It describes a woman divorced by her first husband and given a “certificate of divorce;” later married to another man; then separated from her second husband with, potentially, another “certificate of divorce;” and finally desired back by the first husband—who is barred from remarrying her (Deut 24:1–4). What in the world is that all about?

As we will see, this law is not about divorce at all! It is an example of an ancient Near Eastern form of law-writing scholars call “wisdom law.”¹ A mini-narrative is crafted to capture a moral principle that may have little to do with the specifics of the illustration itself. It is an approach to law designed not to regulate the courtroom but to shape the people’s moral imagination.

The book of Deuteronomy is a remarkable example of such wisdom laws. Modern readers often mistake Deuteronomy as a reference book for rote application by ancient judges facing specified situations, like modern law books. Instead, we should view Deuteronomy as a series of thought exercises expounding the Ten Commandments through paradigms that form a people in moral wisdom.

The Shape of Deuteronomy

Here is a riddle. It’s a very old one from ancient Sumer. See if you can solve it:

Whoever enters it has closed eyes.
Whoever departs from it has eyes that are wide open.
What is it?

When you are ready, the answer is in this footnote.² Did you solve it? This riddle is actually a statement about education.

The process of schooling may look different today than in the ancient world. But teachers ancient and modern share the same goal: to open their students’ eyes. Instruction is not just about filling heads with information to regurgitate. It is helping students see, think, and solve problems even where answers are not obvious—in short, it is helping students become wise and develop moral imagination.

In the book of Deuteronomy, Moses wanted to train Israel to be wise (Deut 4:1–6) since he was about to leave them. The people would enter the Promised Land, but Moses was about to die. So he poured out his heart in one final series of lessons to equip the people to settle the land without his guiding presence.

The prophet’s class began with a recitation of the Ten Commandments (5:6–21). The people had previously received those commands directly from the voice of God (5:4). After repeating the Decalogue, Moses launched into a series of “statutes and rules” which “the Lord your God commanded me to teach you” (6:1–26:19). These “statutes and rules” were legal thought exercises expounding each of the Ten Commandments, one at a time.

Many scholars have recognized that the statutes in the body of the book are topically organized according to the Ten Commandments.³ This view is still debated and is not universally accepted. There are difficulties with the thesis, but the case is growing stronger as new evidence emerges to support it.⁴

In most sections of the book, the coordination of grouped statutes and the related commandment is clear. For example, the lengthy section beginning with the Great Shema (“Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one”) contains numerous exhortations on exclusive fidelity to Yahweh (6:4–11:32), matching the concerns of the First Commandment (“You shall have no other gods before me”).

Likewise, the concerns of the Sixth Commandment (“You shall not murder”) are present throughout Deuteronomy 19:1–22:8—a section with guidance to distinguish accidental manslaughter from intentional murder (19:1–13), laws on just and unjust killing in warfare (20:1–20), instruction for handling unsolved murders (21:1–9), and so on.

The Ten Commandments are a succinct summary of all moral goodness, and the book of Deuteronomy is a series of practice exercises to unpack the wisdom contained in them. But some of the connections between Deuteronomy’s statutes and the corresponding commandments are not clear—until we learn to read them as wisdom laws.

Moral Imagination and the Nature of Deuteronomy’s Laws

The genius of Moses’ curriculum is in the nature of the laws he gives. These statutes are not narrow rulings for precisely defined circumstances. They are broad and provocative learning paradigms, more like proverbs that cultivate moral imagination than what we now think of as laws. In fact, some of his laws are legal proverbs.

Consider a pair of laws in Deuteronomy 22:9–10: “You shall not sow your vineyard with two kinds of seed, lest the whole yield be forfeited, the crop that you have sown and the yield of the vineyard. You shall not plow with an ox and a donkey together.”

These are wise business practices—and obviously so. Israel did not need laws to regulate these problems, since these are not really problems Hebrew farmers would face. There is no temptation to plant grain in the same field with grapes! Grapes and grain grow differently, mature at different seasons, and require different harvesting methods. To swing a sickle among grain stalks that are intertwined with grape vines would be disastrous for both. Likewise, there is no reason any Hebrew farmer would yoke an ox with a donkey; both animals would be harmed and the field would not be plowed.

As a teacher of wisdom, Moses uses these legal proverbs to begin his section of rules on Seventh Commandment themes: “You shall not commit adultery” (5:18; 22:9–23:14). The teacher is not regulating farming practices here. He is using obvious agricultural follies to shape our thinking about sexual integrity. When fidelity is flouted everyone suffers—as both grain and grapes are lost and both ox and donkey are harmed in these hypotheticals. On the surface, these farming laws do not appear to be about the Seventh Commandment. But they actually are. And they train us to think more broadly than their specific scenarios.

Not all of Moses’ laws are proverbial. Some address real situations. But even these are crafted for broader application than the circumstances stated. For example, we encounter this rule in the section about the Eighth Commandment (“You shall not steal”): “You may charge a foreigner (nākrî) interest, but you may not charge your brother interest” (23:19-20).

Read narrowly, this sounds like ethnic prejudice. But read as a wisdom law, we reflect on the stereotype the scene evokes for broad application. In this case, the contrast is not based on ethnicity: it is not a Hebrew settler and a Gentile settler (a “sojourner,” gēr). The term used (nākrî) suggests, in this context, a foreign trader whose desire for a loan is contrasted to that of a needy neighbor.⁵ From this contrast we learn that interest on a business loan is fair, but imposing interest on loans to the poor—making money off another’s misfortune—is a form of stealing. The implication of the law is much broader and more conceptual than the scenario used to teach it.

How the ‘Divorce Law’ Teaches Economic Honesty

What about that complicated “divorce law” in Deuteronomy 24? Here is that law in full, displayed here to show its if-then construction:

When a man takes a wife and marries her,
IF then she finds no favor in his eyes because he has found some indecency in her, and he writes her a certificate of divorce and puts it in her hand and sends her out of his house, and she departs out of his house, and
IF she goes and becomes another man’s wife, and the latter man hates her and writes her a certificate of divorce and puts it in her hand and sends her out of his house, or if the latter man dies, who took her to be his wife,
THEN her former husband, who sent her away, may not take her again to be his wife, after she has been [declared] defiled, for that is an abomination before the Lord. And you shall not bring sin upon the land that the Lord your God is giving you for an inheritance. (24:1-4)

This law is strangely specific. How often would Israel face this rather remarkable situation? Furthermore, the law tells a story about divorce, but it never offers imperatives about divorce. That is because the law is not really about divorce at all. Divorce is just the story used. This is a law about economic honesty, which is why it appears among Deuteronomy’s reflections on the Eighth Commandment.

In the ancient world, the purpose of a “certificate of divorce” was to document the property that a woman retained after divorce. In the first scenario, the husband divorces the woman because of a fault in her (“he found some indecency in her”). She was the guilty party, so she would have been released empty-handed. In that scenario, the husband profited by divorcing her, keeping her dowry for himself as documented in her certificate.

In the second scenario, the woman was divorced due to the displeasure of the man or was single again on account of his death. Those scenarios share the common result that the woman would retain her dowry and inheritance rights. The second certificate documents the woman’s retained property. Suddenly her original husband has renewed interest. But this law forbids the man from suddenly declaring the woman eligible for marriage whom he before conveniently “[declared] defiled.”

This is not really a law about divorce. It is a law about changing one’s opinion to suit present economic advantage,⁶ like claiming ownership of a piece of real estate when it is valuable, but denying ownership when it becomes a liability. In modern law, we use the term “estoppel” to address such inconsistent claims. Moses’ law uses a very specific (extremely unlikely!) example to teach a much broader lesson. It is a wisdom law designed to stir our imagination about the nature of justice in all kinds of economic dilemmas.

