Darkness and Light Wrestle Again
Commentary
In the blackness, in the bleakness, we need to sense God’s presence. We need to know that God is there, even if, like Job, we do not understand what is happening around us and inside of us. “The restless millions wait for the Light,” says George Bernanos, “Whose dawning maketh all things new.”
This is the dilemma of Israel in Egypt. This is the struggle of life in Corinth. This is the washing of waves surrounding Jesus and his disciples “on the night in which he was betrayed.”
C. S. Lewis pictured it well. Caught in a Darkness at sea, too terrifying for words, a Darkness that crawled and oozed and grabbed and stuck, the children of Lewis’s Narnia world sailed their ship, the Dawntreader, in circles of fear. “If you’ve ever loved us at all,” cries Lucy to the skies, “send us help now!”
And in a growing speck of light that seemed, Lucy thought, to look a lot like a cross, the battle of the powers whirled around them, till Darkness and fear melted before his Brightness.
“God is Light,” said the apostle John, and no Darkness in this world has ever held back his Dawning!
Exodus 12:1-4, (5-10), 11-14
Moses’ story begins in the struggles of Exodus 1–19. A nasty relationship has developed between the Pharaoh of Egypt and the Israelites, descendants of the family of Joseph, a political superstar who had once saved nearly everyone in the ancient near east from famine (Genesis 41-50). An editorial note declares that “Joseph” has been forgotten, and this small reference forms the bridge that later draws Genesis into an even more broadly extended historical prologue to the Sinai covenant. We find out, by reading backwards, that Joseph was the critical link between the Egyptians and this other ethnic community living within its borders. When the good that Joseph did for both races was forgotten, the dominant Egyptian culture attempted to dehumanize and then destroy these Israelite aliens. An edict was issued to kill all male newborn Israelites by drowning them in the Nile river.
This deadly solution proposed by the Pharaoh as an antidote to the rising population of his slave community may sound harsh, but it was likely a very modest and welcomed political maneuver among his primary subjects. Because there is virtually no rain in Egypt, with most of its territory lying in or on the edge of the great Saharan desert, the Nile is and was the critical source of water that sustained life throughout the region. The Nile “miraculously” ebbed and flowed annually, responding to the rains of central Africa, thousands of miles away. Far removed from Egypt’s farmlands and cities, this process was attributed to the gods that nurtured Egyptian civilization. Thus, it was fitting for the people to pay homage to these gods, especially by giving appropriate sacrifices to the power of the Nile. In that manner, having the boy babies of the Hebrews tossed into the Nile’s currents would not have been considered genocide, but instead it would be deemed a suitable civic and cultural responsibility. Such a practice provided the Nile god with fittingly dear tribute, and at the same time allowed the bulk of the Egyptian population to save its own babies by substituting those of this surrogate vassal people living within their borders.
Moses’ own name ties him to the royal family of Egypt and its influence (note the frequent occurrence of the letters MSS in the names of Pharaohs of the eighteenth through twentieth dynasties—Thutmoses, Ramses, etc.), and his training in the palace schools would provide him with skills that set him apart from the rest of the Israelites in preparation for his unique leadership responsibilities. Moses’ time in the wilderness, on the other hand, made him familiar with Bedouin life, and similarly fortified his ability to stand at the head of a wandering community once Israel was released from slavery.
In Moses’ unique encounter with God at Mt. Horeb (Exodus 3–4), he experienced the power of the forgotten deity of Israel, and learned a name by which this divinity would soon become known again to the people. “Yahweh” is a variation on the Hebrew verb of existence, and that is why translators bring it into English with terms like “I am” or “I will be.” Furthermore, through the voice from the burning bush, this God immediately connected the current events with a specific past through a historical recitation that would later be explicated at length in the extended Genesis historical prologue to the Sinai covenant: Yahweh is the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Because of the promises made to that family, Moses is now to become the agent through whom the Israelites will be returned to the land promised to their ancestors. Of course, this is what triggered the battle for control of the nation, and eventually set the stage for Yahweh to claim Suzerainty over Israel at Mt. Sinai.
The conflict intensifies in Exodus 5:1–6:12 when Moses makes his first dramatic appearance back in Egypt. The Pharaoh’s initial reaction is disdain; why should he listen to the apocalyptic ravings of a wilderness wild man, even if he seems unusually aware of Egyptian language and protocol?
At this point the famous plagues enter the story. While these miracles of divine judgment make for great Hollywood screenplay, the reason for this extended weird display of divine power is not always apparent to those of us who live in very different cultural contexts, especially when it is interspersed with notes that Pharaoh’s heart was hardened, sometimes, in fact, seemingly as an act of Yahweh. Could not Yahweh have provided a less destructive and deadly exit strategy for Israel?
