When everything old becomes new
Commentary
Object:
Here's a parable: a man is convicted of a criminal act. But before he is sentenced to life in prison, the governing authorities issue a pardon. This convicted criminal is permitted to live in society like a law-abiding citizen. How do you think he'll be treated? Probably few people will accept him -- children will be told to stay away from him; employers won't hire him; banks won't give him a loan; landlords will refuse him as a tenant. He'll most likely be the butt of jokes, jokes that cut him down as inferior, jokes that ring with self-righteous pride.
Finally, in desperation, the man finds a home among a small community of women, men, and children who take him in because they, like him, are convicted criminals. They, like him, have received the pardon of grace. It's the present pardon that gives them unity and not the sin of the past. It's the grace of forgiveness that makes them one and not the successes or failures of other times.
In a sense, that's a picture of the church of Jesus Christ. Each person has been convicted of sin, yet each lives in the grace of God's pardoning love. What good would a pardon be if each of us were forced to live in isolation at the edges of communities that rejected us, joked about us, and refused to let us in?
To be pardoned and yet to be alone would be the worst of all punishments God could inflict on us. Instead God has created a new humanity, a society of the forgiven who no longer see each other with the scarlet letter of adultery, the neon sign of pride, the sticky fingers of materialism, or the bloody hands of murder. Each person is welcome, not because he or she is a sinner in a club of rogues, but because each has received the kiss of forgiveness from the great governor of the universe.
This theme of new out of old flows through today's lectionary passages. Jeremiah revisits the Sinai Covenant that created Israel and points to its powerful application in the coming messianic age. The writer of Hebrews takes an old, old story of a mystical king and remakes the new Messiah in his image. And Jesus himself says that old times are passing as the hour of the new age strikes.
Jeremiah 31:31-34
Jeremiah lived almost a century after Isaiah. By his time, Assyria had long ago destroyed Judah's northern brother neighbor Israel (722 BC). Judah was itself only a tiny community now, limping along with diminishing resources, and constantly tossed around by the bigger nations of its world.
Things were changing rapidly on the international scene. Assyria was being beaten down in 612 BC by its eastern bully province: Babylon. After snapping the backbone of Assyrian forces at Carchemish, and wrestling the capital city of Nineveh to the ground, Babylon immediately took over Palestine, the newer name for the old region of Canaan.
Judah was experiencing a rapid turnover of kings, many of whom were puppets of Babylon. Already the country was expected to pay yearly tribute or security bribes to Babylon, and since 606 BC had been forced to turn over some of its promising young men for propaganda retraining exile in the capital of the superpower, in anticipation that they would return to rule Judah as regents of Babylon.
For such reasons, Egypt began to loom large in many minds as the only possible ally strong enough to withstand Babylon's domination of the region. Even though Israel's identity had been forged through a divine exit strategy from oppressive Egyptian mastery several centuries before, now a good number of voices were publicly suggesting that the remaining citizens of Jerusalem get out of town before a final Babylonian occupation, and find refuge in the safer haven of Egypt.
Into these times and circumstances Jeremiah was born. From his earliest thoughts he was aware of Yahweh's special call on his life (1:4-10). This knowledge only made his prophetic ministry more gloomy, for it gave him no out in a game where the deck was stacked against him (chs. 12, 16). So he brooded through his life, deeply introspective. He fulfilled his role as gadfly to most of the kings who reigned during his life, even though it took eminent courage to do so. Although he lived an exemplary life, political officials constantly took offence at his theologically charged political commentaries and regularly arrested him and treated him badly. Jeremiah was passionately moral, never allowing compromise as a suitable temporary alternative in the shady waters of international relations or the roiling quicksand of fading religious devotion. He remained pastorally sensitive, especially to the poor and oppressed in Jerusalem, weeping in anguish as families boiled sandals and old leather to find a few nutrients during Babylonian sieges, and when he saw mothers willing to cannibalize their dying babies to keep other children alive. Above all, Jeremiah found the grace to be unshakably hopeful, truly believing to the very end that though destruction would raze Jerusalem and the temple, Yahweh would keep covenant promises and one day soon restore the fortunes of this wayward partner in the divine missional enterprise.
