The Room Of Pictures

“Son of man, have you seen what the elders of the house of Israel are doing in the dark, each in his room of pictures?” – Ezekiel 8:12

Ezekiel records a disturbing vision of the idolatry of his people in this passage. His vision takes him to the temple of Jerusalem, where he sees sitting at the entrance an “image of jealousy,” an aggregate symbol of all idolatries. Then in the temple are three groups representing idolaters of different lands: the elders in the dark like the Egyptians, the weeping women like the Syrians, and the sun-worshippers like the Eastern religions.

The description of the elders is particularly chilling. Their room is entirely hidden. Ezekiel has to dig into the wall to find the entrance, which leads to a hidden bedchamber. There, engraved into the walls, are “every form of creeping things and loathsome beasts” (8:10). Seventy elders are there, burning incense in worship of these images—strikingly, the same number of elders that Moses leads up to Mt. Sinai in Numbers 11:16. 

On one level, this is a picture of people who’ve decided God has not given them what they want, and turned to the gods of their neighbors. The Egyptians painted their gods on the walls. They were known for religious mystery-rites, to which none were admitted without initiation, and these extended to the Grecians and Romans as well. It is only too easy to be self-seeking in our motivations or functionally worship what others around us are.

But on another level, this is a picture of our hearts, of the secret places in the dark where we nurture idols we think no one else sees. One commentator wrote, “By our memory, and by that marvelous faculty that people call the imagination, and by our desires, we are forever painting the walls of the inmost chambers of our hearts with such pictures.” True worship is what we worship in the dark, in the private chapels where no one goes into but ourselves. What do you think upon, imagine, or desire that you would not want to bring into the light? What is in your room of pictures?

The irony is that one of the elders is named Jaazaniah, which means “the Lord hears.” Jeremiah 17:10 says, “I the Lord search the heart and test the mind.” The image at the front of it all is an image of jealousy—the anger, hurt, and disappointment not just of a bad choice, but of a broken relationship. That is what our sins in the dark mean, to the God who sees everything, even the places in ourselves that no one else does.

Trees

“The righteous flourish like the palm tree and grow like a cedar in Lebanon. They are planted in the house of the Lord; they flourish in the courts of our God. They still bear fruit in old age; they are ever full of sap and green.” – Psalm 92:12-13

Psalm 92 is titled, “A Song for the Sabbath,” and I can think of nothing better to reflect on during a sabbath than trees. Annie Dillard wrote this:

“Concerning trees and leaves… there's a real power here. It is amazing that trees can turn gravel and bitter salts into these soft-lipped lobes, as if I were to bite down on a granite slab and start to swell, bud and flower. Every year a given tree creates absolutely from scratch ninety-nine percent of its living parts. Water lifting up tree trunks can climb one hundred and fifty feet an hour; in full summer a tree can, and does, heave a ton of water every day. A big elm in a single season might make as many as six million leaves, wholly intricate, without budging an inch; I couldn't make one. A tree stands there, accumulating deadwood, mute and rigid as an obelisk, but secretly it seethes, it splits, sucks and stretches; it heaves up tons and hurls them out in a green, fringed fling. No person taps this free power; the dynamo in the tulip tree pumps out even more tulip tree, and it runs on rain and air.”

Amazing. And we walk by these things all the time. In the ancient near east, palms and cedars meant something special: in a dry and arid climate, they were images of strength, longevity, and beauty. Their leaves were green all year round. The palm here is likely the date palm, which bore fruit that was a dietary staple, and represented the presence of life-giving oases of water (Exodus 15:27, Numbers 33:9). The cedars of Lebanon grew to be immensely large and lived for thousands of years, symbolizing royal power and wealth. They were both literally in the house of the Lord: wood from the cedars of Lebanon were imported by Solomon to build the temple (1 Kings 5). Palms were used in the décor of the temple (1 Kings 6:29), were in Ezekiel’s vision of the new temple (Ezekiel 40:16), and were used to welcome Jesus, God tabernacled on earth, to Jerusalem (John 12:13).

We have four giant redwood trees in our back yard. When I get too caught up in the dramas of daily life, I go outside and look at them. I think, these trees will be here long after we and this house are gone. Here they are, quietly but constantly flourishing, spitting out bud and pine, heaving up tons of water. The wicked are like the grass, here today and gone tomorrow, but the righteous are like a tree in God’s presence. We will last past these times and ever bear fruit. These trees live in an entirely different scale of time and matter, and in our sabbath-rest pauses, it’s good to remember that.

