And It Was . . . Done

According to all that the Lord had commanded Moses, so the people of Israel had done all the work. And Moses saw all the work, and behold, they had done it; as the Lord commanded, so they had done it. Ex. 39:42-43

Reading those words, do you hear an echo?

And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good . . .

And Moses saw . . .

From the beginning of Genesis to the end of Exodus encloses a lot of history—much more than any other Bible time-period. From prehistory all the way up to the birth of a nation, the LORD is building a grand plot. From the promised seed, through the flood, Father Abraham, the 12 patriarchs who grew into a multitude now gathered on a desert plain, the question is, Will they take Yahweh to be their lawfully wedded husband?

He covenants with them, he feeds and shepherds them, he instructs and promises to live with them. And then they fall into a terrible act of apostasy that should have ended it all. The people go back on their word just days after swearing to it. Even while Moses is on the mountain receiving instruction on how to consecrate Aaron as chief priest, Aaron is down on the plain hammering out a golden calf.

Doesn’t God know what’s going on, even while giving detailed instructions about how to build his dwelling place? Of course he does. But he waits, allowing the measure of sin to fill up on. And then he storms upon the scene, threatening to destroy his people. Moses intervenes for him, using every persuasive argument that comes to mind, until the Lord “changes his mind.” I won’t go with you/ I will go with you/ I will destroy them/ I won’t destroy them.

(This back-and-forth echoes a long-ago conversation with Abraham, who bargains with the Lord until he gets the acceptable number of righteous men needed to preserve Sodom down to ten. It’s not enough, of course; not even ten righteous men can be found in Sodom, and nephew Lot’s righteousness-status is rather iffy. But that doesn’t mean God is merely humoring Abraham in this conversation. He’s God; he knows the outcome. But he is also an active participant in the story, along with Abraham. The play is written, but that makes it no less compelling or real. God “changes his mind” according to what he’s already determined.)

Anyway. After this great trauma, with a people properly repentant and eager to make amends, the tabernacle work goes forward. Sixteen times in chapters 39 and 40 comes the phrase, “as the Lord commanded Moses.” As though there is to be no doubt that they’ve learned a lesson—for now—and “All that the Lord commands, we will do.” At the end, they’ve constructed a dwelling place that follows the blueprint to the letter.

But is it “good”? At the end of Creation, God saw all that he had made and pronounced it good. At the conclusion of tabernacle construction, Moses surveys the work and declares it “done.”

Is it good? No, but it’s done, according to God’s command. One more step toward redemption is accomplished. After the golden calf disaster and the recriminations and accusations and consequences dealt, God will still dwell with his people. Because he’s committed. What could have been the finale instead becomes a major plot point in the continuing drama.

But do you hear another echo?

It is finished.

It was good at the beginning. It was done as a temporary expedient, and kept on being “done” through a first temple, a second temple, and a third temple; through major dissolutions and reformations, countless animal sacrifices and rivers of blood.

Now it’s finished: the plot wraps up.

But it also continues, in present tense. We live in the dénouement, or “falling action,” of the great story that came to a climax when the main character walked out the grave . He had solved the unresolved tension between man and God—that is finished. The uneasy debt is paid.  But each generation experiences that “finishing” for itself as the drama plays out again over millions of individual lives. And he’s just as involved and active as he ever was, only through his Holy Spirit at work in every reborn soul.

For there’s no more back-and-forth, no more bargaining. For each one of us, it is finished: in present tense, until we reach the final page.

Why Blood Atonement?

Early this month I sat in on a talk about the Shroud of Turin.

I don’t know what to think about the Shroud, but whether genuine or faked it’s a stunning piece of work.  The image of a crucified man is somehow burned into the cloth, which has not deteriorated near as badly as a fabric dating from the first century, or even from the 7th or 13th.  It’s fine linen woven in a herringbone pattern, very expensive for the time—only a wealthy man could buy it.  This costly fabric, and the costly myrrh and aloes found on it, were put to what a contemporary observer would consider a mean, lowly, thoroughly inappropriate use.