The plagues begin to make sense when they are viewed in reference to Egypt’s climate and culture. After the initial sparring between Moses and the Pharaoh’s sorcerers (Exodus 7:10-13) with snakes to show magical skills, the stakes are raised far beyond human ability merely to manipulate the natural order. First the waters are turned to blood; then the marshes send out a massive, unwelcome pilgrimage of frogs; next the dust is beat into gnats, soon to be followed by even peskier flies; subsequently the livestock gets sick from the dust, and this illness then spreads to human life in the form of boils and open sores; penultimately the heavens send down mortar shells of hail, transport in a foreign army of locusts, and then withhold the light of the sun; finally, in an awful culmination, the firstborn humans and animals across Egypt die suddenly.
Strange. But not quite as much when seen in three successive groupings. Among the many deities worshipped in ancient Egypt, none superseded a triumvirate composed by the Nile, the good earth, and the heavens which were the home of the sun. So it was that the initial plagues of bloody water and frogs both turned the Nile against the Egyptians, and showed the dominance of Yahweh over this critical source of national life.
The ante was then upped when Yahweh took on the farmland of Egypt, one of the great breadbaskets of the world. Instead of producing crops, Moses showed, by way of plagues three through six, how Yahweh could cause these fertile alluvial plains to generate all manner of irritating and deadly pestilence, making it an enemy instead of a friend. Finally, in the third stage of plagues, the heavens themselves became menacing. Rather than providing the sheltering confidence of benign sameness, one day the heavens attacked with the hailstone mortar fire of an unseen enemy. Next these same heavens served as the highway of an invading army of locusts. Then old friend Ra (the sun), the crowning deity of Egyptian religion, simply vanished for three days. The gloom that terrified the Egyptians was no mere fear of darkness but rather the ominous trepidation that their primary deity had been bested by the God of the Israelites.
All of this culminated in the final foray of this cosmic battle, when the link of life between generations and human connectedness with ultimate reality was severed through the killing of Egypt’s firstborn. The Egyptians believed that the firstborn carried the cultural significance of each family and species, so in a sudden and dramatic moment the very chain of life destroyed. Furthermore, since the Pharaohs themselves were presumed to be deity incarnate, descending directly from the sun by way of firstborn inheritance, cutting this link eviscerated the life-potency of the Egyptian civilization not only for the present but also for the future. It was a true cultural, religious, political and social knockout punch.
This explains why the plagues originally served not as gory illustration material for modern Sunday school papers, but rather as the divine initiatives in an escalating battle between Yahweh and the Pharaoh of Egypt over claims on the people of Israel. The plagues were a necessary prologue to the Sinai covenant because they displayed and substantiated the sovereignty of Yahweh as Suzerain not only over Israel but also over other contenders. Israel belongs to Yahweh both because of historic promises made to Abraham, and also by way of chivalrous combat in which Yahweh won back the prize of lover and human companion from the usurper who had stolen her away from the divine heart. Furthermore, Yahweh accomplished this act without the help of Israel’s own resources (no armies, no resistance movements, no terrorist tactics, no great escape plans), and in a decisive manner that announced the limitations of the Egyptian religious and cultural resources.
This is why the final plague is paired with the institution of the Passover festival (Exodus 12). The annual festival would become an ongoing reminder that Israel was bought back by way of a blood-price redemption, and that the nation owed its very existence to the love and fighting jealousy of its divine champion. In one momentous confrontation, Egypt lost its firstborn and its cultural heritage, while Israel became Yahweh’s firstborn and rightful inheritance.
1 Corinthians 11:23-26
Paul’s response to questions from the Corinthian congregation about worship practices (11:2–33) contains a reflection on two social value systems. First, with regard to differing roles for women and men in society, Paul wants to ensure that the genders are not blurred. There is a creational distinction between females and males, according to Paul, and this must not be erased, even by the freedoms found in Christ. At the same time, this gender distinction ought not to undermine the broad equality by which the gifts of the Spirit are distributed. Both women and men can and should prophesy. Spiritual leadership in the church is not limited by gender.