Thought Exercises for Today

Today, there is a growing interest in Old Testament law. Recent scholarly breakthroughs in the understanding of ancient Near Eastern law are fueling renewed attention to the role of biblical law in churches, synagogues, and classrooms. It is exciting to see.

One frontier of these developments is to rediscover the character of Deuteronomy as a wisdom text for all times to shape moral imagination, rather than a law code for ancient judges. Biblical law is more like ancient proverbs and less like modern legislation than we have generally realized.

The Decalogue, in particular, presents a grand vision for human society in ten simple strokes. And Deuteronomy helps us unpack those ten succinct commands through a series of thought exercises to make us wise. It is a wisdom curriculum that remains useful to shape us to love God and love our neighbors well, even today.

Footnotes

Hebraic Hymnody

The Hebraic model of praise functions differently than typical worship practices in the modern West. American churches, for example, often practice a declarative model of praise. They sing songs that declare the goodness and glories of God. These songs are like a spread of desserts that invite singers to relish all that is delightful in God. The psalms also include much declarative praise, but the Hebrew hymnal includes other kinds of songs as well—such as psalms of lament and psalms of cursing. These other kinds of praise are like medicine rather than dessert. They are given to treat the heart that is struggling, to restore the aching soul to praise. The Hebrew psalms meet people where they are—in their griefs, doubts, and sufferings as well as in their joys—to move even the most downcast heart toward praise. Imprecations are one of the least common psalm types in the psalter. Psalms 69, 109, and 137 are among the clearest examples, although there are elements of cursing throughout the psalter. Imprecation was not a frequent staple of Hebrew hymnody. But it was a crucial facet of praise for those suffering under the heel of unchecked power with no recourse in sight.

Judgment and Rest

To understand the importance of imprecation, we must first appreciate the place of judgment in the biblical vision of rest. Noah’s flood offers a striking picture of this double-sided coin of judgment and rest. Genesis introduces Noah with this comment about his name: “Lamech . . . fathered a son and called his name Noah (Heb., noach), saying, ‘ . . . This one shall bring us rest (Heb., nacham) . . .'” (Gen 5:28–29, a.t.). The story of the flood judgment is introduced as a story about rest. In a world where “the evil of humanity was great” and “every intention of the thoughts of the heart was only evil all the time” (Gen 6:5, a.t.), rest was not possible until evil was judged. Granted, the most important way to remove evil from the world is through the repentance of evildoers. Biblical faith champions the grace of God and the promise of peace through atonement. Since many refuse to repent, however, God’s promise of peace is ultimately backed by his judgment. Psalms of imprecation invite God’s people to grab onto the assurance of judgment by giving them the very verdicts of heaven to recite. The verdicts of God may not be administered yet, but allowing the sufferer to hear and invoke heaven’s verdicts now, amid their anguish, with confidence that these are God’s curses and not their own, frees even the distraught heart to praise.

Psalm 109

Consider one of the boldest psalms of imprecation, Psalm 109. It opens with the following words of suffering:

Be not silent, O God of my praise! For wicked and deceitful mouths are opened against me, speaking against me with lying tongues. They encircle me with words of hate, and attack me without cause . . . (ESV)

Those lines give words to one who is engulfed by injustice. Later lines in the psalm will narrow focus upon one specific oppressor. But the language of many mouths and encirclement in the psalm’s opening capture the overwhelming power of that oppression. The sufferer is helpless before waves of hatred from all sides. Quickly then, the psalm turns to curses. It offers sober words of condemnation to pray upon those who cause that injustice:

Appoint a wicked man against him, let an accuser stand at his right hand. When he is tried, let him come forth guilty . . . May his days be few . . . Let there be none to extend kindness to him, nor any to pity his fatherless children! . . . For he did not remember to show kindness . . . He loved to curse; let curses come upon him!

Those are powerful words. They are filled with emotions equal to the intense hatred of the oppressor. But they are declarations of just judgment; the psalm is not answering evil with evil. The psalm offers the sufferer tracks to channel their pain into appeals for justice, rather than leaving those suffering unjustly to bottle up their pain or respond in kind. Not all of the imprecatory psalms include such explicit references to the courtroom, but Psalm 109 illustrates the judicial character of the psalter’s curses. Note how the curses in Psalm 109 expect the wicked to stand trial before God with a powerful prosecutor (“an accuser”) at their side to expose their evils. Then in lines of poetic justice, the exact same horrors that the wicked one has been inflicting on others now are visited against them by due administration of God’s court. Once again, redemption is the most celebrated way for an evildoer to right the horrors of such violence. The humbling of Nebuchadnezzar, the king who devastated the temple and families of Israel, is a prime example of a tyrant’s repentance (Dan. 4:1–37). There are many psalms that celebrate the beauty of forgiveness. But the biblical promise of rest is ultimately backed by the assurance of judgment, indicating the need for psalms of imprecation also.

Royal Curses

Furthermore, the authoritative power of the imprecatory psalms depends upon their royal character. It is dubious for individuals to curse others in their own name. But the Book of Psalms contains the psalms of David, Israel’s divinely anointed king. They are curses from the throne that God granted authority to judge. Not all of the psalms were written by David himself, but they were all composed under the authority of his divinely anointed throne. That is what makes the psalms of imprecation authoritative and appropriate for Israel’s use. In the New Testament, the apostle Paul points out the reason God’s people are to abstain from revenge against evildoers. Quoting from Deuteronomy, Paul wrote, “Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord’” (Rom 12:19; quoting Deut 32:35). The reason God’s people are not to take personal revenge is that they look to God to administer due vengeance. God has delegated that work of justice to human courts (Rom 13:1–5) and ultimately to the Messiah (John 5:27). When human justice fails to defend the oppressed, psalms of imprecation give access to the judgment of the anointed king (the Messiah) and his court. In this way, God’s people abstain from revenge but not from the due expectation of justice. And that expectation of justice is an important facet in the Hebraic model of praise facilitated by the imprecatory psalms.

The Importance of Imprecation

Psalms of imprecation are a minor note in the overall chorus of praises in the psalter, but they offer a certain kind of medicine that restores praise to hearts downtrodden by unchecked oppressors. Even today, we can benefit from reading and singing them. There are many circumstances in which evil reigns unchecked in this world. Rest only comes when that evil is removed, ideally through repentance but finally through judgment. In fact, any Jew or Christian who longs for the coming/return of the Messiah is participating in that hope for judgment and the rest it brings. Until heaven’s justice is finished, imprecatory psalms enable the powerless to take back power today. They give the weak ready access to the verdicts of heaven to pronounce with their own lips when no other source of justice will do so.

Indeed, the Hebrews, languishing under the whips of their oppressors, did not need to know simply that God exists. They needed to know that he was present with them. And that is precisely what God announced to Moses and memorialized in his name Yahweh, as defined by the verb ehyeh.

The Meaning of God’s Name at the Burning Bush

God explained the meaning of his name Yahweh (often represented in English Bibles as “Lord” in all small caps, and sometimes vocalized as “Jehovah” or by its consonantal root “YHWH”) while commissioning Moses at the burning bush. He instructed the prophet,

Say this to the people of Israel: “I am (ehyeh) has sent me to you.” . . . Say this to the people of Israel: “The Lord (Yahweh), the God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, has sent me to you.” This is my name forever, and thus I am to be remembered throughout all generations. (Exod 3:14–15)

God explained the meaning of Yahweh by placing it in parallel with the similar-sounding Hebrew term “I am” (ehyeh, from the root hayah). Yahweh is God’s personal name, so closely identified with his being that many orthodox Jews refuse to pronounce it, instead saying HaShem (“the name”) or Adonai (“Lord”), to guard this name’s sanctity.