The man: his face is bruised, swollen at the cheekbones.  Eyes almost squeezed shut.  The nose is shoved a little out of place and the forehead clenched.  One shoulder is dislocated and one knee appears to be pushed harder against the cloth because rigor mortis set in while he was still on the cross (that is, he was thoroughly dead).  Those who took him down and wrapped him up would have had to force his arms and legs into place.  There’s a spear wound in his side and on his back are 110-120 lash marks left by the typical Roman scourge of three tails.  The body is naked, the hands crossed over his genitals for decency’s sake.

I gave my back to those who strike

. . . his appearance was so marred, beyond human semblance . . .

He was despised, and we esteemed him not

He was bruised for our transgressions

. . . and with his stripes we are healed

I don’t like sermons on the torture of Christ.  I don’t like detailed descriptions of his physical suffering or brutal, humiliating treatment.  I didn’t see The Passion of the Christ and probably never will.  I’m squeamish about blood and gore on the big screen, but also, it’s him.  It causes me to tremble.

But there on the cloth is the crucified man—is it him?  It’s somebody with a very specific description: Jewish male, 5’11”, well-built and muscular, type AB+ blood.  Battered and bloodied, pierced and shamed.  A curse, and accursed.

Whoever it is, it represents a hideous object planted—thrown, hurled—at the center of human history.  This is what it cost him.  This is what I cost him.

I’ve been having a discussion with a friend about theories of atonement.  She quotes Farther Richard Rohr, a Franciscan: “The terrible and un-critiqued premise is that God could need payment, and even a very violent transaction, to be able to love and accept [his own] children!”

Well.  Over ways are not his ways, and so on.  But Fr. Rohr’s premise is wrong.  It’s not that God requires payment to love those who are already his children.  God’s justice requires payment in order for God’s love to make confirmed and unrepentant rebels into children.

He takes sin very seriously; we don’t.  Since the fall, it’s impossible for corrupted flesh and blood to inherit the kingdom–unless the kingdom comes as flesh and blood and gives his back to those who strike.  He knows the cost; we don’t.

Yet it was the LORD’s will to crush him, and cause him to suffer,

and the LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all.

The Lord shed the blood of an animal—probably more than one—to cover the shame of the first humans, our parents.  He descended in fire at Sinai, protecting his holiness with smoke and lightning, to prescribe a temporary means of sanctification by blood: “You will be my people and I will be your God.”  But not your Father—not yet.  Not your Father by blood, until his own Son appears, in flesh and blood.

I don’t like the torture part, because I don’t like to think I had anything to do with it.  But that mark there—that’s from my playing holy while acting carnally.  That clenched brow is for my continual glory-seeking.  In my youth I sinned blatantly and today I sin subtly, in a way no one sees but me.  And him.

Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?  How repulsive is that thought to our sophisticated minds.  The ancient pagans used to drench themselves in the blood of freshly-slaughtered, still-bellowing bulls, in orgies of self-abnegation—aren’t we way, way beyond that?

Not really. God knows something we don’t: sin is serious.  He is serious.  His justice will see it punished, but his love will see the punishment that brought us peace fall upon Him, and heal us with those stripes.

 

Good Friday

Let the scriptures be fulfilled, he said, when they came to take him away.  What scriptures?  Well, all of it.  All of Scripture is a wrestling match between God and man: how can a holy God accommodate sinful people?  You sense the struggle between love and justice throughout the Old Testament: “I hate, I despise your feasts” clashes with “How can I give you up, O Israel?”  Reading through Isaiah (to take just one example), if I can say it reverently, is almost like confronting a schizophrenic personality, as the Lord’s righteousness wrestles with his mercy.

Here is where they reconcile:

 

Steadfast love and faithfulness meet; righteousness and peace kiss each other.

Faithfulness springs up from the ground and righteousness looks down from the sky.  Psalm 85:10-11

And then, it’s Sunday morning.

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