The Wearied God

Can God get tired?

I started reading through Isaiah yesterday for my devotional time, going through it very slowly and deliberately, consulting frequently with the Hebrew as I try to soak in all its richness and pathos. What piqued my sympathy more than anything else in the first chapter was this heart-rending evaluation that God shares through the prophet, speaking of Israel’s empty worship: “Bring no more futile sacrifices before Me,” God declares, “Incense is an abomination to Me, the New Moons, the Sabbaths, and the calling of assemblies – I cannot endure iniquity and the sacred meeting” (1:13).

Such an assessment hits close to home as I can almost hear God reflect on our modern-day gatherings: “I can’t endure your General Conference sessions, your church services, your youth conferences,” He laments. But then He adds even more poignantly, “Your New Moons and your appointed feasts My soul hates” (v. 14). Such strong words! Imagine gathering every week, naively thinking we’re praising God, only to discover He despises our behavior.

We don’t typically think – or like to think – of God in such a light. And yet He is not simply arbitrarily castigating His people; He announces that He will not hear their prayers because their “hands are full of blood,” (v. 15) as they evidently not only exploited orphans and widows (v. 17), but acted as harlots by going after other lovers (v. 21).

In short, Israel’s worship was hypocritical. They were honoring God with their lips but their hearts were far from Him (Isa. 29:13; Matt. 15:8). They were saying one thing but living another way – causing God to wonder, “When you come to appear before Me, who has required this from your hand?” (1:12), almost as though saying, “Who told you to come worship Me? It’s pointless!”

But this is what caught my eye more than anything else in this passage. Speaking about their detestable worship gatherings, God not only says that His soul “hated” them and that they were a “trouble” to Him, but He actually declares that He is “weary of bearing them” (v. 14).

Indeed, Israel’s worship, Israel’s gatherings and assemblies and services, tired God out. They exhausted Him.

Could it be true?

We don’t often think of God in such terminology – or even in such a way. As I hinted at a few days ago, we tend to prefer to think of God in more robust and omnipotent ways. We prefer the God who never “faints nor is weary” (Isa. 40:28; Isaiah uses a different Hebrew word for “weary” here, though this latter word is used elsewhere in Isaiah to ascribe weariness to God). We gravitate to the God who acts as a constant provider for us, the One who displays grandeur, power, and majesty – who will always be there for our every need.

And yet the Bible often paints a far different picture of God, characterized at times by “divine vulnerability,” as Terence E. Fretheim puts it (God and Word in the Old Testament, p. 38). This is the God who experiences pain, suffering, frustration – indeed, weariness.

This picture from Isaiah 1:14 is not the only place that draws out God’s weariness, however. There are a handful of other places – all in the prophets – that reveal such a picture in the life of God. Perhaps most poignantly, later in Isaiah, the prophet quotes God as lamenting how His people have “burdened Me with your sins” (the word for “burden” is actually the word for “serve,” almost giving the impression of “enslavement”) and “wearied Me with your iniquities” (43:24). Again, in Jeremiah, God is hurt by how His people have abandoned and “forsaken” Him, and He cries out that He is “weary of relenting” (15:6), apparently tired of constantly bringing Israel back from reaping what they’d sown. Lastly, Malachi portrays God’s weariness because of Israel’s “words.” They were saying that “everyone who does evil is good in the sight of the Lord, and He delights in them” (2:17).

Of course, it should go without saying that such weariness was not of a physical nature but was clearly an emotional tiredness. God’s emotional tank was running on empty in relation to His people. The ones He had chosen to be a light to the world, to show His character of love to the nations, had “profaned” His name (Ezekiel 36:22).

Yet they kept on “worshipping,” kept on bringing their sacrifices to the altar, kept on talking, talking, talking – as though it was business as usual.

But it all wearied God – yes, in a real, concrete, literal sense, not just metaphorically. Such a weariness culminated in the cross, where the Psalmist presciently saw the tears of Christ, as He cried out, “Reproach has broken my heart, and I am full of heaviness. I looked for someone to take pity, but there was none; and for comforters, but I found none” (Psalm 69:20).

What about us? Will we pity our God, sympathize with our Savior? Will we provide Him with the much-needed rest He deserves?

Either way, let these words from Terence E. Fretheim sink in as we ponder the implications of how the rest we enjoy today stems from the weariness that God continues to endure:

It is clear that human sin has not been without cost for God, and that cost is due in significant part to the fact that God has chosen to bear the people’s sin. . . For God to assume such a burden, for God to continue to bear the brunt of Israel’s rejection, meant continued life for the people. Thus there is an explicit connection made between divine suffering and Israel’s life; the former was necessary for the latter to occur. God’s suffering made Israel’s life possible (The Suffering of God, p. 148).