Scholars debate whether the word Yahweh actually derives from the verb hayah. Even if the word Yahweh does not derive from hayah, it sounds similar. And biblical authors often employed sound-alike phrases to indicate name meanings (e.g., Gen 25:25, 30). In this case, the meaning of God’s name Yahweh is explained with the sound-alike ehyeh, a Hebrew being verb usually translated, “I am” or “I will be.” But the usage of being verbs such as hayah/ehyeh in Hebrew differs slightly but significantly from the way being verbs are used in most Western languages.

Misreading ‘I Am’

Confusion arises about the meaning of God’s name translated “I am” and the related “Yahweh” when we read those terms through Western lenses. In English, for example, being verbs such as “am,” “is,” and “are” express either equivalence or existence.

In the statement “I am a student,” the verb “am” indicates the equivalence of the subject “I” and the predicate “student” (I = student). We call this use a “linking verb.” But when a being verb is used without a predicate, as in the statements “he is” or “she will be,” the verb merely indicates the subject’s existence. In many languages like English, the phrase “I am” indicates the speaker’s existence. Read this way, the Lord’s statement “I am” is a declaration, “I exist.”

Based on such readings, Yahweh has commonly been interpreted as a statement of God’s self-existence or aseity, terms theologians use to indicate that God had no beginning and does not depend for continued existence on anything other than his own self. The Dutch theologian Herman Bavinck represents this widespread understanding when he states, “God is independent, all-sufficient in himself, and the only source of all existence and life. Yhwh is the name that describes this essence and identity most clearly. . . . His name is ‘being.'”¹

This existential interpretation of God’s name is not new. It goes back at least to the third century B.C. when the Pentateuch was translated into Greek. In that translation (the Septuagint), Exodus 3:14–15 was translated, “God spoke to Moses, saying, ‘I am the being-one (ego eimi ho on).‘ . . . Say to the children of Israel, ‘The being-one (ho on) has sent me to you.'” In this manner, God’s explanation of his name was interpreted as a statement of self-existence. Over the centuries, commentators have widely adopted this reading of the divine name.

It is certainly consistent with other biblical descriptions of God to call him “self-existent.” God is said to be eternal (Psa 90:2), having no prior cause (Isa 43:10–11) and no need for sustenance outside of himself (John 5:26). It is therefore proper to call him “self-existent.” But self-existence is probably not the point of the phrase “I am” (ehyeh) or the name Yahweh in biblical Hebrew.

Present with His People

In biblical Hebrew, the being verb hayah conveys not just existence but manifest existence. It indicates the appearance, presence, or standing of a thing. To state, “There was (yehiy, a form of hayah) light” (Gen 1:3) is to announce the manifestation, not just the existence, of light. To say, “The Lord hurled a great wind upon the sea, and there was (yehiy) a mighty tempest” (Jonah 1:4) is to announce the appearance of a storm as a result of God’s wind.

The Hebrew being verb hayah/ehyeh, Sigmund Mowinckel explains, “is not the abstract Greek [einai, ‘to be’], the mere existence per se. To the Hebrew ‘to be’ does not just mean to exist . . ., but to be active, to express oneself in active being.”²

In the name Yahweh, God made himself known as a present being—present with and for his people. And wherever God’s presence is invoked, that announcement is pregnant with the certainty of his attention, his care, his power, and his grace. Perhaps a helpful paraphrase of God’s words at the burning bush would be, “Say to the people of Israel, ‘I Am Present has sent me to you.’” God sent Moses to the people in Egypt with that marvelous announcement. And the subsequent exodus events would be an object lesson for all generations that God is Yahweh, present with his people in all their sufferings (cf., Exod 5:2; 7:17; 8:22–23; 12:51; 13:21; 33:14–19; 40:34–38; also Num 6:23–27; Psa 113:1–9).

God has many titles in Scripture, such as “Father,” “Almighty,” “King,” and “Savior.” Each of his titles reveals another of his many roles or attributes. But “Yahweh” is more than a title. Its meaning is clearly important for our understanding of the God of the Bible. It shows us not simply that God exists but also that he is near to his people in love.

Footnotes

Inns and Other Lodgings

Inns certainly existed when Jesus was born. The Romans built extensive road systems linking the empire, and inns were part of the highway infrastructure. But Roman-era inns were typically found along highways between major cities where travelers needed refreshment stops. Once travelers reached a city like Bethlehem, they typically sought local hospitality—as illustrated by the later journeys of Paul. When rented space was needed in a city, an “upper room” above a house or business could be hired—as Jesus did in Jerusalem for the Last Supper (Luke 22:12). But it is not likely that travelers, especially a poor couple like Mary and Joseph, would look for an inn upon arrival at Bethlehem. They would have lodged with relatives.

After all, Mary and Joseph were traveling to Bethlehem during a census, “because [Joseph] was of the house and lineage of David” (Luke 2:4). That means Joseph had relatives in Bethlehem. It was his family’s native town. It is unthinkable that Mary and Joseph would have sought lodging in an inn rather than staying with family.

Though English translations of Luke’s birth narrative do mention an “inn” (Luke 2:7), that translation is rooted in tradition rather than lexicography. The Greek term used is not the word for an inn.

The Lodging Space of Jesus’s Birth

When Jesus was born, Luke reports that Mary “wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the kataluma” (Luke 2:7). Most English Bibles translate kataluma as “inn,” but that is not the word’s usual meaning.

The normal Greek term for an “inn” is the word pandocheion. Luke mentions a pandocheion later in his Gospel, in the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25–37). In that story, a Samaritan traveler discovers a wounded Jewish man lying by the highway. So the Samaritan “set him on his own animal and brought him to an inn (pandocheion)” to care for him there (Luke 10:34).

The inn’s presence in the parable of the Good Samaritan shows that Luke knew the Greek term for an inn (pandocheion). He also recognized the inn’s typical location along highways between cities.But Luke does not use that term in his story of Jesus’s birth in Bethlehem. Instead, Luke uses the term kataluma which refers to the “lodging space” inside a typical house.

The Hebrew Pillared House

The usual design for a home in ancient Palestine is known as a “pillared house” or a “four room house.” Though some variation is certainly possible, the general pattern is fairly consistent among period houses.

The main floor typically had four rooms divided around the house’s pillars. To visualize the layout, picture a capital letter “E” as the shape of the house viewed from above. Each of the four straight lines of the “E” represents a room. Three rooms are parallel, running from the front of the house toward the back. The two stripes between them (the white spaces in the “E”) are where pillars stood to support the upper part of the house, thereby dividing the lower floor into three rooms. A fourth room ran perpendicular to the others along the back of the house. That room was typically used for storage, while the other three rooms facilitated daily chores.

For two-level houses, a ladder led up to the main lodging space, which was located above. That upper room was where the family ate and slept. It was called the “lodging space,” or kataluma in Greek.

When Mary and Joseph went to Bethlehem, they almost certainly sought lodging with local relatives. But the house where they were received was already so full that there was no room for them in the “lodging space” (kataluma) of the house. Therefore they, and perhaps other relatives, were compelled to stay in the function rooms downstairs.

The Location of the Manger

Family chore implements were likely located in one of the side rooms downstairs. The center room was like a hallway to the storage in back. And the third downstairs room was where the household goats and sheep were penned.

Most Hebrew households did not have the luxury of a special structure just for animals. Professional shepherds might use community sheep pens outside the city, but most households inside the city would keep just a few sheep or goats for wool and milk. These were penned in one of the downstairs rooms. Low, partial walls generally separated the three function rooms downstairs, and a feeding trough for the animals was set into the top of the low barrier between the center room and the animal pen.