From Thirst To Rivers

“On the last day of the feast, the great day, Jesus stood up and cried out, ‘If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, ‘Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.’ Now this he said about the Spirit, whom those who believed in him were to receive, for as yet the Spirit had not been given, because Jesus was not yet glorified.” – John 7:37-39

During the Festival of Booths (Deuteronomy 16:13, Numbers 29:12), there was a ceremony of water-pouring that, though never recorded in the Bible, is well-documented historically: at dawn on the first seven days of the festival, a priest would lead a procession down to the pool of Siloam, where a golden pitcher was filled with water. The procession returned to the temple as the morning sacrifice was being offered, and the water was poured out at the altar as the temple choir began to sing the Great Hallel (Psalms 113-118). The ceremony was not enacted on the eighth day. It is among a crowded throng of thirsty pilgrims, after enactment of God’s past provision and their continued need, that Jesus makes this proclamation, the same one he made to a solitary Gentile woman by a well (4:14).

Jesus gives us the living water of eternal life. But he doesn’t go on to say, “into” our hearts will flow living water. That would be the logical conclusion. The movement is in the opposite direction: “out of” our hearts flow rivers. No one knows for sure what Jesus is quoting here, but one possible reference is Ezekiel 47, where we see water flowing from the temple, first ankle-deep, then knee-deep, then waist-deep, then becoming a river that one cannot pass through. A river deep enough to swim in, that gives life wherever it goes, on whose banks are trees with leaves that do not wither and fruit for healing. We see similar imagery in Revelation 22, where the “river of the water of life, bright as crystal” flows from the throne of God through the city with the tree of life on its banks. 

And so, this is not just water-talk, but temple-talk. Jesus is God tabernacling on earth; the Spirit flows like the river, received after Jesus was “glorified.” “Throughout John’s gospel,” writes N.T. Wright, “there is a build-up towards the ‘glorification,’ the ‘lifting up,’ of Jesus—which turns out to be, with heavy paradox, the crucifixion of Jesus seen as the moment when his glory is fully and finally revealed, when the love of God which was always at work in him shines out most fully.” We are filled with the Spirit not for our own sake, but for the sake of spreading God’s glory and life into the wider world. This is a feast not only of celebration, but of vocation. After all, that was the ceremony: the filling in, the pouring out. We drink not to become lakes, but rivers, until “the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord as the waters cover the sea” (Habakkuk 2:14).

Balaam And His Donkey

“Then the Lord opened the mouth of the donkey, and she said to Balaam, ‘What have I done to you, that you have struck me these three times? And Balaam said to the donkey, ‘Because you have made a fool of me. I wish I had a sword in my hand, for then I would kill you.’” – Numbers 22:28-29

Other than the snake in the Garden of Eden, this is the only time in the Bible when an animal speaks in a human language. It seems almost humorously out of place, like something you’d read about in Narnia, not Numbers. Yet, curiously, here it is. There is an almost intentionally comical contrast between this utterly ordinary animal, who nevertheless saw spiritual reality in the situation, and the internationally-renowned and sought-after diviner, who nevertheless was blind to what was going on.

The Hebrew word used here for a domesticated female donkey, aton, literally means “be patient” (apparently they weren’t known for their speed), and ironically, we find that is exactly what Balaam is not doing. He is on the wrong path, but when God blocks his way, he responds with a version of road rage. He is absolutely closed to the idea that God may be in this, and in fact becomes so angry he doesn’t even marvel when his donkey speaks! He responds instead with self-centered rage (I can’t help contrasting Shasta’s reaction to hearing Bree talk in The Horse And His Boy: “Shasta stared into its great eyes and his own grew almost as big, with astonishment. ‘How ever did you learn to talk?’ he asked”).

I actually feel a bit convicted about road rage, reading this. It’s easy to get upset at other drivers because we’re not accountable face-to-face for our actions, just like Balaam thought he was alone with only servants and animals. It’s easy to dehumanize the other driver. For some reason, we tend to become disproportionately rule- and/or goal-oriented when driving, rather than willing to give grace or be open to any part our own fault has played. We can end up acting irrationally and dangerously in our anger.