Jeremiah's prophecies are not collected in a chronological order. When tracked against the reigns and events of various kings, it becomes evident that the indictments of chapters 3-6 and the support for reforms as spelled out in chapters 30-31 were delivered through Jeremiah during the years of King Josiah (640-609). This might well be why today's passage resonates with the theme of the Sinai Covenant. Most striking is Jeremiah's recognition that it governs both Israel's success and its demise, and that one day soon Yahweh will find a way to renew that covenant in a manner that will keep the restored nation more faithful to its identity and true to its mission. This, of course, ties Jeremiah's visions directly to Jesus and the new age brought about by his arrival. What Jeremiah did not understand from his perspective, however, is that Jesus would split this "Day of the Lord" in two, bringing anticipations of the glorious messianic kingdom before fully resolving the toils and tragedies of this current age. This is why Jeremiah's vision is picked up in the New Testament (see, e.g., Hebrews 8) as a clear confirmation of Jesus' mission and message.
Hebrews 5:5-10
Melchizedek is a shadowy figure who only emerges three times in the Bible. First, there is a brief mention of Abram's encounter with Melchizedek, the "king of Salem" and "priest of God most high" (Genesis 14:18), after rescuing Lot from neighboring kings. Because Abram has a unique relationship with God and yet receives a blessing from Melchizedek and honors this king and priest by giving a tenth of his goods, Melchizedek gains distinction as standing above Abraham (and his descendants) in spiritual authority.
Second, the heightened sense of Melchizedek's mediatorial role is played out in Psalm 110. This song might be David's response to the promise made by God in 2 Samuel 7 that one of his descendants will always be king over God's people. Melchizedek was somehow divinely commissioned outside of the Mosaic/Aaronic family appointments, and the unique gift given to David's family had the same qualities about it.
Third, this becomes the source of allegorical material for the author of Hebrews in today's lectionary reading. Like Melchizedek, Jesus stands outside the ordinary priestly system of Israel and therefore can function in a unique way as a mediator. There is even a play made on the limited information about Melchizedek in Genesis (his parentage is not noted) and the special circumstances of Jesus' birth (the miracle of the incarnation).
The theological implications made by the writer of Hebrews are both intriguing and inspiring:
Jesus is the superior way to God (Hebrews 1-6):
-Angels delivered the Torah, but Jesus is himself the living word (chs. 1-2).
-Moses received the Torah, but Jesus is a new and living symbol (chs. 3-4) of God among us.
-Aaron and the priests sacrificed daily and yearly, but Jesus sacrificed himself once for all (chs. 5-6).
Therefore Jesus is like Melchizedek, uniquely filling a mediatorial role (Hebrews 7-10).
So keep following him in spite of challenges and tribulation (Hebrews 10-13).
In making the comparison between the old and new expressions of the covenant, the author of Hebrews does not criticize the former, but turns common perceptions on their head by assuming that the recent developments related to Jesus' coming were intended all along, with the cultic ceremonies of Israel functioning like a prelude or a preamble. Since Jesus has entered our history as the definitive revelation of God's eternal plans and designs, he has fulfilled the intent of the sacrificial system and thus made it obsolete. Thus, like Melchizedek, Jesus stands above current religious systems, including the much respected Hebrew/Jewish sacrificial ceremonies. This message and the divine Spirit energize the community of faith that now spreads its witness in this newly birthed messianic age as the Christian church.
John 12:20-33
Although its literary development is markedly different from that of the Synoptic Gospels, there is a very clear pattern to John's rehearsal of thought and portrayal of Jesus' activities and teachings in this gospel. A significant transition in referential time takes place between chapters 12 and 13 (related to the coming of the "the hour" for Jesus, central to today's lectionary passage; note 2:4, 4:23, 7:6, 12:23, 13:1, 17:1), and this change is further accentuated by the grouping of all Jesus' "miraculous signs," as John calls them, into the first twelve chapters. For these reasons the first part of John's gospel is often called "The Book of Signs," while the last part wears well the name "The Book of Glory." A highly significant prologue opens the gospel (1:1-18), and an epilogue obviously written by another party and added after the initial gospel was completed (ch. 21) brings it to a close.
The unique prologue to this gospel nurtures several ideas. First, Jesus and the message of Christianity are tied to the comprehensive foundational values shaping common philosophic systems of the day. "Logos," in the Greek mind, was the organizing principle giving meaning and identity to everything else. In that way John portrays Jesus as more than just a fine teacher who said a few nice things on a Palestinian spring afternoon. Jesus is in fact the very Creator of all things and apart from him they do not make any sense or have any meaning.