In the house where Mary and Joseph lodged that night, the lodging space (kataluma) upstairs was full. That compelled them, and perhaps others, to stay downstairs overnight. And with no space to lay the baby born in such conditions, the new mother placed the child in the manger in the low wall beside her.

The Presence of Others in the House

Further support for this reading emerges later in Luke’s narrative. According to Luke, angels reported news of the birth to shepherds in the surrounding fields. The angels told them that a baby born in Bethlehem that night was “the Savior, who is Christ the Lord” (Luke 2:11). So the shepherds hastened into the city to find the child, “and when they saw it, they made known the saying that had been told them concerning this child. And all who heard it wondered at what the shepherds told them” (Luke 2:17–18).

The phrase “all who heard it” suggests there were a lot more people than just Mary and Joseph in the house that night. According to Luke, the shepherds’ report began the moment they saw the child. And Luke nowhere suggests that the shepherds left the nativity to knock on doors and wake others to tell them also. The “all” Luke mentions seems to indicate other lodgers in the same house with Mary and Joseph when the shepherds arrived. It was a crowded house, not a lonely stable.

Reimagining the Nativity

Later readers misunderstood Luke’s narrative because of their unfamiliarity with the period practice of lodging animals and installing a manger inside the family house. Furthermore, mention of a “manger” in the account prompted assumptions that the event occurred in a stable. But textual and archaeological evidence helps us to better envision the setting for Jesus’s birth as a house crowded with aunts, uncles, cousins, and other distant relatives from Joseph’s family in the lineage of David.

Re-envisioning the nativity’s setting may not change the significance or meaning of the event, but it does help readers to imagine the scene differently. This perspective highlights the poor, oppressed, weary travelers crowded around the baby that night. After the isolation of Christmas last year due to the pandemic lockdown, this is a good year to refresh our vision of the family gathering that gave context to the original nativity scene.

To see a model pillared house, view the video prepared by the author for his congregation, below:

Some believed those staffs were symbols of power, like scepters. But in 2010, CT scans of the pharaoh’s mummy revealed that he had a malformed foot. This finding combined with others confirmed that the staffs were walking sticks the pharaoh actually used. They weren’t symbols of power after all, but reminders of frailty.

Interpreting the artifacts of past cultures requires alertness to their original context—as well as caution against imported assumptions.

One of the most important biblical artifacts to understand in context is the “Torah,” Israel’s law collection found in the first five books of the Bible (the Pentateuch). The Hebrew word torah roughly translates to “law” in English. But biblical law is not like modern legislation.¹

To understand the Torah, we must observe how it was used in its own context in Old Testament Israel—and how law in the New Testament period came to be used differently. In fact, distinguishing the original use of the Law from its reinterpretation in the Greco-Roman era offers important insight into the conflicts between Jesus and the Temple leaders of his day. Many who read how Jesus challenged the scribes and pharisees think that Jesus was introducing new interpretations of the Law in the New Testament. It turns out, Jesus was reaffirming the original understanding of the Law.

Law Books, Now and Then

Today, law books are used for regulation. Modern nations compile law codes to establish social order, and they enforce those law codes by police and courts. But nowhere in the biblical narratives do we find law writings used in this way. Israel’s written law served several purposes, but not as legislation to be used by judges and cited in courts.

One of the scholars working in this field, Bernard Jackson, catalogued references to judges and to law books in the Bible. He found that Israel’s law books were used for archival, didactic, and ritual purposes, but not to adjudicate justice.² Based on the records in the Bible, Hebrew judges enforced unwritten norms, but there is no indication that they enforced law using written texts. When some of those unwritten norms were written down (as in the Mosaic law writings), they were written for public instruction not for judicial enforcement. Thus the written law faithfully reflects Israel’s judicial norms, even if not itself the basis for rendering verdicts.

In fact, as far as we know, written law was not used in courtrooms anywhere in the ancient world until the fifth century B.C. That was when Greece invented democracy and the rule of law.³ Law collections in Israel and other ancient lands were compiled to inspire the people’s hope and to instruct their obedience to God’s ways, but not for civic regulation.

The Psalms as Guide to the Law’s Use

The Psalms provide a helpful window into Israel’s use of the Torah. In fact, the book of Psalms is structured into five parts as a companion for the five-book Torah.⁴ And the first psalm introduces the Law’s purpose to inspire hope. “Blessed [or happy] is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked . . . but his delight is in the law of the Lord” (Psa 1:1­–2).

The individual in that psalm is surrounded by injustice. Wickedness, sin, and scoffing are on every side (v. 1). The Law is clearly not regulating that society. Nor is the Law something the person in that psalm appeals to for justice in court. The Law serves another role in that place. It fosters hope for one who follows its guidance while living in a society that doesn’t. The faithful individual thrives like a well-watered tree by meditating daily upon “the law of the Lord” (vv. 2–3).

Imagine a family anticipating construction of a new home. When they visit the building site, all they see is mud and perhaps a few framed walls. But when they look at the concept images provided by the builder, they can survey the mostly barren site and visualize the final result. That illustrates the function of law collections in lands like Israel. A law collection is not a comprehensive code containing everything needed to bring about order. It is not the architectural drawings used by the builders. Rather, it is the concept sketch, offering key glimpses to encourage and teach faithfulness.

Psalm 1 introduces the Torah in that vital, sustaining role.⁵. The Book of Proverbs agrees: “Where there is no vision the people lose direction, but joyful is the one who continually considers the Law” (Prov. 29:18, author’s translation).

The Source of Justice: Law Book or King?

In Israel like other ancient lands, it was the king—in his person—who was to be the nation’s source of justice. The role that a legislative society ascribes to a law book belonged, in ancient Near Eastern lands, to the king himself. His nearness to the deity and personal sense of justice was the basis of the kingdom’s righteousness (Prov. 16:10). In Israel, the king studied the Torah like other Hebrews did (Deut. 17:18–20). Israel’s king was certainly expected to judge in a manner consistent with the wisdom of Israel’s first judge, Moses, who had spoken with God on the mountain. But the law book was not itself the source of justice in Israel’s courts. The king, through his appointed judges, was to fill that role.

A law collection, with its smattering of examples, could cast vision and provide instruction. But no ancient nation expected a book to be its constitution; only a godlike king (a “son of God”—a term of kingship used throughout the ancient world) could actually constitute the community.

As noted earlier, it was the Greeks who first used law books to replace rulers as the standard of justice. They were frustrated with the corruption of kings who abused their authority under unwritten norms. So the Greeks decided to write down the whole law and to constrain judges to rule strictly by what was inscribed.

With this new use of law books, a new class of professionals emerged (lawyers) with new principles for interpreting law (a new legal hermeneutic called “legalism,” not to be confused with the colloquial term). By the time Alexander the Great marched east, Greece had a well developed legal profession. And Greek cultural ideals (Hellenism) spread throughout the lands Alexander conquered, including the new Hellenistic legal ideals.

By the time of the New Testament, some Jerusalem elites had also developed lawyers (note the nomikoi mentioned throughout the Gospels) and new ways of reading the Hebrew law writings. Following the ideals learned from the Greeks, some in late Second Temple Judaism approached the Law as a regulatory document adopting legalistic hermeneutics.

One of those who opposed these trends was a young rabbi from Nazareth named Jesus.

The Messiah and Law in the New Testament

Jesus preached the Law differently than other teachers did (Matt. 7:28–29). For example, the Law commands to “love your neighbor” (Lev. 19:18). Some rabbis, like lawyers, sought to define the term “neighbor” to ascertain whom one is obligated to love. But Jesus interpreted that law as a picture of love that even treats enemies like neighbors (Matt. 5:43–48; Lk. 10:25–37; cf. Lev. 19:18, 32).