Second, in a review of the church’s celebration of “the Lord’s Supper,” as it was becoming known, another facet of social interaction was addressed. The “differences” within the congregation were not only of the kind where parties became loyal to different leaders (1 Corinthians 1–3), but also the manifestation of divergent socioeconomic groupings present in Corinthian society. The reason why some who attended these Lord’s Supper gatherings “go ahead without waiting for anybody else” and others “remain hungry,” was due to the divergent lifestyle practices of the rich and the poor among them. Wealthy people were able to come and go as they pleased, including showing up to worship services, potluck dinners and Lord’s Supper celebrations right at the start. The poor and the slaves, however (some likely coming from the same households), were often late to arrive because they had to fulfill their domestic work obligations first. Paul declared that “recognizing the body of the Lord” was necessary if the Lord’s Supper was to be celebrated properly. This did not mean having the capacity to understand an appropriate theological theory of the atonement, or some other such cognitive ability. Instead, it amounted to remembering that all who belong to Jesus are welcome at his table, and none have more rights than others. If this socially and economically diverse group of society was indeed the body of Christ, each must live and act accordingly, making room at the table for all.
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
Once the transition takes place, in John’s gospel, from the “Book of Signs” to the “Book of Glory,” only two major events happen. First, Jesus meets for an extended meal and conversation with his disciples (chapters 13-17). This lengthy monologue seems somewhat meandering and repetitive until it is viewed through the Hebrew communication lens of chiasm. Then the “Farewell Discourse,” as it is known, takes on new depth, as it weaves back and forth, and climaxes in the middle. This parting exhortation becomes an obviously deeply moving instruction Jesus’ followers to remain connected to him by way of the powerful “Paraclete” (a Greek term meaning “counselor” or “advocate”), in the face of the troubling that will come upon them because of his imminent physical departure, and the rising persecutions targeted toward them by the world that remains in darkness. In chiastic summary, the Farewell Discourse can be portrayed in this manner:
Gathering experience of unity 13:1–35
Prediction of disciple’s denial 13:36–38
Jesus’ departure tempered by Father’s power 14:1–14
Promise of the “Paraclete” 14:15–24
Troubling encounter with the world 14:25–31
“Abide in Me!” teaching 15:1–17
Troubling encounter with the world 15:18–16:4a
Promise of the “Paraclete” 16:4b–15
Jesus’ departure tempered by Father’s power 16:16–28
Prediction of disciple’s denial 16:29–33
Departing experience of unity 17:1–26
Every element of this “Farewell Discourse” is doubled with a parallel passage except for Jesus’ central teaching that his disciples should “abide in me.” Furthermore, these parallel passages are arranged in reverse order in the second half to their initial expression in the first half. At the heart of it all comes the unparalleled vine and branches teaching, which functions as the chiastic center and ultimate focus of the discourse as a whole. In effect, John shows us how the transforming power of Jesus as the light of the world is to take effect. Jesus comes into this darkened world as a brilliant ray of re-creative light and life. But if he goes about his business all by himself, the light will have limited penetrating value, over against the expansive and pervasive darkness that has consumed this world. So a multiplication and amplification has to happen.
In this chiastic “Farewell Discourse,” Jesus makes clear the meaning of everything. His disciples have been transformed from darkness to light (and thus from death to life) through Jesus’ incorporation of them into fellowship with himself and the Father (chapters 13 and 17). This does not free them immediately from struggles, as seen in Judas’ betrayal and the coming denial of them all. But the connection between the Father and the disciples is secure, because it is initiated by the Father, and will last even when Jesus disappears from them very shortly, because the powerful “Paraclete” will arrive to dispense Jesus’ on-going presence with them all, wherever they go and in whatever circumstances they find themselves. Of course, that will only trigger further conflicts and confrontations with “the world.” So (and here’s the central element of the discourse), “abide in me!” Either you are with the darkness or you are with the light. Either you are dead because of the power of the world, or you are alive in me. And, of course, if you “abide in me,” you will glow with my light, and the multiplication of the seed sown will take place. Eventually, through you, the light that comes into the world through Jesus will bring light to everyone. It is a picture of the mission of God, promised to Abraham, enacted geographically through Israel, but now become a global movement through Jesus’ disciples who “abide” in him through the power of the “Paraclete.”
Application
Fred Craddock once flew to Winnipeg, Manitoba, to speak at a church conference. Unfortunately, his arrival coincided with the worst snowstorm of the decade. When no one picked him up at the airport, Fred found a taxi willing to brave the whiteouts and drifts in the drive required to get him to his motel. There a message awaited him; he was to call the man who booked him for the conference.
“I’m sorry, Fred,” said the man. “We didn’t count on this blizzard. We’ve had to cancel the conference. In fact, we’re so snowed in here at the church that we can’t even get out there to the motel to pick you up for a meal. You’re on your own.”