Indeed, our rest comes at the cost of God’s weariness.

Let us therefore resolve, by His grace, to do all we can by faith to provide Him with the rest He so desperately deserves.

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A Prayer to Every God

I read a prayer last night that nearly brought me to tears – but for reasons one wouldn’t expect.

I’ve been reading John Walton’s Ancient Near Eastern Thought and the Old Testament – a book that introduces the “conceptual world of the Hebrew Bible,” explaining the framework in which the Old Testament events and literature arose. It’s been a fascinating read, offering many incredible insights. (As an aside, I cannot recommend this book enough for those who really want to understand the Old Testament.)

The prayer Walton cites that I read last night is the most poignant of all. It is an Assyrian prayer that was discovered on a tablet that dates from the mid-seventh century BC. Evidently, the supplicant has suffered some type of misfortune in his life and he offers this prayer as a way of rectifying his misery.

But there’s just one problem: he doesn’t know the sin he has committed that would warrant such ire and, just as significantly, he he has no idea which god it is that he has offended. And so he composes this “Prayer to Every God,” hoping that it will somehow reach the ears of whichever god he has offended with a prayer that is sincere enough to appease him.

The anxiety is palpable. He starts by admitting his utter ignorance:

May the wrath of the heart of my god be pacified!
May the god who is unknown to me be pacified!
May the goddess who is unknown to me be pacified!
May the known and unknown god be pacified!
May the known and unknown goddess be pacified!

He then declares that he is unaware of his transgression:

The sin which I have committed I know not.
The misdeed which I have committed I know not.

He again repeats this refrain a few lines later, adding a few more admissions for force and connecting it to the wrath of the gods:

The sin, which I have committed, I know not.
The iniquity, which I have done, I know not.
The offense, which I have committed, I know not.
The transgression I have done, I know not.
The lord, in the anger of his heart, hath looked upon me.
The god, in the wrath of his heart, hath visited me.
The goddess hath become angry with me, and hath grievously stricken me.
The known or unknown god hath straitened me.
The known or unknown goddess hath brought affliction upon me.

Perhaps most heart-rending of all is his utter despondency about his loneliness, and humankind’s inability to know exactly what the gods want and how to approach them:

Although I am constantly looking for help, no one takes me by the hand;
When I weep, they do not come to my side.
I utter laments, but no one hears me;
I am troubled; I am overwhelmed; I cannot see.

Man is dumb; he knows nothing;
Mankind, everyone that exists – what does he know?
Whether he is committing sin or doing good, he does not even know.

He ends the prayer with this petition: “Known and unknown god, my sins are seven times seven; forgive my sins.”

What an incredible tragedy! Can you imagine living in an environment in which you think every bad thing that happens to you results from the anger of the gods? Can you imagine following so many gods that you are unsure of which god you have offended, and how exactly you have offended that god since the gods have not revealed their wills nor their laws?

My heart weeps with incredible sympathy for this despondent penitent.

And yet, it is within this landscape that the God of the Old Testament revealed Himself – a God known for His unique covenant faithfulness and love; a God who liberated His people from the tyranny of divided devotion that characterized polytheism; a God who didn’t leave His followers in the dark about what His expectations were but mercifully revealed them through His Torah.

Is it any wonder that Yahweh jealously asked for exclusive commitment from His people? He wanted to emancipate them from the despair that results from trying to keep multiple gods happy.

Is it any wonder that when He declared His character to Moses, He focused on His consistency and graciousness? “The Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious,” He announced after the golden calf incident, “longsuffering, and abounding in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, by no means clearing the guilty” (Exodus 34:6-7).

Is it any wonder that David rejoiced in the Torah, boasting, “Oh, how I love Your law! It is my meditation all the day. You, through Your commandments, make me wiser than my enemies; for they are ever with me” (Psalm 119:97-98)? The Torah – God’s revealed instructions and guidelines – brought His people out of the darkness and made known to Israel what it was exactly that their God expected of them. Unlike the polytheistic nations around them, they didn’t have to guess about what their God wanted, and they didn’t have to speculate about what would bring them back into harmony with Him.