Some studied the law “you shall not kill” to determine what kinds of bloodshed were restricted and what was permissible. But Jesus read that law more expansively, as a paradigm rather than a mere prescription,⁶ and thus as having relevance even for the anger in one’s heart (Matt. 5:21–26; cf., Lev. 19:17).

Some scribes debated whether laws on tithing applied only to seasonal harvests or to daily pickings from one’s herb garden as well. But Jesus, while commending their tithes, nonetheless chastened such debates as a distraction from the tithing law’s true purpose: to promote “justice and mercy and faithfulness” (Matt. 23:23–25).

Jesus had a different legal hermeneutic than many of his contemporaries. But this was not because of anything novel in his approach. It was some Jerusalem elites who had adopted ways of interpreting law writings in ways similar to the Greeks. Jesus reasserted what he saw as the Law’s proper function. The Torah nurtured hope in the righteous kingdom and in the anointed king who would bring it to pass (Matt. 5:17; Lk. 24:27; Rom. 3:21).⁷ In fact, one could even say that the heritage of Israel divided in the time of Jesus around this question about the proper role of the written Law.

To understand the function of Torah in its Old Testament context is to discover the basis for its New Testament reception by the followers of Jesus. The Apostles saw the person of Jesus in the Law (Matt. 22:37–40). And when Christians understand the Law in its ancient Near Eastern context, it continues to be a source of delight for those who hope in Christ and wait for his Kingdom to be finished.

Footnotes

A Chorus of Joy in Ecclesiastes

Many commentators regard Ecclesiastes as a book of pessimism, even nihilism. This is understandable. It is impossible to miss the despair that fills its pages. But against that backdrop, the book’s defining feature is its call to joy repeated six times. Framed by a prologue (1:1–18) and an epilogue (11:9–12:14), the body of the book is grouped into six examinations of life’s vanity (2:1–26; 3:1–15; 3:16–6:9; 6:10–8:15; 8:16–9:10; 9:11–11:8). Each of those six sections explores another arena of life’s intractable vanities, admitting their frustrations. Nevertheless, each study ends with a call to rejoice anyhow. Here are those six climactic exhortations:

• • “There is nothing better for a person than that he should eat and drink and find enjoyment in his toil. This also, I saw, is from the hand of God . . .” (2:24–26)

• • “There is nothing better for them than to be joyful and to do good as long as they live; also that everyone should eat and drink and take pleasure in all his toil—this is God’s gift to man . . .” (3:12–15)

• • “Behold, what I have seen to be good and fitting is to eat and drink and find enjoyment in all the toil with which one toils under the sun the few days of his life that God has given him . . .” (5:18–20)

• • “I commend joy, for man has no good thing under the sun but to eat and drink and be joyful, for this will go with him in his toil through the days of his life that God has given him under the sun.” (8:15)

• • “Go, eat your bread with joy, and drink your wine with a merry heart, for God has already approved what you do . . .” (9:7–10)

• • “If a person lives many years, let him rejoice in them all. . . . Rejoice, O young man . . .” (11:8–12:7)

The repeated formula “eat and drink with joy” is an exhortation to take joy in the fruits of one’s labor, whether great or meager. To “eat and drink” from one’s toil can mean feasting—when fruits are abundant. But in a context discussing life’s vanities, the term expresses the paucity of fruits received. The ability to rejoice even in meager fruits is itself, as the chorus repeats, “a gift of God.” How can this be, that God bestows a gift of joy to his people amid the poverty of life’s brokenness?

The Problem of Vanity

To appreciate the message of joy in Ecclesiastes, it is important also to understand the problem of vanity which the book confronts. In English, “vanity” typically means “emptiness, or a lack of value.” But the Hebrew term has a different connotation. It draws on a metaphor; hebel literally means “like a vapor.” Something is “like a vapor” (hebel) when you can see it, but you can neither control it nor hold onto it. Consider the story of Abel (Gen. 4:1–8). “Abel” is the Anglicized spelling of Hebel. His name is actually “Vanity.” But Abel was not worthless, as the English meaning of the word would imply. He was beloved of God and his parents. Yet, like a vapor, Abel slipped from his parents’ grasp. Cain killed him and he was gone. Whatever the birth name of Adam and Eve’s second son, “Vanity” is the name by which he came to be remembered because of his sudden loss. That is what the word hebel means. And that is the problem which the Book of Ecclesiastes confronts. The book is not nihilistic. The book does not teach that life is meaningless. On the contrary, the book’s argument depends on the realization that life is of great value! Life is beautiful, which is why it is so infuriating that life too often falls apart arbitrarily. Ecclesiastes admits the problem of life’s many vanities. But it does not leave us to despair in our plight.

The Call to Rejoice

Like Backhuysen’s painting, the book of Ecclesiastes punctuates the darkness with sunlight at just the right points. The significance of its six calls to rejoice can be appreciated with a representative look at the first, followed by attention to the book’s conclusion. In the book’s first study of life’s vanity, the speaker (self-identified as King Solomon; 1:1) rehearses his great acquisitions of wealth (2:1–11) and his acquisitions of wisdom (2:12–16). His wealth included houses and gardens, servants and livestock, silver and gold. But when he stopped to consider these fleeting riches, “all was vanity and a striving after wind” (2:11). Likewise, Solomon’s wisdom exceeded all others. But despite his wisdom, “What happens to the fool will happen to me also. . . . The wise dies just like the fool!” (2:15–16). Even if one escapes the many uncertainties that threaten wealth and wisdom, death ultimately snatches everything away. And “who knows whether [the one who inherits it all] will be wise or a fool?” (2:19). Perhaps all that accumulation will fall into the wrong hands. These are truly causes to grieve—even to “hate life” (2:17). But the passage does not end in despair. Rather, this first study of life’s vanities ends with the book’s first call to rejoice anyhow:

There is nothing better for a person than that he should eat and drink and find enjoyment in his toil. This also, I saw, is from the hand of God, for apart from him who can eat or who can have enjoyment? For to the one who pleases him God has given wisdom and knowledge and joy, but to the sinner he has given the business of gathering and collecting, only to give to one who pleases God. This also is vanity and a striving after wind (2:24–26).

The author calls us to source our joy in faith that God governs the world’s order. It is the Lord who promises not to leave his world in the possession of sinners. He will ultimately bestow the world’s fruits to those honoring him. As becomes increasingly clear through the course of the book, the Lord’s final provision is only certain in the coming judgment. There are no guarantees of outcomes today. But trusting God’s justice offers a basis for joy, even while suffering present vanities. Each of the six studies of life’s vanities and their crowning exhortations exhibit similar features, building up to the book’s conclusion.

The Call to Worship

The book’s serial calls to rejoice are summarized at the conclusion of the book. There we read, “The end of the matter; all has been heard. Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God will bring every deed into judgment, with every secret thing, whether good or evil” (12:13–14). Those are literally the final words of the book: “the end of the matter.” There is no source of security in this vain world, except in faith. Confidence that God sees, that God cares, that his wisdom is at work (even when we cannot see it), and that he will one day make everything right again: this is our only basis for hope. We can cling to joy in the midst of life’s chaos, only if we trust that the Lord is going to honor our faithfulness and one day make things right. There are no quick fixes, but there is real peace in a deeply rooted faith. The closing exhortation of the book, then, is to “fear God” and to “keep his commandments.” To “fear God” is a Hebrew idiom that means to worship him. It is through worship that a person’s heart is regularly re-centered upon the gravity and glory of God. And only confidence in his glory offers a basis for joy in the arbitrary chaos of the world as we experience it. And with that joy, we are strengthened to persevere in his ways. Though Ecclesiastes is commonly viewed as a dark book, it actually has a bright message. And it is a timely message to rediscover today. Living in an age of pandemics, climate disruptions, social unrest, and seemingly intractable political and religious tensions, now is a good time to heed the Preacher of Joy who commands the storms. Michael LeFebvre is the author of Ecclesiastes: Joy That Perseveres, a Devotional Commentary (Leominster, UK: Day One Publications, 2015).

