Give: communion is a back and forth. Jesus takes what we give; then we receive what he gives. And he always gives back more lavishly than we gave.

The mysterious and beautiful thing about these words are that they apply to Jesus himself. He is both the priest who takes what we offer in sacrifice and blesses it, and the sacrifice itself, who was broken so that we can be given salvation. And we follow him by offering ourselves as living sacrifices, losing our lives so that we can receive and spread true life. All of it is done in the context of community, around the table together, in communion, back and forth, this rhythm of the supper, this shape of the eucharist and of the Christian life itself.