Whether on the road or in life, when things perturb our plans, when we’re blocked from going where we want to be, as fast as we want to get there, how open are we to what God is trying to show us? Does our impatience or anger prevent us from seeing a lesson to learn, a word to receive, or feedback to consider? Are we not open to spiritual truths because we judge too harshly the messenger? As Keller writes, “Even a laughable messenger might be delivering a true message.” Even an unskilled preacher may speak a life-changing truth, like in Surgeon’s conversion story. Even someone you don’t respect or expect may reveal an aspect of your character or personality worth attending to. If what we care about, what we look for, is God and what He may be saying, we listen with much more openness and humility.

In the end, the biggest difference perhaps between Balaam and his donkey was his pride and her humility. His pride gave rise to violent anger; her humility moved her to mercy. The angel was the one with the sword in his hand after all, not Balaam, and seeing this, the donkey acts to save his life, three times. She is struck, so that he is not. So many years later, Jesus rides into the city on a donkey, to do the same for us, so we too can have the chance to confess and turn back, so that we too can love mercy and walk humbly with our God.

The Bronze Serpent

“And the Lord said to Moses, ‘Make a fiery serpent and set it on a pole, and everyone who is bitten, when he sees it, shall live.’ So Moses made a bronze serpent and set it on a pole. And if a serpent bit anyone, he would look at the bronze serpent and live.” – Numbers 21:8-9

“Turn your eyes upon Jesus 

Look full in His wonderful face 

And the things of earth will grow strangely dim 

In the light of His glory and grace”

- Helen Howarth Lemmel

God had judged the complaints of his people through earth, fire and plague, but here he sends venomous snakes. When the people confess and Moses intercedes, though, God doesn’t remove the snakes. He doesn’t automatically heal the bitten. He provides a different way out. They are to look up at a metal snake held aloft on a pole, and be saved. Apparently the Israelites took the bronze snake with them into the promised land and worshiped it as an idol, naming it Nehushtan (literally, ironically, “a thing of brass”) and making offerings to it, until King Hezekiah tears it down (2 Kings 18:4). 

Jesus speaks of this snake to Nicodemus, right before the famous John 3:16: “And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. For God so loved the world…” (John 3:14-16). The bronze snake points to Jesus—a bit strange to think of Jesus being represented by a snake, perhaps, but he did become the curse to save us from the poison of sin (“Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us,” Galatians 3:13). He was raised up on a pole like the snake, only in this case to provide life that is eternal. The snake on a stick has since gone on in Greek and modern lore to represent medicine and healing, in a symbol called the Rod of Aesculapius that most believe had its origins in Numbers.

The thing that impresses me today is that the bitten Israelite had only to look upon the snake. They didn’t have to prepare themselves in any way. They didn’t have to think a lot about it first. They didn’t have to be of a particular tribe or age. They simply had to turn their gazes, up. How are you looking at Jesus? Do you hold some truth about him before you every day? Do you see him in the people and events around you? 

Charles Spurgeon writes about how this passage was part of his conversion experience. On January 6, 1850, when he was about sixteen years old, he got lost in a snowstorm. Instead of the church he meant to attend, he stumbled down a side street and came to a small chapel with only a dozen or so people. The regular minister was snowed in, so another man got up to speak, and did so quite terribly, apparently. Spurgeon writes in his autobiography: 

“He was obliged to stick to his text, for the simple reason that he had little else to say. The text was ‘Look unto me, and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth [Isaiah 45:22].’ He did not even pronounce the words rightly, but that did not matter… The preacher began thus: “My dear friends, this is a very simple text indeed. It says, ‘Look.’ Now lookin’ don’t take a deal of pain. It ain’t liftin’ your foot or your finger; it is just, ‘Look.’ Well, a man needn’t go to college to learn to look. You may be the biggest fool, and yet you can look. A man needn’t be worth a thousand a year to be able to look. Anyone can look; even a child can look. But then the text says, ‘Look unto Me’. . . Many of ye are lookin’ to yourselves, but it’s no use lookin’ there. Ye will never find any comfort in yourselves. Some look to God the Father. No, look to him by-and-by. Jesus Christ says, ‘Look unto Me’… Look unto Me; I am sweatin’ and great drops of blood. Look unto Me; I am hangin’ on the cross. Look unto Me; I am dead and buried. Look unto Me; I rise again. Look unto Me; I ascend to heaven. Look unto Me; I am sittin’ at the Father’s right hand. O poor sinner, look unto Me! Look unto Me!’