Second, "light" and "darkness" explain everything. Right up front, John helps us think through life, values, and purpose in a stark dualism that is engaged in a tug-of-war for everything and everybody. Nicodemus will come to Jesus in the darkness of night (ch. 3), only to be serenaded by Jesus' fine teachings about walking in the light. The blind man of chapter 9 is actually the only one who can truly see, according to Jesus, because all of the sighted people have darkened hearts and eyes. Judas will enter the room of the Last Supper basking in the light of the glory that surrounds Jesus (ch. 13), but when he leaves to do his dastardly deed of betrayal, the voice of the narrator ominously intones "and it was night." Evening falls as Jesus dies (ch. 19), but the floodlights of dawn rise around those who understand the power of his resurrection (ch. 20). Even in the extra story added on later (ch. 21), the disciples in the fishing boat are bereft of their netting talents until Jesus shows up at the crack of dawn, tells them where to find a great catch, and is recognized by them in the growing light. Darkness, in the gospel of John, means sin, evil, and blindness and the malady of a world trying to make it on its own apart from its Creator. Light, on the other hand, symbolizes the return of life, faith, goodness, health, salvation, hope, and the presence of God.
Third, as a corollary to these ideas, John shows us that salvation itself is a kind of re-creation. Using deliberate word play to bind the opening of the gospel to the sentences that start Genesis, John communicates that the world made lively by the Creator has fallen under the deadly pall of evil and needs to be delivered. The only way that this renewal can happen is if the Creator re-injects planet earth with a personal and concentrated dose of the original light by which all things were made. Although many still wander in blindness or shrink back from the light, like rodents who have become accustomed to the inner darkness of a rotting garbage dump, those to whom sight is restored become children of God once again.
This leads to a fourth theme of the prologue, namely that the New Testament era is merely the Old Testament mission of God revived in a new form. Jesus, the Logos, comes to earth and "tabernacles" among us (v. 14), just as the Creator had done when covenanting with Israel to become a witness to the nations. Furthermore, those who truly recognize Jesus for who he is, see in him the "glory" of the Father. This is a direct link to the Shekinah glory light of God that filled the tabernacle and the temple, announcing the divine presence.
With these parameters established, John organizes a very deliberately shaped encounter with Jesus. The seven "miraculous signs" not only provide healing and hope to those who were first the objects of divine grace through Jesus, but they dig deeper into biblical history to replay the major scenes of the Old Testament in a way that reasserts the mission of God but shifts its agency from Israel to Jesus. Just as sin first disrupted the marriage of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, so Jesus first displays his regenerative powers to restore the celebration at a wedding (ch. 2). While Adam and Eve mourned the loss of their son through murder brought about by sin, a new nobleman (John deliberately sets this character above national, tribal, or ethnic limitations that are otherwise used to identify all other persons in the gospel) receives back his son from the dead (ch. 4). Next Jesus encounters a man who has been ailing for 38 years (ch. 5) and who can only otherwise be healed by passing through waters that have been divinely disturbed; interestingly, Moses, in Deuteronomy 2:14, gives the only other reference to 38 in all of the Bible and talks about it as the amount of time that the Israelites have been wandering in the wilderness waiting for the shalom that can come to them only if they pass through the waters of the Jordan River, which will be divinely disturbed in order to make the crossing possible.
In this way John continues to portray Jesus as the new agent of divine redemption functioning in parallel to manner in which God dealt with Israel of the Old Testament. Jesus, too, feeds the people of God in the wilderness (ch. 6) and tames the raging waters that in the darkness prevent God's people from entering the Promised Land (ch. 6). Furthermore, as Isaiah was told about the blindness of the people in his day (Isaiah 6), Jesus contends with similar dysfunctional eyes (ch. 9). And just as Ezekiel had to preach to the dead nation of Israel in order to resurrect it from the grave of exile (Ezekiel 37), so Jesus brings back to life one of his dear friends who has died (ch. 11), symbolizing the ultimate goal of divine grace.
It is only when the seven signs have been published to the world that the "Greeks" (John's notation for the whole world out there, beyond our tiny Jewish enclave) come seeking Jesus (12:21). Then, immediately, Jesus declares that his hour has come. Why? Because the salvation of God sent to this world (John 3:16-17) has been recognized through the signs and received by the world. It has begun to make an impact, and the world will never again be merely content with darkness. Dawn is breaking.