Encountering such a tragic prayer has helped me realize just how fortunate we are to have been introduced to the worldview of Israel. It helps me realize – perhaps for the first time – just how blessed we are to understand monotheism (it’s also sobering to realize that there are still billions of people in this world who still suffer from the same polytheistic malady that this prayer betrays); how fortunate we are to have a God who has actually revealed Himself and His expectations through His Torah; and how fortunate we are to be pursued and loved by a God who is faithful to His covenant – indeed, a God who has “loved [us] with an everlasting love,” and with His “lovingkindness” has “drawn” us to Himself (Jeremiah 31:3).

Out With the Jussive, In With the Declarative

I stumbled upon Psalm 20 yesterday in my worship time and found it to be quite relevant to some of the issues that are are going on in my life. Surprise, surprise. God seems to always have just the right word for me at just the right time.

What chiefly caught my eye, however, is the discrepancy between how most English versions translate the chapter, and how the Hebrew puts it. In most English versions (in fact, perhaps all), David implores God, he beseeches and invites and requests of Him. Thus, he writes,

May the Lord answer you in the day of trouble;
May the name of the God of Jacob defend you;
May He send you help from the sanctuary,
And strengthen you out of Zion;
May He remember all your offerings,
And accept your burnt sacrifice.
Selah
May He grant you according to your heart’s desire,
And fulfill all your purpose (vv. 1-4)

This is, to be sure, a beautiful prayer and a beautiful Psalm.

The thing is, translators have taken the Hebrew and translated all the verbs as “jussive” verbs. Without getting too technical and boring, a jussive verb – which we don’t really have in English – is “used to express the speaker’s desire, wish, or command” (Page H. Kelley, Biblical Hebrew: An Introductory Grammar, p. 131). It’s why the translators utilized the word “may” at the beginning of each clause. It’s David imploring God and making requests of Him.

The challenge comes – again, not to bore you – with the fact that the jussive has no unique form. That is, it looks exactly like the imperfect tense in Hebrew – and thus, there is nothing about a jussive verb that jumps out and says, “I’m a jussive.” It is only based on the context that one can decipher when a jussive is being used, rather than a straight-up imperfect.

So what does all this mean? It means that all of Psalm 20’s verbs can just as easily – and perhaps, should be – translated as imperfect verbs.

I wouldn’t, of course, claim to be more enlightened than all the brilliant Hebrew scholars that have translated just about all the versions of Psalm 20 as jussive in nature, but it does give me pause – and there certainly doesn’t seem to be anything obvious that would lead one to conclude the context necessitates the verbs be translated as jussives rather than imperfects.

The significance of translating these verbs as imperfects is significant: instead of David imploring God to act, he is instead declaring that God has, is, or will act (to further complicate things, imperfect verbs can be translated either as past, present, or future in tense – again, all determined by context). Therefore, instead of the Psalm being incomplete, tentative, potential, David is declaring confidence in God’s actions. He knows that God will act; he’s not “double-minded” as to whether He will.

Thus, David doesn’t merely say “May God grant you according to your heart’s desire,” He is saying, “God will grant you according to your heart’s desire” (incidentally, when the same verb for “desire” is used in Psalm 37:4 – also in the imperfect/jussive form – the translators translate it as an imperfect, thus rendering it: “Delight yourself also in the Lord, and He shall give you the desires of your heart”).

Doesn’t such a thought change everything? I don’t have to wonder about whether God will answer me in the day of trouble; I don’t have to wonder if He will defend me or send me help from the sanctuary or strengthen me from Zion. I don’t have to merely beseech Him, leaving the result tentative and unknown. I can have confidence that He will – or perhaps even already has, or is presently – attending to my needs and desires.

And such a thought makes a huge difference.

The Children of Israel and Their “Theology of Fear”

I just finished reading an article entitled “Friends with God? Moses and the Possibility of Covenanted Friendship,” by Dr. Jacqueline E. Lapsley. She serves as associate professor of Old Testament at Princeton Theological Seminary.