“When he had gone to about that length, and managed to spin out ten minutes or so he was at the end of his tether. Then he looked at me under the gallery, and I dare say, with so few present he knew me to be a stranger. Just fixing his eyes on me, as if he knew all my heart he said, ‘Young man, you look very miserable.’ Well, I did, but I had not been accustomed to have remarks made from the pulpit on my personal appearance before. However, it was a good blow, struck right home. He continued, ‘and you always will be miserable — miserable in life, and miserable in death — if you don’t obey my text; but if you obey now, this moment, you will be saved.’

“I saw at once the way of salvation. I know not what else he said — I did not take much notice of it — I was so possessed with that one thought. Like as when the brazen serpent was lifted up, the people only looked and were healed, so it was with me. I had been waiting to do fifty things, but when I heard that word, ‘Look!’ What a charming word it seemed to me! Oh! I looked until I could have almost looked my eyes away. There and then the cloud was gone, the darkness had rolled away, and that moment I saw the sun; and I could have risen that instant, and sung with the most enthusiastic of them, of the precious blood of Christ, and the simple faith which looks alone to him.”

Moses And The Rock

“Because you did not believe in me, to uphold me as holy in the eyes of the people of Israel, therefore you shall not bring this assembly into the land that I have given them.” – Numbers 20:12

I am probably not alone in always having been somewhat bothered by God preventing Moses from entering the promised land. What does Moses do wrong here? He addressed the people instead of addressing the rock. He made himself both judge (“you rebels”) and deliverer (“shall we...”). His phrasing is one of grumbling and complaint. He struck the rock rather than speaking to it, directly disobeying the word of God. He struck the rock twice, even (sign of anger? lack of faith that striking even once would be enough?). Overall, his tone is one of anger and contempt. Don Carson writes, “His response is not only the striking of the rock, it is the answer of a man who under pressure has become bitter and pretentious.”

What God rebukes Moses for is unbelief: “you did not believe in me, to uphold me as holy.” God desired to extend mercy through lack of retribution for the people’s complaints, grace through providing water. The rock itself points to Christ: “For they drank from the spiritual Rock that followed them, and the Rock was Christ” (1 Corinthians 10:4). Carson writes, “It is hard to resist the conclusion that the reason God had insisted the rock be struck in Exodus 17:1–7, and forbids it here, is that he perceives a wonderful opportunity to make a symbol-laden point: the ultimate Rock, from whom life-giving streams flow, is struck once, and no more.” Moses did get water, but did it with a heart of rebellion and unbelief against God’s mercy and grace, pointing away from Christ.

The other time there was judgment for not upholding God’s holiness was when Aaron’s sons offered unauthorized fire in Leviticus 10:3, an act for which they were killed. Commentators have observed that God shows Moses a severe mercy, in sparing his life despite preventing him from entering the promised land. And in the end, he does see it from a mountaintop (Deuteronomy 32:49).

It is hard to be a leader who faces unfair criticism. It is difficult to be a caregiver who absorbs persistent complaint and buffers emotional instability (I think of mothers here and Moses saying he pretty much feels like one in Numbers 11:12). There is always the temptation to lash out in angry outbursts, to view or label others with criticism or contempt, to let our frustration seep out in ways that prevent us from upholding God’s holiness, from believing in the grace he asks us to extend. I am guilty of these things, but I have hope too. Some of my gravest mistakes are God’s severe mercies to me, laying bare the condition of my heart, giving me the capacity for greater compassion towards others. And I have Jesus, the living water. The water did come from the rock, and in the end, God did show himself holy through it. God works despite, or precisely through, my mistakes, and that is at times the most encouraging thing of all.

Intercession

“And he stood between the dead and the living, and the plague was stopped.” – Numbers 16:36

This is an incredible picture if ever there was one: Aaron, clad in the robes of the high priest, holding the censer with holy fire and incense (see Exodus 30), running into defilement and death, through over fourteen thousand corpses, to stand at the live front of the contagion. Standing between the living and the dead. Surely Aaron prefigures Christ: he loves his own people though they rejected and spoke out against him. He leaves a place of safety for uncleanliness and exposure to possible death. Even Moses could not go: only Aaron, the appointed high priest, could act out the very essence of what his office entailed, literally interposing himself between the deserved death of his people and the wrath of a holy God. 