Footnotes

Worship and the First Commandment(s)

The Decalogue has two parts. It begins with commands about loving God and ends with commands about other people. The opening sentences of the first part (about loving God) introduce its leading topic: worship. They also present the trickiest section to punctuate with implications for how we understand worship.

The Decalogue begins with a statement: “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery” (Exod. 20:2). Three exhortations follow:

1. “You shall have no other gods before me.”
2. “You shall not make for yourself a carved image . . .”
3. “You shall not bow down to them or serve them . . .” (Exod. 20:3–6).

There are two ways in which those opening exhortations are usually grouped.

First, some traditions combine all three instructions into a single commandment based on their shared interest in worship. Often in this reading, all three prohibitions (“no other gods” + “no graven images” + “no bowing to images”) together form the First Commandment.

Second, other traditions discern two commandments here, concerning whom to worship and how to worship. The prohibition against “other gods” stands alone as the First Commandment (whom to worship). And the prohibitions about images (“not making them” + “not bowing to them”) are then joined into the Second Commandment (how to worship). These different ways of grouping the opening exhortations can also tend toward different interpretations.

When all three exhortations are grouped as one commandment, the subject of the first prohibition (“other gods”) remains the likely subject for the rest. The result is a commandment primarily against other gods: you shall not have other gods nor have idols of other gods.When, however, the exhortations are formed into two commandments—first whom to worship (“no other gods”) and second how to worship (“neither make nor use images”)—the Second is aimed against images of the true God. How one punctuates the opening exhortations influences whether foreign idols or representations of Yahweh are in the crosshairs.

How can we resolve this punctuation dilemma? There are objective patterns in the text whereby we can confirm the right punctuation. Recognizing these patterns helps us number the opening worship commandments and will help with other aspects of the Decalogue to be noted later.

Punctuation Markers in the Text

The first eight exhortations of the Decalogue should be grouped into five commandments based on a simple, structural pattern. There are five “reason statements” (see bold text in the table below) that divide the first five commandments, as follow (Exod. 20:2–17): There is a reason to have no other gods. It is that Yahweh is the God who delivered his people from bondage (the First Commandment). There is a reason neither to make nor to use human-made representations of God. It is that God is “jealous” to be known by his self-revelation (the Second Commandment). And so on. The first five commands contain varying numbers of exhortations, but they each have only one stated reason. Those reason statements distinguish each of the first five commandments. The First Commandment has its reason stated before its exhortation. Each of the others ends with its reason. This pattern structures the first five commandments and confirms that the exhortations on worship should be read as two commands, not one.

There is a second pattern that supports this enumeration. In the Exodus version of the Decalogue, there are five appearances of the covenant title, “the Lord your God” (literally, “Yahweh your God”; see italicized text in the table above). That title identifies Israel’s unique claim upon Yahweh (“your God”) and the special, covenant relationship which the first five commandments uphold. This phrase appears once per commandment further marking each of the first five. (The Deuteronomy Decalogue features this phrase once per commandment in the first three, then repeats it several times in the Fourth and Fifth.)

Heritage and the Fifth Commandment

Attention to the punctuation further reveals that the Fifth Commandment is about more than obeying parents. It is about the parental duty to pass on the faith, and each generation’s duty to embrace that heritage so the people will continue as God’s community in the land (Psa. 78:5–8; Eph. 6:1–4).

We know this because the Fifth Commandment (“honor parents”) shares the structural patterns that attach it to the Decalogue’s first table. The presence of a purpose statement in the Fifth Commandment and a covenantal proclamation of the divine name, as previously discussed, indicate its participation in the first table—the commands about loving God. It does not belong to the second table—the commands about loving other people—as typically thought.

Subjectively, the Fifth Commandment seems to fit with both sides of the Decalogue. But its most important function is to sustain Israel’s covenant relationship with God. The stated reason to honor parents is to continue “in the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” This too is a command primarily about preserving the people’s relationship to the Lord.

God calls parents to nurture the next generation in his ways. Honoring that parental instruction is essential to continue the heritage of faith (Deut. 6:1–25).

Observing the Decalogue’s punctuation brings out an emphasis of the Fifth Commandment which is often overlooked. Obedience to human authorities is certainly within its purview. But this command is especially concerned to maintain a godly heritage.

The Final Commandment: Addressing the Heart

There is a significant change in pattern between the first five and last five commandments. In the latter half of the Decalogue, there are no longer purpose statements nor is God’s name invoked. The final commands are succinct—“you shall not murder,” “you shall not commit adultery,” and so forth—until the end.

The Decalogue ends with a lengthy pair of exhortations: “You shall not covet your neighbor’s wife,” and, “You shall not desire your neighbor’s house, his field, or his male servant, or his female servant, his ox, or his donkey, or anything that is your neighbor’s” (Deut. 5:21; cf., Exod. 20:17).

Some traditions divide those final exhortations into separate commandments. “You shall not covet your neighbor’s wife” becomes one commandment, and “you shall not desire your neighbor’s house,… or anything that is your neighbor’s” constitutes another. But attention to literary structures indicates the unity of these two exhortations into a single commandment, the Tenth. The result is the following five commandments in the second table (Deut. 5:17–21): The Tenth Commandment uses a Hebrew literary technique called “parallelism.” In parallelism, two lines are paired so that the second line enriches what was stated in the first. In this case, a series of seven warnings against wrongful desire expands upon the opening exhortation not to covet. Parallelisms like this are a well-known feature in Hebrew texts, so there should be no doubt that these paired exhortations comprise a single commandment.

What is surprising, however, is the appearance of a parallelism here at all! Parallelism is typically found in Hebrew poetry. It is striking that the Decalogue ends with a series of simple, staccato commands (the Sixth through Ninth) that climax into a poetic finale (the Tenth)!

The poetic character of this peak actually suits the command’s content nicely, as this is the only commandment that directly addresses an attitude of the heart. The Decalogue’s final command looks past bad behaviors to target selfishness in the soul. The Tenth Commandment shows that the Decalogue is fundamentally about loving one another by ending with a command against loving oneself to the neglect of others, or covetousness.

Jesus taught that the sum of the Law is to love (Matt. 22:34–40). Attention to the punctuation of the Decalogue, including its poetic climax, helps us rightly interpret these commands as laws about love.

The first five commandments nurture our love for God, including our labors to communicate that heritage across generations. The last five nurture our love for other people, with just and right behaviors that arise from hearts that seek the best for others rather than self.

Punctuating the Ten Commandments not only helps us recognize their correct numbering. Punctuating the commandments also helps us to recognize their heart.

We miss an important facet of God’s redemptive work when we overlook the healing laughter He provides. For some troubles of the soul, laughter really is the best medicine. And God gives us that medicine right where we need it—as seen in the story of Esther, one of the most riotous comedies in the Bible.

Finding the Humor in the Bible

Biblical scholars have not traditionally recognized “comedy” among the genres of Scripture. Theologians generally consider their big black Bibles too heavy to include levity. At least Christian theologians do. Jewish commentators have long enjoyed Scripture’s playfulness. But in recent years, scholars of various stripes have begun to appreciate the importance of humor in the Bible.