Application
In one congregation I served, a young woman used to come with her friends. She was a nursing student, full of zest, the life of every party. But she was bored at our worship services. She would settle in at the edge of the bench and yawn through the whole message. When everybody stood to sing, she'd stand and look around, just waiting for it all to be finished.
I'll never forget one Sunday morning. It was Easter. When we started singing, she beamed! Her face shone as she made music as energetically as anyone else. I made sure I found her after worship.
"What happened, Chris?" I said. "You're different today!"
Then she told me about her family. Her parents had been divorced years before. Things were bad between her mom and dad. They hurt each other a lot and they never forgave each other.
Then her dad got cancer. He died the week before. Chris and her mom had flown out to see him just before the end. He told them he was a Christian. He told them he was sorry for all the grief he had put them through. He told them about how Jesus had forgiven him. He told them about the cross of Good Friday. When they started to cry together, he told them about Easter Sunday.
Suddenly it all made sense to Chris. That's why she was singing today! Jesus touched her father's life, and now Chris knew his love too. Out of the old had come the new, as Ira Sankey put it in one of his musical testimonies:
My life flows on in endless song; above earth's lamentation
I hear the sweet though far off hymn that hails the new creation:
Through all the tumult and the strife I hear the music ringing;
It finds an echo in my soul -- how can I keep from singing?1
An Alternative Application
Hebrews 5:5-10. The name "Melchizedek" has always intrigued me. I wonder what a "Melchizedek" would look like; rather imposing, I'm sure. The name rolls around for a while before it comes out. You begin with soft sounds and warm touches and then you sort of sneeze the rest of it out. In my mind, Melchizedek would have to be rather tall; a short Melchizedek just wouldn't be Melchizedek. Maybe "Melchy" or "Chizy" but not the whole thing.
A Melchizedek would have to be fairly old too. A handle like that could crush a baby. Can you imagine youngsters playing ball and the coach calling for Melchizedek to get in the game? He'd be laughed off the field. No, there's something old and tall and wise and authoritative about a person who fits the name Melchizedek.
You can't have too many people in your community by the name of Melchizedek either. It loses its punch if you see it on every 37th mailbox. Melchizedeks are few and far between. They have to be or they can't be Melchizedeks. Not that you don't want one around; a good Melchizedek in the family line sort of spruces it up. You can point to that name back in the pages of the family Bible, and it gives importance to your bloodline: "See! I come from a good family."
However, it's not one of those names you want to pass down from generation to generation either. You can understand it when someone wants to call a baby Franklin Jr., or Theodore Geisbert IV. But you have to handle a name like Melchizedek with care. One Melchizedek is enough; you wouldn't want to try to clone him or force someone else to walk in his shoes.
There's something royal in the name, of course. A Melchizedek deserves to rule. Maybe that's not putting it strongly enough: a Melchizedek needs to rule. Authority goes with the name. You can't be a Melchizedek and be a wimp at the same time. In fact, you might find a Melchizedek in kingly legends, like the quest for the Holy Grail. A Melchizedek shouldn't just slump there on his throne and grow benignly old; he should have a mission, a purpose, a cause to champion, a crusade to march in. If a Melchizedek sits around too long you start calling him "the old man," "the head honcho," or something demeaning like that. But when you see him on his steed, something in you stirs magnificently. His face is slightly weather-beaten, and his hair is brushed by the wind. You know he's a man of purpose. You know there's depth to him.
So what's this all about? Are we dancing around in ignorance, trying to make something out of a name that's only mentioned twice in the Old Testament (Genesis 14:18 and Psalm 110) and in a single New Testament passage (Hebrews 5-7)? Is this an exercise in theological silliness?
Not really. Melchizedek is a strange figure, scattered lightly across the scriptures. Of himself, he doesn't really amount to much. But his very insignificance, coupled with the single act of faith to which he's tied in the life of Abraham (Genesis 14:18-20), has given him the stature of prince among legends.
That's really the point of these references to him. With whom can you compare a divinely appointed king like David, or his greater Son Jesus? Certainly these don't fit the mold of the other monarchs. In fact, when David resembles them most, he's least like his truest self. David is the stuff that becomes a legend. And before he becomes one himself, you can only talk about him and his sons in the hushed terms of larger-than-life figures. Like Melchizedek.
The Bible doesn't let us read too much theology into Melchizedek. When it comes to thinking about David and Jesus, our thoughts naturally turn to those few who stand slightly above the natural order of things. Melchizedek, of course, comes to mind.