The motel was not all that great. It didn’t even have a restaurant. When Fred called the office to find directions to some food place nearby, a woman suggested the coffee shop at the bus depot. It was about a block and a half away. Battling gale force winds and stinging snow, it still took Fred twenty minutes to stumble over there.
The bus depot was dirty. The coffee shop was worse. Even so, an overflow crowd had taken refuge inside its steamy windows. Everyone seemed to know the plight of those who newly entered, for when Fred saw no seats open kind strangers at a booth shoved over to make space. Soon he was eating a tasteless gray soup.
The door opened again. This time a woman struggled to find her way into the throng. Her lingered entry brought out the man with the greasy apron. “Hey!” he yelled. “Close that door! You’re letting all the cold air in here!”
Like Fred, the woman had to find sanctuary at a table of strangers. When the man with the greasy apron walked over and asked what she wanted, she asked for a glass of water. He returned and asked again, “What do you want?”
“The water will be fine,” she said.
“No,” replied the man. “What do you want to order from the menu?”
“I’m really not hungry,” she answered. “I’ll just stick with the water.”
“Look lady!” came the response. “We’ve got paying customers waiting! If you’re not going to order anything, you’ll have to get out!”
“Can’t I just stay a few minutes and get warmed up?” she asked.
“No way!” he said. “If you don’t want to order, you’ll have to leave!”
So the woman gathered herself and stood to make an exit. Of course, these two had gotten the attention of everyone in the room. As the woman rose, everyone noticed the men on either side of her pushing back their chairs and standing as well. And the men next to them. In a flash, everyone at that table stood and turned to leave, plates still bulging with food. Something like an electric current buzzed through the room, and all at once everyone else got up and moved toward the door.
The man with the greasy apron was startled. “All right! All right!” he said, motioning everyone to sit again. “She can stay!” He even brought her a bowl of soup.
As Fred turned back to his own bowl of broth, he found that it tasted better than he remembered. In fact, it reminded him of something, but he could not quite recall what. He turned to the stranger next to him and asked, “Do you know her?”
“No,” said the man. “Never saw her before. But if she can’t sit here to get warm, I wouldn’t want to stay in a place like this.”
As Fred paused to leave a short while later it finally dawned on him that what he had been thinking about when the soup gained its taste was the last time he shared the sacrament of communion. Maybe these mixed strangers in search of shelter were only a pack of isolated bodies. But for a moment the spirit of Jesus warmed the air in the room and they breathed in something of the Last Supper, as darkness threatened, but Light would not, could not be extinguished.
Alternative Application (John 13:1-17, 31b-35)
Was Jesus’ “Last Supper” a Passover meal? Following Mark’s lead, the Synoptic gospels clearly identify the final meal that Jesus shared with his disciples as a Passover celebration. Strangely, for all the other symbolism in the fourth gospel, John clearly steers away from that connection in chapter 13. Why?
The answer appears to have several parts to it. First, John deliberately times the events of Jesus’ final week so that Jesus is tried and sentenced to death on Friday morning (at the same time as the unblemished Passover lambs were being selected) and crucified during the precise hours when the Passover lambs were being slaughtered in the Temple courtyard. In this way John accomplishes a purpose that he indicated at the beginning of his gospel, to portray Jesus as the “Lamb of God” (1:36). Thus, it was important for John not to identify the Last Supper as the Passover, since Jesus must die with the lambs who were being slaughtered prior to that meal.
Second, this does not immediately mean that either John or the Synoptics are telling the story wrongly. Instead, there were actually several different calendars functioning among the Jews of the day, marking the celebration of the Passover with slight variations. These came into being due either to the chronological ordering of each new day (Roman: sunrise to sunrise, or Jewish: sundown to sundown), or the perceived occasion of the new moon that began the month (adjusted differently by Babylonian and Palestinian rabbis).
So it is that Jesus and his disciples probably ate a Passover meal together, as the Synoptics identify it, but one which was tied to a different calendar than that used by the bulk of the Jerusalem population. In this way John could leverage the different schedule to communicate a particular emphasis in his portrayal of Jesus’ symbolic identity.
This is why John tells the story of Judas leaving the table as he does. At the beginning of the gospel John made it clear that “light” and “darkness” explain everything. John helps us think through life and values and purpose in a stark dualism that is engaged in a tug-of-war for everything and everybody. Nicodemus, for instance, will come to Jesus in the darkness of night (chapter 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. Here, Judas enters the room of the Last Supper basking in the light of the glory that surrounds Jesus (chapter 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 (chapter 19), but the floodlights of dawn rise around those who understand the power of his resurrection (chapter 20). Even in the extra story added as chapter 21, the disciples in the nighttime 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 of day and spiritual insight. Darkness, in the gospel of John, means sin and 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 and faith and goodness and health and salvation and hope and the presence of God.