They are even increasingly acknowledging that there are full-blown works of comedy in Scripture, like the almost slapstick story of the left-handed assassin in Judges 3:12–30;¹ the misadventures of the sulking prophet in the Book of Jonah;² and the queen of biblical comedies, the Book of Esther.³ Adele Berlin writes, “The Book of Esther is the most humorous of the books of the Bible, amusing throughout and at certain points uproariously funny.”⁴

It is that crowning masterpiece of biblical jest and its ministry of humor for our souls that I will explore. This is a tricky undertaking, however. E. B. White once observed that analyzing humor is like dissecting a frog: both die in the process. I assure you that no animals were harmed in the writing of this essay. And though I am neither a comic nor the son of a comic, I hope what follows will help enliven your appreciation for the serious role of humor in the Bible.

The Book of Esther Is a Tragedy Told Comedically

It must be affirmed up front that the lived experience of Esther was no laughing matter. In a previous generation, Esther’s people had been forcibly removed from their homeland. Esther was a third culture kid who never knew the land of her heritage nor belonged to the land of her birth. Then both her parents died, leaving Esther to be raised by her older cousin Mordecai. Though she grew up to be quite beautiful, Esther’s attractiveness got her noticed by the wrong people. She was eventually drafted into the royal harem for the gratification of a lustful, indulgent ruler.

There is nothing funny about these events. But there is plenty of vapid pomposity to pillory in a society that perpetrates such atrocities. Some forms of comedy make us laugh at trivialities, like the number of clowns one can(not) fit into a compact car. But other forms of comedy do serious work. Irony and satire, for example, can serve a formative function in biblical faith.

Done right, such humor lays bare the shallowness of society’s values. And it does so in a way that frees us from temptation to share those values. Comedy is not just the stuff of late night entertainment. It can also serve the purposes of Sunday morning sanctification, when it is created to serve the ends of faith and not simply to get a laugh. The biblical telling of Esther’s story is an example of comedy’s power to take on hard subjects for redemptive ends.

Downsizing the Oversized

When we open the Book of Esther, the first character (or caricature) we meet is the Persian emperor. Ahasuerus “reigned from India to Ethiopia over 127 provinces” (1:1). Never before had a single man possessed absolute power over such a vast swath of humanity.

We first meet this king during the final feast of a royal party that had been going for six months (1:3–8). His palace was adorned with violet curtains on marble pillars, “and also couches of gold and silver.” For 180 days the king “showed the riches of his royal glory and the splendor and pomp of his greatness” while the wine flowed without limit. The rest of the book continues this picture of a king with unlimited wealth and kowtowing servants.

But a joke emerges whenever the king acts. For despite this great show of glory, the king never made any decisions himself. When Queen Vashti refused his summons, the king was befuddled. He did not know what to do. He had to ask his advisors (1:13). When he later grieved the loss of his consort, the king sulked until his advisors came up with a solution: an entire harem of beautiful women (2:2). Even when the king made a troubling discovery in the middle of one night, he asked if anyone was lingering in the palace halls to tell him what to do (6:4).

The combination of exaggerated grandeur and exaggerated impotence form one of the great gags of the book, thereby exposing the vanity of empire. Of course, Persian emperors were actually astute and decisive rulers. The book’s author knew that. But this story offers a spoof of empire. Comedy exaggerates details, but it does so to accurately reveal deeper truths.

The world’s powerful are not to be held in awe. Their glory is just a charade. Even the despots of Persia do not deserve the fear of God’s people.

Nevertheless, all that being so, the book does not utterly castigate the Persian king. Though his semi-divine glory be exposed as a sham, Esther and Mordecai never neglected the honor he was due as a ruler. In fact, Mordecai overheard a plot on the king’s life and defended the king by exposing it (2:21–23). At the end of the story, Mordecai accepted a promotion as the king’s prime minister (10:2–3). The book lampoons imperial arrogance, but it does not deny a ruler’s proper (restrained) authority. This book offers biting but not bitter satire. It is told redemptively with measured ridicule and dignity.

Misfortunes Reversed

The story’s primary villain is wicked Haman. From his first appearance (3:1), Haman’s lust for power is matched only by his hatred for Mordecai and the Jews. Throughout the story he is painted in black: sinister, conniving, and manipulative. Unlike the king who never makes decisions, Haman is constantly cooking up new plots. But every plot, however genius, eventually falls on his own head.

Haman finagled a decree to destroy the Jews (3:7–11). But “the reverse occurred: the Jews gained mastery over those who hated them” (9:1). Haman determined to impale Mordecai on a tall post (5:14), but he was the one hung there in the end (7:9-10). Haman initially secured an appointment as the king’s prime minister (3:1–5), but it was Mordecai who ultimately possessed that office (8:2; 10:2–3). And in what Karen Jobes calls “arguably the most ironically comic scene in the entire Bible,”⁵ Haman entered the palace early one morning with designs to shame Mordecai. But he left with orders to honor him (6:1–13). Haman’s role in the book is a comedy of errors woven with stunning wit.

By giving Haman a face of evil but feet of a buffoon, the book defangs fear for its audience. The book is not written to tickle the fancy of the comfortable (though it may do that). This book is written for people who face real Hamans, and it uses comedy to replace fear with faith.

Pur(e) Providence

By the end of the story, we discover the book’s purpose. It was written to explain Purim, a Jewish holiday of “feasting and gladness” (9:22). The Book of Esther tells the holiday’s origin story. By providing it in comic form, public readings would help stir the holiday spirit each year. And the holiday’s name “Purim” is the book’s crowning joke.

Back when Haman began plotting, “they cast Pur (that is, they cast lots) before Haman day after day . . . till the twelfth month” (3:7). This was done to determine the auspicious timing to strike. But the date identified to destroy became the date for celebration. “Therefore they called these days Purim, after the term Pur” (9:26).⁶ The book’s ultimate joke is that Israel’s God used the Persian lots to reveal his appointment of a holiday for his people. So the Persian name for lots was adopted for this Jewish festival.

This lesson is magnified by the fact that God’s name is nowhere mentioned in the book. Esther is the only book in the Bible that never once mentions God. The writer did not accidentally forget. God’s silence is part of its design.⁷ The book is a miniature of life in exile. Esther’s people lived in a land where the name of God was not known. But this book and its holiday bear testimony that even in such godless lands, Yahweh remains faithful to his people.

Only satire can communicate this lesson so effectively. And only by recognizing God’s humor in the Bible can we appropriate this message—and laugh. It is a joke God’s people still need, especially those suffering under oppressive regimes. Human rulers try to eradicate the name of God. But “he who sits in the heavens laughs” (Psa 2:4). And through a story like Esther, the Humorist in Heaven invites us in on the joke. He beckons us with comedy to remain aloof from worldly arrogance, and he strengthens us to wait upon him with faith and light hearts.

Footnotes

How would you advise this young woman? I would tell her to lose the guy, and I suspect you would too.

If the fellow is not interested in his date’s history or her family, then he is not really interested in her as a person. He is not interested in all the Lord has done to make her who she is today. Relationships are built as lives are shared, and that includes family and history.

Somehow, many Christians overlook this principle in their relationship with Jesus. Many Christians suppose that the New Testament—which recounts the life of Jesus and the teachings of those who lived with him—is enough to build a relationship with him. Old Testament background and Jewish “family history” might be great for Jews, and maybe for Bible scholars. But, it is thought, the New Testament is all we need to know Jesus. That is false.

Jesus himself emphasized the importance of the Old Testament for knowing him (Luke 24:27). But sadly, Old Testament neglect has been common among Christians.

‘Functional Marcionism’ and the Early History of Old Testament Neglect

Old Testament neglect in the church can usually be traced to misunderstandings of Paul. The Apostle Paul gave firm instructions to the church not to continue the rituals of the Old Testament Law. He would not allow churches to require Old Testament rites such as circumcision or the dietary laws. He even “opposed [Peter] to his face” when Peter sent mixed signals on the matter. Paul proclaimed, “A person is not justified by works of the law but through faith in Jesus Christ” (Galatians 2:11–16). Unfortunately, these instructions have sometimes been misinterpreted.