That's probably why David's later, greater son ran into the same family history generations further along. Someone probably bumped into him one day and started thinking, "That man's got a Melchizedek in the family tree, I'm sure."
__________
1. Ira Sankey, "How Can I Keep From Singing?"
Finally, in desperation, the man finds a home among a small community of women, men, and children who take him in because they, like him, are convicted criminals. They, like him, have received the pardon of grace. It's the present pardon that gives them unity and not the sin of the past. It's the grace of forgiveness that makes them one and not the successes or failures of other times.
In a sense, that's a picture of the church of Jesus Christ. Each person has been convicted of sin, yet each lives in the grace of God's pardoning love. What good would a pardon be if each of us were forced to live in isolation at the edges of communities that rejected us, joked about us, and refused to let us in?
To be pardoned and yet to be alone would be the worst of all punishments God could inflict on us. Instead God has created a new humanity, a society of the forgiven who no longer see each other with the scarlet letter of adultery, the neon sign of pride, the sticky fingers of materialism, or the bloody hands of murder. Each person is welcome, not because he or she is a sinner in a club of rogues, but because each has received the kiss of forgiveness from the great governor of the universe.
This theme of new out of old flows through today's lectionary passages. Jeremiah revisits the Sinai Covenant that created Israel and points to its powerful application in the coming messianic age. The writer of Hebrews takes an old, old story of a mystical king and remakes the new Messiah in his image. And Jesus himself says that old times are passing as the hour of the new age strikes.
Jeremiah 31:31-34
Jeremiah lived almost a century after Isaiah. By his time, Assyria had long ago destroyed Judah's northern brother neighbor Israel (722 BC). Judah was itself only a tiny community now, limping along with diminishing resources, and constantly tossed around by the bigger nations of its world.
Things were changing rapidly on the international scene. Assyria was being beaten down in 612 BC by its eastern bully province: Babylon. After snapping the backbone of Assyrian forces at Carchemish, and wrestling the capital city of Nineveh to the ground, Babylon immediately took over Palestine, the newer name for the old region of Canaan.
Judah was experiencing a rapid turnover of kings, many of whom were puppets of Babylon. Already the country was expected to pay yearly tribute or security bribes to Babylon, and since 606 BC had been forced to turn over some of its promising young men for propaganda retraining exile in the capital of the superpower, in anticipation that they would return to rule Judah as regents of Babylon.
For such reasons, Egypt began to loom large in many minds as the only possible ally strong enough to withstand Babylon's domination of the region. Even though Israel's identity had been forged through a divine exit strategy from oppressive Egyptian mastery several centuries before, now a good number of voices were publicly suggesting that the remaining citizens of Jerusalem get out of town before a final Babylonian occupation, and find refuge in the safer haven of Egypt.
Into these times and circumstances Jeremiah was born. From his earliest thoughts he was aware of Yahweh's special call on his life (1:4-10). This knowledge only made his prophetic ministry more gloomy, for it gave him no out in a game where the deck was stacked against him (chs. 12, 16). So he brooded through his life, deeply introspective. He fulfilled his role as gadfly to most of the kings who reigned during his life, even though it took eminent courage to do so. Although he lived an exemplary life, political officials constantly took offence at his theologically charged political commentaries and regularly arrested him and treated him badly. Jeremiah was passionately moral, never allowing compromise as a suitable temporary alternative in the shady waters of international relations or the roiling quicksand of fading religious devotion. He remained pastorally sensitive, especially to the poor and oppressed in Jerusalem, weeping in anguish as families boiled sandals and old leather to find a few nutrients during Babylonian sieges, and when he saw mothers willing to cannibalize their dying babies to keep other children alive. Above all, Jeremiah found the grace to be unshakably hopeful, truly believing to the very end that though destruction would raze Jerusalem and the temple, Yahweh would keep covenant promises and one day soon restore the fortunes of this wayward partner in the divine missional enterprise.
Jeremiah's prophecies are not collected in a chronological order. When tracked against the reigns and events of various kings, it becomes evident that the indictments of chapters 3-6 and the support for reforms as spelled out in chapters 30-31 were delivered through Jeremiah during the years of King Josiah (640-609). This might well be why today's passage resonates with the theme of the Sinai Covenant. Most striking is Jeremiah's recognition that it governs both Israel's success and its demise, and that one day soon Yahweh will find a way to renew that covenant in a manner that will keep the restored nation more faithful to its identity and true to its mission. This, of course, ties Jeremiah's visions directly to Jesus and the new age brought about by his arrival. What Jeremiah did not understand from his perspective, however, is that Jesus would split this "Day of the Lord" in two, bringing anticipations of the glorious messianic kingdom before fully resolving the toils and tragedies of this current age. This is why Jeremiah's vision is picked up in the New Testament (see, e.g., Hebrews 8) as a clear confirmation of Jesus' mission and message.