Christ acted as our high priest through his incarnation and atoning death: but he also continues to intercede for us. “Christ Jesus is the one who died—more than that, who was raised—who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for us” (Romans 8:34). “Consequently, he is able to save to the uttermost those who draw near to God through him, since he always lives to make intercession for them” (Hebrews 7:25). He intercedes for us as our advocate (1 John 2), and also through his prayers for us (Luke 22:32, John 17).

“I’ll pray for you” has become over-spoken to the point of meaninglessness—a while ago, I decided never to say those words unless immediately followed by said prayer, lest I forget—but this notion is not a platitude for Jesus. He exists perpetually to make intercession for us. His work for us did not stop at the cross. He prays for us. And not only Jesus, but the Holy Spirit: “Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words” (Romans 8:26). You would think if we didn’t know what to pray for, the Spirit would help by, well, telling us what to pray for—but he intercedes for us instead. He himself speaks for us.

I tend to think, and I’m constantly told, that I can speak for myself most of the time, but the truth is, I am beset by the plague of my pride and my sin. I don’t just need coaching; I need someone to speak for me. And that is what God does. I consider how encouraged I feel when I know or feel or hear someone praying for me, or acting on my behalf. I think, what does it mean to me that Jesus is advocating for me in the heavenly realms, right there before God? That the Spirit himself groans in intercession for me? That all of this happens now? How could I not feel deeply and undeservedly loved? I think of Aaron, who despite being around 100 years old is not walking, but running, into the plague. How could I not desire in Christ-like-ness to intercede for others with the same sense of fervency and love? 

Complaint Versus Lament

“And the people complained in the hearing of the Lord about their misfortunes, and when the Lord heard it, his anger was kindled.” – Numbers 11:1

At last—after the tabernacle and law and census and camp arrangements—the Israelites set off from the mountain on their journey. The first recorded incident, only three days in, is this one. The first implied casualty is not to disease or battle, but to God’s anger. Does His reaction seem like (the use a word popular amongst 10 year-old girls these days) overkill?

Perhaps that points to the fact that we don’t take complaining seriously enough. Complaining strikes me as a sly sin. The Hebrew word is anan, literally “murmur,” and that is how it starts, a murmur in our minds. Like a fire, it is kindled, with under-the-breath grumbles, then louder, around others who join in, until it becomes a normative part of our language without us realizing it. What we are ultimately doing is declaring, directly or indirectly, that God is not sufficiently good, competent, loving or faithful. We are accusing him of doing wrong. We are saying that we know better and what we want is better. It is a subtle but unmistakable assertion of pride.

Warnings against complaining or grumbling litter the New Testament: Jesus said, “do not grumble among yourselves” (John 6:43); Paul wrote, “do all things without grumbling” (Philippians 2:14); James exhorts, “do not grumble against one another” (James 5:9). How do we stop complaining? We try to be aware of the consumeristic, comfort-oriented, self-centric tendencies of our culture. We take inventory of our words and thoughts. We may avoid people who tend to complain. We examine ourselves for attitudes of entitlement or ingratitude. 

We also, I think, learn how to lament. There is a kind of honest groaning, an expression of the frustration and sadness we feel living in a broken world, that is okay, that is encouraged and modeled in the Bible. About one-third of the Psalms are songs of lament. Some of Jesus’ last words on the cross were a lament. God wants us to pour out our troubles to him, as we’ve read (Psalm 42:4); to sing them, to pray them, privately and corporately. Complaining is speaking against God; it is a distorted view of reality (“we remember the fish we ate in Egypt that cost nothing”). Lament is speaking to God; it is an honest view of reality. Complaining is easy, and all too natural at times. Lament takes insight, courage, vulnerability and faith in a compassionate and listening God.

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. 

If You Build It, He Will Come

“So Moses finished the work. Then the cloud covered the tent of meeting, and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle.” – Exodus 40:38

Moses spends one chapter describing the creation of the world, but twelve chapters describing the instructions for and construction of the tabernacle. Clearly this was no small matter. Why? After thousands of years, something incredible was going to happen. God was going to inhabit a dwelling place with his people, something that had not happened since the garden of Eden. And so, after chapters and chapters of details about the tabernacle, we come to this beautiful climax. They built it, and God came.

Commentators have noted that the tabernacle can be symbolic of Eden. The tabernacle had an east-facing entrance guarded by cherubim, as the garden did. It featured onyx and gold, as there was in the land of Havilah in Eden. The lampstand has been compared to the tree of life, fashioned as it was with branches and blossoms. The ark containing the law has been compared to the tree of knowledge, both touched only on pain of death, both sources of wisdom. The tabernacle had carvings of flowers and palm trees, and pomegranates hung from the priest’s robes.