In particular, one of Paul’s early readers misunderstood this angst over the works of the law. He thought Paul had renounced the Old Testament altogether! This man’s name was Marcion (85–160 A.D.). He lived a generation after Paul and never met the Apostle in person. But in his zeal for Paul’s epistles, Marcion rejected the Old Testament. By trade, Marcion was a shipowner at the Black Sea port Sinope. But he is remembered to history for developing a canon that lacked the Old Testament.

Today, few who call themselves Christians would outright deny the Old Testament as Marcion did. Paul himself wrote that “all Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable” (2 Timothy 3:16). And with close to a thousand citations of the Old Testament in the New, it is hard to justify Marcion’s disparagement. But even though we retain all 39 Hebrew books of the Bible along with the 27 in Greek, many Christians today approach the Bible as “functional Marcionites”—Christians who esteem the New Testament but consciously or subconsciously think less of the Old Testament, resulting in its neglect.

The Importance of the Old Testament for New Testament Faith

When Christians misunderstand the relationship between the Testaments, they tend to read the New Testament for their theology and turn to the Old primarily for illustrations and morality lessons. Neglecting or minimizing the Old Testament in this way can be a form of Marcionism. If we turn to Romans to learn about atonement and neglect careful study of Leviticus as well; if we read the lives of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob to show that polygamy causes problems, but pay little attention to the covenants God established with them; and if we read the Psalms as Jewish hymns we admire, but not as Christian hymns we confess: we are at risk of Marcionism.

A loss of Old Testament engagement creates deeper problems than a mere lack of knowledge. Functional Marcionism breeds many dangers. For example, “Christian” anti-Semitism has often been fueled by a devaluation of the Old Testament and neglect of the church’s Hebrew ancestry. American “Evangelical” politics frequently cherry picks Old Testament verses to support certain political goals (e.g., policies on homosexuality), while remaining ignorant of major Old Testament themes (e.g., the calling upon God’s people to show hospitality to foreigners or other outsiders).

To neglect the Old Testament is, in fact, to neglect the New Testament.

Furthermore, a loss of Old Testament literacy actually deprives Christians of New Testament understanding! Like watching only the final movie from a series, a person who only learns the New Testament will miss all the allusions, references, and meaning the Apostles expect their readers to recognize based on Old Testament understanding. To neglect the Old Testament is, in fact, to neglect the New Testament.

Rejecting Functional Marcionism and Recovering Whole-Bible Faith

The relationship between the Testaments is often mischaracterized as replacement or obsolescence. It is true that the Old Testament Temple and its rituals have been discontinued. The old practices as practices are now “obsolete” (Hebrews 8:13). But the cross of Jesus did not repeal the Old Testament faith. The cross fulfilled—and thereby upheld—the Old Testament faith (Matthew 5:17–18). And the church still needs the Old Testament to know Christ and his kingdom fully.

For example, the book of Hebrews states, “Since the law has but a shadow of the good things to come instead of the true form of these realities, it can never, by the same sacrifices that are continually offered every year, make perfect those who draw near. . . . For it is impossible for the blood of bulls and goats to take away sins. Consequently, when Christ came into the world, he said, ‘Behold, I have come to do your will, O God, as it is written of me in the scroll of the book’” (Heb. 10:1–7).

The Old Testament sacrifices were never meant to accomplish atonement. Animal sacrifices were a means for ancient believers to participate vicariously in the true sacrifice yet to come. Everything written about sacrifices “in the scroll of the book” was written about Jesus, the real sacrifice.

What does this mean regarding the value of the Old Testament? It means that “the scroll of the book” is exceedingly valuable for our study of the cross. The Old Testament contains the detailed theology of what Jesus came to do. In fact, Jesus was thinking about the instructions in “the scroll of the book” as he went to the cross. The Old Testament was his guidebook. If we want to know the thoughts and heart of Jesus, we will study those writings that filled his mind and soul.

For instance, the book of Leviticus describes five different offering categories: burnt offerings (Lev. 1:1–17), grain offerings (2:1–16), peace offerings (3:1–17), sin offerings (4:1–5:13), and guilt offerings (5:14–6:7). Leviticus also describes the feasting before God that those offerings make possible (6:8–7:33). Thus, in the opening seven chapters of Leviticus, we learn how atonement resolves the complex and multifaceted layers of human separation from God, restoring communion in his house. The detail is contained in Leviticus. So when we consider the once-for-all sacrifice of Jesus and desire to delve into its significance, it is important to include Leviticus in that study.

Atonement is not the only doctrine that requires the Old Testament to be studied alongside the New. Our understanding of worship, the believing community, righteousness, the family, grace, humanity, sin, vocation, and all other themes of Christian faith require “the whole counsel of God” (Act 20:27). If we neglect the Old Testament, or limit its use to morality stories, we fall into an error similar to that of ancient Marcion.

The Abiding Necessity of the OT

A helpful way to think about the relationship between the Testaments is to imagine a builder who is creating something new. First, the builder draws up blueprints for his project. Second, he makes a prototype, a small scale model or “proof of concept” of his design. Then, with the blueprints ready and the prototype complete (with all the lessons learned in the course of developing the prototype), full construction begins.

In this word picture, the blueprints are the first five books of the Bible: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy. The Hebrew name for that set of books is “Torah,” which means “Law.” Those five books are called “Law” because they form the “Kingdom Constitution” for God’s people. Its stories and commandments cast a vision for the kind of society God will build through his redeeming grace: a community marked by love for God and love for one’s neighbor (Matt. 22:34–40).

The whole world needs that grace, but God purposed to begin His kingdom with a prototype. In the early chapters of Genesis, God called a certain man (Abram) to a certain land (Canaan). And God promised to make a model kingdom from Abram’s household in that place, so that “in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed” (Gen. 12:3). The rest of the Old Testament describes that “proof of concept” project, as God built his model kingdom in Israel.

If we want to know the thoughts and heart of Jesus, we will study those writings that filled his mind and soul.

The New Testament introduces the final element in the building project. The blueprints (the Torah) are in hand. The “proof of concept” model (Old Testament Israel) was completed. The witness of that model, with all the lessons learned through its construction, is preserved in the books of the Old Testament. With these elements in place, the New Testament launches heaven’s full-scale kingdom project for the whole world.

When Jesus came, he announced, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God is at hand; repent and believe the gospel” (Mark 1:15). Jesus did not come to start something novel. He came to complete what was promised from of old: the good news of the Kingdom of God! Ignoring the Old Testament would be like throwing away the blueprints and the prototype just when we can most benefit from them, as we join the final project now under way. New Testament Christians need the Old Testament to foster a full and robust faith in Christ and his kingdom.

Sadly, the second century teacher Marcion taught otherwise. Marcion believed that the god of the Old Testament was cruel, and that he was a different being than the God of Jesus. Misreading Paul’s opposition to the works of the law, Marcion gathered disciples to himself and preached his “New Testament–only” style of faith.

In an effort to spread his ideas, Marcion sailed his ship to Rome. He delivered a generous offering of 200,000 sesterces to the church leaders there, and sought their support for his message. The ministers were troubled by Marcion’s errors and sought to correct him, but he refused their exhortations. They returned Marcion’s 200,000 sesterces and publicly warned the church against his teachings. We should continue to heed that warning, today.

The Apostles themselves had depended upon the Old Testament Scriptures, quoting from them extensively in their New Testament writings. The early church defended the importance of the Old Testament in opposition to false teachers like Marcion. Today, if we would know Christ and the fullness of the kingdom he is building, we too will hold fast to the essential unity of the Old and New Testaments.