Hebrews 5:5-10
Melchizedek is a shadowy figure who only emerges three times in the Bible. First, there is a brief mention of Abram's encounter with Melchizedek, the "king of Salem" and "priest of God most high" (Genesis 14:18), after rescuing Lot from neighboring kings. Because Abram has a unique relationship with God and yet receives a blessing from Melchizedek and honors this king and priest by giving a tenth of his goods, Melchizedek gains distinction as standing above Abraham (and his descendants) in spiritual authority.
Second, the heightened sense of Melchizedek's mediatorial role is played out in Psalm 110. This song might be David's response to the promise made by God in 2 Samuel 7 that one of his descendants will always be king over God's people. Melchizedek was somehow divinely commissioned outside of the Mosaic/Aaronic family appointments, and the unique gift given to David's family had the same qualities about it.
Third, this becomes the source of allegorical material for the author of Hebrews in today's lectionary reading. Like Melchizedek, Jesus stands outside the ordinary priestly system of Israel and therefore can function in a unique way as a mediator. There is even a play made on the limited information about Melchizedek in Genesis (his parentage is not noted) and the special circumstances of Jesus' birth (the miracle of the incarnation).
The theological implications made by the writer of Hebrews are both intriguing and inspiring:
Jesus is the superior way to God (Hebrews 1-6):
-Angels delivered the Torah, but Jesus is himself the living word (chs. 1-2).
-Moses received the Torah, but Jesus is a new and living symbol (chs. 3-4) of God among us.
-Aaron and the priests sacrificed daily and yearly, but Jesus sacrificed himself once for all (chs. 5-6).
Therefore Jesus is like Melchizedek, uniquely filling a mediatorial role (Hebrews 7-10).
So keep following him in spite of challenges and tribulation (Hebrews 10-13).
In making the comparison between the old and new expressions of the covenant, the author of Hebrews does not criticize the former, but turns common perceptions on their head by assuming that the recent developments related to Jesus' coming were intended all along, with the cultic ceremonies of Israel functioning like a prelude or a preamble. Since Jesus has entered our history as the definitive revelation of God's eternal plans and designs, he has fulfilled the intent of the sacrificial system and thus made it obsolete. Thus, like Melchizedek, Jesus stands above current religious systems, including the much respected Hebrew/Jewish sacrificial ceremonies. This message and the divine Spirit energize the community of faith that now spreads its witness in this newly birthed messianic age as the Christian church.
John 12:20-33
Although its literary development is markedly different from that of the Synoptic Gospels, there is a very clear pattern to John's rehearsal of thought and portrayal of Jesus' activities and teachings in this gospel. A significant transition in referential time takes place between chapters 12 and 13 (related to the coming of the "the hour" for Jesus, central to today's lectionary passage; note 2:4, 4:23, 7:6, 12:23, 13:1, 17:1), and this change is further accentuated by the grouping of all Jesus' "miraculous signs," as John calls them, into the first twelve chapters. For these reasons the first part of John's gospel is often called "The Book of Signs," while the last part wears well the name "The Book of Glory." A highly significant prologue opens the gospel (1:1-18), and an epilogue obviously written by another party and added after the initial gospel was completed (ch. 21) brings it to a close.
The unique prologue to this gospel nurtures several ideas. First, Jesus and the message of Christianity are tied to the comprehensive foundational values shaping common philosophic systems of the day. "Logos," in the Greek mind, was the organizing principle giving meaning and identity to everything else. In that way John portrays Jesus as more than just a fine teacher who said a few nice things on a Palestinian spring afternoon. Jesus is in fact the very Creator of all things and apart from him they do not make any sense or have any meaning.