This is the dilemma of Israel in Egypt. This is the struggle of life in Corinth. This is the washing of waves surrounding Jesus and his disciples “on the night in which he was betrayed.”
C. S. Lewis pictured it well. Caught in a Darkness at sea, too terrifying for words, a Darkness that crawled and oozed and grabbed and stuck, the children of Lewis’s Narnia world sailed their ship, the Dawntreader, in circles of fear. “If you’ve ever loved us at all,” cries Lucy to the skies, “send us help now!”
And in a growing speck of light that seemed, Lucy thought, to look a lot like a cross, the battle of the powers whirled around them, till Darkness and fear melted before his Brightness.
“God is Light,” said the apostle John, and no Darkness in this world has ever held back his Dawning!
Exodus 12:1-4, (5-10), 11-14
Moses’ story begins in the struggles of Exodus 1–19. A nasty relationship has developed between the Pharaoh of Egypt and the Israelites, descendants of the family of Joseph, a political superstar who had once saved nearly everyone in the ancient near east from famine (Genesis 41-50). An editorial note declares that “Joseph” has been forgotten, and this small reference forms the bridge that later draws Genesis into an even more broadly extended historical prologue to the Sinai covenant. We find out, by reading backwards, that Joseph was the critical link between the Egyptians and this other ethnic community living within its borders. When the good that Joseph did for both races was forgotten, the dominant Egyptian culture attempted to dehumanize and then destroy these Israelite aliens. An edict was issued to kill all male newborn Israelites by drowning them in the Nile river.
This deadly solution proposed by the Pharaoh as an antidote to the rising population of his slave community may sound harsh, but it was likely a very modest and welcomed political maneuver among his primary subjects. Because there is virtually no rain in Egypt, with most of its territory lying in or on the edge of the great Saharan desert, the Nile is and was the critical source of water that sustained life throughout the region. The Nile “miraculously” ebbed and flowed annually, responding to the rains of central Africa, thousands of miles away. Far removed from Egypt’s farmlands and cities, this process was attributed to the gods that nurtured Egyptian civilization. Thus, it was fitting for the people to pay homage to these gods, especially by giving appropriate sacrifices to the power of the Nile. In that manner, having the boy babies of the Hebrews tossed into the Nile’s currents would not have been considered genocide, but instead it would be deemed a suitable civic and cultural responsibility. Such a practice provided the Nile god with fittingly dear tribute, and at the same time allowed the bulk of the Egyptian population to save its own babies by substituting those of this surrogate vassal people living within their borders.
Moses’ own name ties him to the royal family of Egypt and its influence (note the frequent occurrence of the letters MSS in the names of Pharaohs of the eighteenth through twentieth dynasties—Thutmoses, Ramses, etc.), and his training in the palace schools would provide him with skills that set him apart from the rest of the Israelites in preparation for his unique leadership responsibilities. Moses’ time in the wilderness, on the other hand, made him familiar with Bedouin life, and similarly fortified his ability to stand at the head of a wandering community once Israel was released from slavery.
In Moses’ unique encounter with God at Mt. Horeb (Exodus 3–4), he experienced the power of the forgotten deity of Israel, and learned a name by which this divinity would soon become known again to the people. “Yahweh” is a variation on the Hebrew verb of existence, and that is why translators bring it into English with terms like “I am” or “I will be.” Furthermore, through the voice from the burning bush, this God immediately connected the current events with a specific past through a historical recitation that would later be explicated at length in the extended Genesis historical prologue to the Sinai covenant: Yahweh is the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Because of the promises made to that family, Moses is now to become the agent through whom the Israelites will be returned to the land promised to their ancestors. Of course, this is what triggered the battle for control of the nation, and eventually set the stage for Yahweh to claim Suzerainty over Israel at Mt. Sinai.
The conflict intensifies in Exodus 5:1–6:12 when Moses makes his first dramatic appearance back in Egypt. The Pharaoh’s initial reaction is disdain; why should he listen to the apocalyptic ravings of a wilderness wild man, even if he seems unusually aware of Egyptian language and protocol?
At this point the famous plagues enter the story. While these miracles of divine judgment make for great Hollywood screenplay, the reason for this extended weird display of divine power is not always apparent to those of us who live in very different cultural contexts, especially when it is interspersed with notes that Pharaoh’s heart was hardened, sometimes, in fact, seemingly as an act of Yahweh. Could not Yahweh have provided a less destructive and deadly exit strategy for Israel?