Though the entire article was very good, I sat up in my chair toward the end when she enunciated a perspective that I have never heard articulated – ever – by a non-Adventist (and, in fact, most Adventists do not seem to understand it either). A Presbyterian, Lapsley puts her finger on the undercurrents of what was happening with the Children of Israel at Mt. Sinai, especially noting the antecedents and aftermath. Instead of summarising what she wrote, I thought I would just share this very poignant and perceptive paragraph (which is long, but stick with it):

Michael Walzer makes the cogent argument that [Israel’s] prior servitude inhibits the people from immediately being capable of faithfulness; they must grow into the responsibilities inherent in freedom. It is significant that Moses did not participate in his people’s servitude—his habit of mind was formed in freedom—and as such he is capable of entering into and sustaining a friendship with God over the long term. In the episode of the golden calf, the people’s theology of fear leads them to make an inert god they can get close to without fear when Moses does not immediately descend from the mountain. But Moses’ friendship with God sustains him and his faith, even in the midst of severe testing, when he is caught between God’s demands and the people’s anger and faithlessness. The people, by contrast, view God as frightening and distant, with the result that their faithlessness begins immediately. Their lack of self-assertion renders their relationship with God a one-dimensional “faith” constituted by obedience alone. This “faith” cannot sustain them over the long term. In sum, while we are informed that “never since has there arisen a prophet in Israel like Moses, whom the LORD knew face to face” (Deut 34:10), this singularity may not be because God willed it so but because no one else demonstrated the same kind of habitual interaction, reciprocity, and self-assertion necessary to maintain a divine friendship over the long term (although Elijah comes close). For the church to read Exodus as scripture today, then, there is more reason to identify with Moses than with the people, and more reason to see in his friendship with God a path of faithfulness than in the slavish (dis)obedience of the people.

What caught my eye is that Lapsley recognizes that 1) because of their prior slavery, Israel seemed unable to relate to God appropriately. 2) This resulted in a “theology of fear” (I love that term) which led to the golden calf incident, as well as 3) Israel’s inability to experience a faithful obedience toward God, instead living out an “obedience” that was based on fear (what I would call an “old covenant” experience).

As I said, I have never read any author outside of Seventh-day Adventism who has betrayed a familiarity with this concept, so it’s refreshing to see it articulated.

And, truthfully, we as Adventists need to plumb this concept for all it’s worth as well.

Corporate Guilt and Corporate Redemption

One of the reasons I love reading the Old Testament in Hebrew is because it forces me to slow down (at least at this point, since I am not yet fluent) and pay closer attention to what the text is saying. When you are more deliberate about every word, you see things you may not otherwise see.

In this case, I was reading Genesis 26 this morning and noticed something I had never noticed before. The very brief context is that Isaac, like his dad, takes refuge in the land of the Philistines because of a famine in the land. And, like his dad, he claims that his beautiful wife is his sister. But the truth comes out, and when King Abimelech discovers it, he is obviously distraught. And his words to Isaac are revealing of the ancient Near Eastern worldview (shared by God’s people). “One of the people might soon have lain with your wife,” Abimelech says, “and you would have brought guilt on us” (v. 10).

The Hebrew is clear: if someone had slept with Rebekah, he would not only have incurred guilt upon himself, but all the people would have also shared in that guilt.

This is because the ancient Near Eastern worldview thought corporately first. The group was the primary point of focus, rather than the individual. The success and failure of the group had greater significance than the success or failure of its individual members. And thus, if one person sinned, everyone sinned (we see this in the story of Achan, of course, in Joshua 7).

What Abimelech goes on to say in verse 11 is just as significant. He thus tells his people that whoever “touches this man or his wife shall surely be put to death.” This is not simply an attempt to punish an individual for wrongdoing, however; it would have been an act of expiation on behalf of the corporate body. To not punish the individual would have produced a continued guilt on the entire group; so one had to die for the sake of all – a thought we see still in place in the days of Jesus, when Caiaphas encouraged the Jews that “it was expedient that one man should die for the people” (John 18:14). Christ’s death, it was thought, served to expunge the guilt of all of Israel.

There are many implications of this corporate concept – an idea we, who are individualistic, have a hard time wrapping our minds around. Those implications range from how we understand our corporate responsibility toward one another, to how we understand what happened at the cross, to how we experience community together, to how we understand so-called “genocide” or mass destruction in the Old Testament, to how we relate to church discipline, to how we relate to church history. But those implications will have to be explored another day.

But I will point out what Joel Kaminsky has written in his work, Corporate Responsibility in the Hebrew Bible. It’s food for thought.

Corporate responsibility is . . .  a fundamental theological principle in ancient Israel that God relates not just to autonomous Israelites, but to the nation as a whole. Inasmuch as God relates to the community as a whole, he holds each member of the nation to some level of responsibility for the errors of any other member of that community. (12, 13)

Just as tellingly, Kaminsky posits:

Israel’s fundamental insight into the fact that we are all our ‘brother’s keeper’ could provide a corrective to many of our current philosophical and political tendencies that inform us only of our rights as individuals, but rarely of our responsibilities as members of larger communities” (13-14).