Second, "light" and "darkness" explain everything. Right up front, John helps us think through life, values, and purpose in a stark dualism that is engaged in a tug-of-war for everything and everybody. Nicodemus will come to Jesus in the darkness of night (ch. 3), only to be serenaded by Jesus' fine teachings about walking in the light. The blind man of chapter 9 is actually the only one who can truly see, according to Jesus, because all of the sighted people have darkened hearts and eyes. Judas will enter the room of the Last Supper basking in the light of the glory that surrounds Jesus (ch. 13), but when he leaves to do his dastardly deed of betrayal, the voice of the narrator ominously intones "and it was night." Evening falls as Jesus dies (ch. 19), but the floodlights of dawn rise around those who understand the power of his resurrection (ch. 20). Even in the extra story added on later (ch. 21), the disciples in the fishing boat are bereft of their netting talents until Jesus shows up at the crack of dawn, tells them where to find a great catch, and is recognized by them in the growing light. Darkness, in the gospel of John, means sin, evil, and blindness and the malady of a world trying to make it on its own apart from its Creator. Light, on the other hand, symbolizes the return of life, faith, goodness, health, salvation, hope, and the presence of God.
Third, as a corollary to these ideas, John shows us that salvation itself is a kind of re-creation. Using deliberate word play to bind the opening of the gospel to the sentences that start Genesis, John communicates that the world made lively by the Creator has fallen under the deadly pall of evil and needs to be delivered. The only way that this renewal can happen is if the Creator re-injects planet earth with a personal and concentrated dose of the original light by which all things were made. Although many still wander in blindness or shrink back from the light, like rodents who have become accustomed to the inner darkness of a rotting garbage dump, those to whom sight is restored become children of God once again.
This leads to a fourth theme of the prologue, namely that the New Testament era is merely the Old Testament mission of God revived in a new form. Jesus, the Logos, comes to earth and "tabernacles" among us (v. 14), just as the Creator had done when covenanting with Israel to become a witness to the nations. Furthermore, those who truly recognize Jesus for who he is, see in him the "glory" of the Father. This is a direct link to the Shekinah glory light of God that filled the tabernacle and the temple, announcing the divine presence.
With these parameters established, John organizes a very deliberately shaped encounter with Jesus. The seven "miraculous signs" not only provide healing and hope to those who were first the objects of divine grace through Jesus, but they dig deeper into biblical history to replay the major scenes of the Old Testament in a way that reasserts the mission of God but shifts its agency from Israel to Jesus. Just as sin first disrupted the marriage of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, so Jesus first displays his regenerative powers to restore the celebration at a wedding (ch. 2). While Adam and Eve mourned the loss of their son through murder brought about by sin, a new nobleman (John deliberately sets this character above national, tribal, or ethnic limitations that are otherwise used to identify all other persons in the gospel) receives back his son from the dead (ch. 4). Next Jesus encounters a man who has been ailing for 38 years (ch. 5) and who can only otherwise be healed by passing through waters that have been divinely disturbed; interestingly, Moses, in Deuteronomy 2:14, gives the only other reference to 38 in all of the Bible and talks about it as the amount of time that the Israelites have been wandering in the wilderness waiting for the shalom that can come to them only if they pass through the waters of the Jordan River, which will be divinely disturbed in order to make the crossing possible.
In this way John continues to portray Jesus as the new agent of divine redemption functioning in parallel to manner in which God dealt with Israel of the Old Testament. Jesus, too, feeds the people of God in the wilderness (ch. 6) and tames the raging waters that in the darkness prevent God's people from entering the Promised Land (ch. 6). Furthermore, as Isaiah was told about the blindness of the people in his day (Isaiah 6), Jesus contends with similar dysfunctional eyes (ch. 9). And just as Ezekiel had to preach to the dead nation of Israel in order to resurrect it from the grave of exile (Ezekiel 37), so Jesus brings back to life one of his dear friends who has died (ch. 11), symbolizing the ultimate goal of divine grace.
It is only when the seven signs have been published to the world that the "Greeks" (John's notation for the whole world out there, beyond our tiny Jewish enclave) come seeking Jesus (12:21). Then, immediately, Jesus declares that his hour has come. Why? Because the salvation of God sent to this world (John 3:16-17) has been recognized through the signs and received by the world. It has begun to make an impact, and the world will never again be merely content with darkness. Dawn is breaking.
Application
In one congregation I served, a young woman used to come with her friends. She was a nursing student, full of zest, the life of every party. But she was bored at our worship services. She would settle in at the edge of the bench and yawn through the whole message. When everybody stood to sing, she'd stand and look around, just waiting for it all to be finished.