The plagues begin to make sense when they are viewed in reference to Egypt’s climate and culture. After the initial sparring between Moses and the Pharaoh’s sorcerers (Exodus 7:10-13) with snakes to show magical skills, the stakes are raised far beyond human ability merely to manipulate the natural order. First the waters are turned to blood; then the marshes send out a massive, unwelcome pilgrimage of frogs; next the dust is beat into gnats, soon to be followed by even peskier flies; subsequently the livestock gets sick from the dust, and this illness then spreads to human life in the form of boils and open sores; penultimately the heavens send down mortar shells of hail, transport in a foreign army of locusts, and then withhold the light of the sun; finally, in an awful culmination, the firstborn humans and animals across Egypt die suddenly.
Strange. But not quite as much when seen in three successive groupings. Among the many deities worshipped in ancient Egypt, none superseded a triumvirate composed by the Nile, the good earth, and the heavens which were the home of the sun. So it was that the initial plagues of bloody water and frogs both turned the Nile against the Egyptians, and showed the dominance of Yahweh over this critical source of national life.
The ante was then upped when Yahweh took on the farmland of Egypt, one of the great breadbaskets of the world. Instead of producing crops, Moses showed, by way of plagues three through six, how Yahweh could cause these fertile alluvial plains to generate all manner of irritating and deadly pestilence, making it an enemy instead of a friend. Finally, in the third stage of plagues, the heavens themselves became menacing. Rather than providing the sheltering confidence of benign sameness, one day the heavens attacked with the hailstone mortar fire of an unseen enemy. Next these same heavens served as the highway of an invading army of locusts. Then old friend Ra (the sun), the crowning deity of Egyptian religion, simply vanished for three days. The gloom that terrified the Egyptians was no mere fear of darkness but rather the ominous trepidation that their primary deity had been bested by the God of the Israelites.
All of this culminated in the final foray of this cosmic battle, when the link of life between generations and human connectedness with ultimate reality was severed through the killing of Egypt’s firstborn. The Egyptians believed that the firstborn carried the cultural significance of each family and species, so in a sudden and dramatic moment the very chain of life destroyed. Furthermore, since the Pharaohs themselves were presumed to be deity incarnate, descending directly from the sun by way of firstborn inheritance, cutting this link eviscerated the life-potency of the Egyptian civilization not only for the present but also for the future. It was a true cultural, religious, political and social knockout punch.
This explains why the plagues originally served not as gory illustration material for modern Sunday school papers, but rather as the divine initiatives in an escalating battle between Yahweh and the Pharaoh of Egypt over claims on the people of Israel. The plagues were a necessary prologue to the Sinai covenant because they displayed and substantiated the sovereignty of Yahweh as Suzerain not only over Israel but also over other contenders. Israel belongs to Yahweh both because of historic promises made to Abraham, and also by way of chivalrous combat in which Yahweh won back the prize of lover and human companion from the usurper who had stolen her away from the divine heart. Furthermore, Yahweh accomplished this act without the help of Israel’s own resources (no armies, no resistance movements, no terrorist tactics, no great escape plans), and in a decisive manner that announced the limitations of the Egyptian religious and cultural resources.
This is why the final plague is paired with the institution of the Passover festival (Exodus 12). The annual festival would become an ongoing reminder that Israel was bought back by way of a blood-price redemption, and that the nation owed its very existence to the love and fighting jealousy of its divine champion. In one momentous confrontation, Egypt lost its firstborn and its cultural heritage, while Israel became Yahweh’s firstborn and rightful inheritance.
1 Corinthians 11:23-26
Paul’s response to questions from the Corinthian congregation about worship practices (11:2–33) contains a reflection on two social value systems. First, with regard to differing roles for women and men in society, Paul wants to ensure that the genders are not blurred. There is a creational distinction between females and males, according to Paul, and this must not be erased, even by the freedoms found in Christ. At the same time, this gender distinction ought not to undermine the broad equality by which the gifts of the Spirit are distributed. Both women and men can and should prophesy. Spiritual leadership in the church is not limited by gender.