It’s interesting to think about the tabernacle as a mini-Eden, as God saying, what I am about is restoring a paradise lost, so I can be with you wherever you go. There is a bitter pill here: Moses could not enter. Thus the set-up for the book of Leviticus, which is about making a way for sinners to enter a holy habitation. We see in Leviticus 1:1 that God spoke to Moses “from” the tabernacle, while in Numbers 1:1 God spoke to Moses “in” the tabernacle—in the words of the Bible Project video, “the book of Leviticus worked!”

But God ultimately had something more in mind. Look at the first chapter of John’s gospel, which begins with echoes of creation and Eden (“In the beginning…”). Later on in verse 14, John writes nearly an exact copy of the climax at the end of Exodus: “And the Word became flesh and dwelt [skenoo, lit. “tabernacled,” “pitched his tent”] among us, and we have seen his glory.” Jesus is what the tabernacle was pointing to. He was the tabernacle itself, the veil that tore; he was the divine king, the priest, the sacrifice. He provided the way to freedom from Levitical law. 

The few times skenoo occurs again are also in a book John wrote. Look at Revelation 21:2-3: “And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God… And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘Behold, the dwelling place [skene, lit. “tabernacle”] of God is with man. He will dwell [skenoo] with them, and they will be his people.” The tabernacle points to the new Jerusalem, a city with onyx and gold, a river, a tree of life, a lamp which is the Lamb. The glory of God is there, giving light such that we will not need the sun or the moon. Reminiscent of Leviticus, “nothing unclean will ever enter it,” but those who are written in the book of life. Jesus tabernacled, and he will tabernacle again. Paradise will not be lost after all. One day we will live by the very light of God’s glory.

Keeping Our Hearts

“Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life.” - Proverbs 4:23

“Boundaries define us. They define what is me and what is not me. A boundary shows me where I end and someone else begins, leading me to a sense of ownership. Knowing what I am to own and take responsibility for gives me freedom. Taking responsibility for my life opens up many different options. Boundaries help us keep the good in and the bad out. Setting boundaries inevitably involves taking responsibility for your choices. You are the one who makes them. You are the one who must live with their consequences.” – Cloud and Townsend

“For from it flow the springs” is one word in Hebrew: towtsa’ah. Which is mysterious, because the vast majority of the other 23 times it’s used in the old testament, it appears in verses like this:

“And your border shall turn south of the ascent of Akrabbim, and cross to Zin, and its limit shall be south of Kadesh-barnea. Then it shall go on to Hazar-addar, and pass along to Azmon” (Numbers 34:4).

Spot it? Yeah, hardly. There it’s translated “and its limit.” With only three exceptions, towtsa’ah is used exclusively in describing boundary lines, throughout Numbers, Joshua, and 1 Chronicles. It can mean “the place from which anything goes forth”—the other two exceptions are translated “deliverance” (Psalm 68:20) and “exits” (Ezekiel 48:30)—but that’s not how it usually appears.

Which lends a strange kind of sense to two other words in this verse. “Vigilance” is the Hebrew mishmar, which actually means “prison.” “Keep” is the Hebrew natsar, which means “watchman.” This verse is not saying “keep” as in how you “keep” food in your pantry or a pet in your house, but “keep” as in how you “keep” a watchman on the city walls or a guard at the prison door. What’s the difference? You realize the centrality, the high value, of what you guard: your inner self is the place from which everything issues, your speech (Matthew 15:18), behavior (Jeremiah 17:10), outward appearance (1 Peter 3:4), physical health (Proverbs 17:22). If you picture your life as many streams, the imagery here is that they all come from a single source: if your inner life is not healthy, it may affect even a seemingly-unrelated area of your downstream life.

You also realize the fragility or volatility of what you guard: its tendency to be easily influenced, or stray off-center. And so we have to know where the boundary lines fall. Freedom, this verse suggests, the freedom of true life, comes not from lack of boundaries, but drawing the right ones. We must examine our inner lives and know what to let in, what to keep out. This may mean being intentional in the choices we make about media we consume, or relationships we have. It may mean following a rule of life in how we arrange the rhythm of our days, weeks, or months. It may mean pursuing life-giving leisure instead of mindless entertainment. It may mean getting more sleep. Any number of things. Where are your boundaries, and how do you live them out?