I'll never forget one Sunday morning. It was Easter. When we started singing, she beamed! Her face shone as she made music as energetically as anyone else. I made sure I found her after worship.
"What happened, Chris?" I said. "You're different today!"
Then she told me about her family. Her parents had been divorced years before. Things were bad between her mom and dad. They hurt each other a lot and they never forgave each other.
Then her dad got cancer. He died the week before. Chris and her mom had flown out to see him just before the end. He told them he was a Christian. He told them he was sorry for all the grief he had put them through. He told them about how Jesus had forgiven him. He told them about the cross of Good Friday. When they started to cry together, he told them about Easter Sunday.
Suddenly it all made sense to Chris. That's why she was singing today! Jesus touched her father's life, and now Chris knew his love too. Out of the old had come the new, as Ira Sankey put it in one of his musical testimonies:
My life flows on in endless song; above earth's lamentation
I hear the sweet though far off hymn that hails the new creation:
Through all the tumult and the strife I hear the music ringing;
It finds an echo in my soul -- how can I keep from singing?1
An Alternative Application
Hebrews 5:5-10. The name "Melchizedek" has always intrigued me. I wonder what a "Melchizedek" would look like; rather imposing, I'm sure. The name rolls around for a while before it comes out. You begin with soft sounds and warm touches and then you sort of sneeze the rest of it out. In my mind, Melchizedek would have to be rather tall; a short Melchizedek just wouldn't be Melchizedek. Maybe "Melchy" or "Chizy" but not the whole thing.
A Melchizedek would have to be fairly old too. A handle like that could crush a baby. Can you imagine youngsters playing ball and the coach calling for Melchizedek to get in the game? He'd be laughed off the field. No, there's something old and tall and wise and authoritative about a person who fits the name Melchizedek.
You can't have too many people in your community by the name of Melchizedek either. It loses its punch if you see it on every 37th mailbox. Melchizedeks are few and far between. They have to be or they can't be Melchizedeks. Not that you don't want one around; a good Melchizedek in the family line sort of spruces it up. You can point to that name back in the pages of the family Bible, and it gives importance to your bloodline: "See! I come from a good family."
However, it's not one of those names you want to pass down from generation to generation either. You can understand it when someone wants to call a baby Franklin Jr., or Theodore Geisbert IV. But you have to handle a name like Melchizedek with care. One Melchizedek is enough; you wouldn't want to try to clone him or force someone else to walk in his shoes.
There's something royal in the name, of course. A Melchizedek deserves to rule. Maybe that's not putting it strongly enough: a Melchizedek needs to rule. Authority goes with the name. You can't be a Melchizedek and be a wimp at the same time. In fact, you might find a Melchizedek in kingly legends, like the quest for the Holy Grail. A Melchizedek shouldn't just slump there on his throne and grow benignly old; he should have a mission, a purpose, a cause to champion, a crusade to march in. If a Melchizedek sits around too long you start calling him "the old man," "the head honcho," or something demeaning like that. But when you see him on his steed, something in you stirs magnificently. His face is slightly weather-beaten, and his hair is brushed by the wind. You know he's a man of purpose. You know there's depth to him.
So what's this all about? Are we dancing around in ignorance, trying to make something out of a name that's only mentioned twice in the Old Testament (Genesis 14:18 and Psalm 110) and in a single New Testament passage (Hebrews 5-7)? Is this an exercise in theological silliness?
Not really. Melchizedek is a strange figure, scattered lightly across the scriptures. Of himself, he doesn't really amount to much. But his very insignificance, coupled with the single act of faith to which he's tied in the life of Abraham (Genesis 14:18-20), has given him the stature of prince among legends.
That's really the point of these references to him. With whom can you compare a divinely appointed king like David, or his greater Son Jesus? Certainly these don't fit the mold of the other monarchs. In fact, when David resembles them most, he's least like his truest self. David is the stuff that becomes a legend. And before he becomes one himself, you can only talk about him and his sons in the hushed terms of larger-than-life figures. Like Melchizedek.
The Bible doesn't let us read too much theology into Melchizedek. When it comes to thinking about David and Jesus, our thoughts naturally turn to those few who stand slightly above the natural order of things. Melchizedek, of course, comes to mind.
That's probably why David's later, greater son ran into the same family history generations further along. Someone probably bumped into him one day and started thinking, "That man's got a Melchizedek in the family tree, I'm sure."
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1. Ira Sankey, "How Can I Keep From Singing?"