Second, in a review of the church’s celebration of “the Lord’s Supper,” as it was becoming known, another facet of social interaction was addressed. The “differences” within the congregation were not only of the kind where parties became loyal to different leaders (1 Corinthians 1–3), but also the manifestation of divergent socioeconomic groupings present in Corinthian society. The reason why some who attended these Lord’s Supper gatherings “go ahead without waiting for anybody else” and others “remain hungry,” was due to the divergent lifestyle practices of the rich and the poor among them. Wealthy people were able to come and go as they pleased, including showing up to worship services, potluck dinners and Lord’s Supper celebrations right at the start. The poor and the slaves, however (some likely coming from the same households), were often late to arrive because they had to fulfill their domestic work obligations first. Paul declared that “recognizing the body of the Lord” was necessary if the Lord’s Supper was to be celebrated properly. This did not mean having the capacity to understand an appropriate theological theory of the atonement, or some other such cognitive ability. Instead, it amounted to remembering that all who belong to Jesus are welcome at his table, and none have more rights than others. If this socially and economically diverse group of society was indeed the body of Christ, each must live and act accordingly, making room at the table for all.
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
Once the transition takes place, in John’s gospel, from the “Book of Signs” to the “Book of Glory,” only two major events happen. First, Jesus meets for an extended meal and conversation with his disciples (chapters 13-17). This lengthy monologue seems somewhat meandering and repetitive until it is viewed through the Hebrew communication lens of chiasm. Then the “Farewell Discourse,” as it is known, takes on new depth, as it weaves back and forth, and climaxes in the middle. This parting exhortation becomes an obviously deeply moving instruction Jesus’ followers to remain connected to him by way of the powerful “Paraclete” (a Greek term meaning “counselor” or “advocate”), in the face of the troubling that will come upon them because of his imminent physical departure, and the rising persecutions targeted toward them by the world that remains in darkness. In chiastic summary, the Farewell Discourse can be portrayed in this manner:
Gathering experience of unity 13:1–35
Prediction of disciple’s denial 13:36–38
Jesus’ departure tempered by Father’s power 14:1–14
Promise of the “Paraclete” 14:15–24
Troubling encounter with the world 14:25–31
“Abide in Me!” teaching 15:1–17
Troubling encounter with the world 15:18–16:4a
Promise of the “Paraclete” 16:4b–15
Jesus’ departure tempered by Father’s power 16:16–28
Prediction of disciple’s denial 16:29–33
Departing experience of unity 17:1–26
Every element of this “Farewell Discourse” is doubled with a parallel passage except for Jesus’ central teaching that his disciples should “abide in me.” Furthermore, these parallel passages are arranged in reverse order in the second half to their initial expression in the first half. At the heart of it all comes the unparalleled vine and branches teaching, which functions as the chiastic center and ultimate focus of the discourse as a whole. In effect, John shows us how the transforming power of Jesus as the light of the world is to take effect. Jesus comes into this darkened world as a brilliant ray of re-creative light and life. But if he goes about his business all by himself, the light will have limited penetrating value, over against the expansive and pervasive darkness that has consumed this world. So a multiplication and amplification has to happen.
In this chiastic “Farewell Discourse,” Jesus makes clear the meaning of everything. His disciples have been transformed from darkness to light (and thus from death to life) through Jesus’ incorporation of them into fellowship with himself and the Father (chapters 13 and 17). This does not free them immediately from struggles, as seen in Judas’ betrayal and the coming denial of them all. But the connection between the Father and the disciples is secure, because it is initiated by the Father, and will last even when Jesus disappears from them very shortly, because the powerful “Paraclete” will arrive to dispense Jesus’ on-going presence with them all, wherever they go and in whatever circumstances they find themselves. Of course, that will only trigger further conflicts and confrontations with “the world.” So (and here’s the central element of the discourse), “abide in me!” Either you are with the darkness or you are with the light. Either you are dead because of the power of the world, or you are alive in me. And, of course, if you “abide in me,” you will glow with my light, and the multiplication of the seed sown will take place. Eventually, through you, the light that comes into the world through Jesus will bring light to everyone. It is a picture of the mission of God, promised to Abraham, enacted geographically through Israel, but now become a global movement through Jesus’ disciples who “abide” in him through the power of the “Paraclete.”
Application
Fred Craddock once flew to Winnipeg, Manitoba, to speak at a church conference. Unfortunately, his arrival coincided with the worst snowstorm of the decade. When no one picked him up at the airport, Fred found a taxi willing to brave the whiteouts and drifts in the drive required to get him to his motel. There a message awaited him; he was to call the man who booked him for the conference.
“I’m sorry, Fred,” said the man. “We didn’t count on this blizzard. We’ve had to cancel the conference. In fact, we’re so snowed in here at the church that we can’t even get out there to the motel to pick you up for a meal. You’re on your own.”
The motel was not all that great. It didn’t even have a restaurant. When Fred called the office to find directions to some food place nearby, a woman suggested the coffee shop at the bus depot. It was about a block and a half away. Battling gale force winds and stinging snow, it still took Fred twenty minutes to stumble over there.
The bus depot was dirty. The coffee shop was worse. Even so, an overflow crowd had taken refuge inside its steamy windows. Everyone seemed to know the plight of those who newly entered, for when Fred saw no seats open kind strangers at a booth shoved over to make space. Soon he was eating a tasteless gray soup.
The door opened again. This time a woman struggled to find her way into the throng. Her lingered entry brought out the man with the greasy apron. “Hey!” he yelled. “Close that door! You’re letting all the cold air in here!”
Like Fred, the woman had to find sanctuary at a table of strangers. When the man with the greasy apron walked over and asked what she wanted, she asked for a glass of water. He returned and asked again, “What do you want?”
“The water will be fine,” she said.
“No,” replied the man. “What do you want to order from the menu?”
“I’m really not hungry,” she answered. “I’ll just stick with the water.”
“Look lady!” came the response. “We’ve got paying customers waiting! If you’re not going to order anything, you’ll have to get out!”
“Can’t I just stay a few minutes and get warmed up?” she asked.
“No way!” he said. “If you don’t want to order, you’ll have to leave!”
So the woman gathered herself and stood to make an exit. Of course, these two had gotten the attention of everyone in the room. As the woman rose, everyone noticed the men on either side of her pushing back their chairs and standing as well. And the men next to them. In a flash, everyone at that table stood and turned to leave, plates still bulging with food. Something like an electric current buzzed through the room, and all at once everyone else got up and moved toward the door.
The man with the greasy apron was startled. “All right! All right!” he said, motioning everyone to sit again. “She can stay!” He even brought her a bowl of soup.
As Fred turned back to his own bowl of broth, he found that it tasted better than he remembered. In fact, it reminded him of something, but he could not quite recall what. He turned to the stranger next to him and asked, “Do you know her?”
“No,” said the man. “Never saw her before. But if she can’t sit here to get warm, I wouldn’t want to stay in a place like this.”
As Fred paused to leave a short while later it finally dawned on him that what he had been thinking about when the soup gained its taste was the last time he shared the sacrament of communion. Maybe these mixed strangers in search of shelter were only a pack of isolated bodies. But for a moment the spirit of Jesus warmed the air in the room and they breathed in something of the Last Supper, as darkness threatened, but Light would not, could not be extinguished.
Alternative Application (John 13:1-17, 31b-35)
Was Jesus’ “Last Supper” a Passover meal? Following Mark’s lead, the Synoptic gospels clearly identify the final meal that Jesus shared with his disciples as a Passover celebration. Strangely, for all the other symbolism in the fourth gospel, John clearly steers away from that connection in chapter 13. Why?
The answer appears to have several parts to it. First, John deliberately times the events of Jesus’ final week so that Jesus is tried and sentenced to death on Friday morning (at the same time as the unblemished Passover lambs were being selected) and crucified during the precise hours when the Passover lambs were being slaughtered in the Temple courtyard. In this way John accomplishes a purpose that he indicated at the beginning of his gospel, to portray Jesus as the “Lamb of God” (1:36). Thus, it was important for John not to identify the Last Supper as the Passover, since Jesus must die with the lambs who were being slaughtered prior to that meal.
Second, this does not immediately mean that either John or the Synoptics are telling the story wrongly. Instead, there were actually several different calendars functioning among the Jews of the day, marking the celebration of the Passover with slight variations. These came into being due either to the chronological ordering of each new day (Roman: sunrise to sunrise, or Jewish: sundown to sundown), or the perceived occasion of the new moon that began the month (adjusted differently by Babylonian and Palestinian rabbis).
So it is that Jesus and his disciples probably ate a Passover meal together, as the Synoptics identify it, but one which was tied to a different calendar than that used by the bulk of the Jerusalem population. In this way John could leverage the different schedule to communicate a particular emphasis in his portrayal of Jesus’ symbolic identity.
This is why John tells the story of Judas leaving the table as he does. At the beginning of the gospel John made it clear that “light” and “darkness” explain everything. John helps us think through life and values and purpose in a stark dualism that is engaged in a tug-of-war for everything and everybody. Nicodemus, for instance, will come to Jesus in the darkness of night (chapter 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. Here, Judas enters the room of the Last Supper basking in the light of the glory that surrounds Jesus (chapter 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 (chapter 19), but the floodlights of dawn rise around those who understand the power of his resurrection (chapter 20). Even in the extra story added as chapter 21, the disciples in the nighttime 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 of day and spiritual insight. Darkness, in the gospel of John, means sin and 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 and faith and goodness and health and salvation and hope and the presence of God.
