the beginning and the end

My studies over the last few weeks and months have had me turning over the idea of “the beginning and the end” in a variety of ways. This is a familiar phrase from a few different Biblical passages, perhaps most famously the Book of Revelation, when Jesus claims this title for Himself:

“Behold, I am coming soon, and My reward is with Me, to give to each one according to what he has done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End.”

Revelation 22:12-13

Interestingly, the last couple chapters of Revelation act as a mirrored bookend with Genesis 1-2—the beginning and the end of the story. They match, and they tell us so much about what comes in between. Genesis begins a conversation about who God is and how He intended Creation to work; Revelation then offers the final say on who God is and how He intends the New Creation to work. The middle is … messy, full of questions and contradictions and moments of uncertainty, where we watch humanity fail to carry out God’s intentions again and again.

It has me thinking about how we view the Bible generally: As the beginning of the conversation, or the end?

Most of the time, I’ve noticed, we use it as the end. To doubters, we hand verses. To questioners, we respond with verses. To people who would ask us to see something in shades of gray rather than black-and-white, we give verses.

We effortlessly throw verses at anyone who disagrees with us, makes us uncomfortable, or asks us to think about a different possibility—and not because we want to open the floor for discussion or better understanding, but to silence debate, stay in our comfort zones, and have the last word. The Bible becomes a clumsy battering club in our denominational disputes and culture wars, leaving little space for it to act as the precise, soul-piercing blade of the Spirit it claims to be.

And the more time I spend with the Bible, the less convinced I am that we are “accurately handling the word of truth” (2 Timothy 2:15) when we use it in this way.

One of the things I love and hate about being a lifelong believer who grew up in church is that I “know” all the answers—the church answers, that is. This is helpful when it comes to constructing and corroborating doctrine, or avoiding blatant heresies, but it’s much less so when all those clean and pat church answers cloud my ability to recognize the complex and uncomfortable questions God is actually asking.

In other words—I’m well-trained in using the Bible as an end. But what about learning to let it be the beginning?

What happens when we let the Bible speak on its own terms, unfettered by our pre-determined bounds of doctrine? What happens when we let God tell us who He is, uncontained by our neat boxes of divine attributes? What would we learn about who He is, what He is doing, and how He wants us to reflect Him if we stopped trying to tell Him—and everyone else—who He is allowed to be and what He is allowed to ask of us?

Of course, I know there is a vitally important place for right doctrine. It matters that we relate to Yahweh rightly, and we know a lot about how to do that (and how not to do it) from the Scriptures. But an honest reading of the Bible won’t let us hold our “right answers” very tightly. It will challenge them and question them and throw them into turmoil at nearly every turn. It will demand of us to think and feel and undo and rebuild. It will constantly force our conversation-ending verse-wielding back into a place of humility and uncertainty, where there is room for an incomprehensible God and His creative work.

The Bible is an end: It has the authority to define God and tell us His story. It has the true answers we are looking for. But if that’s all it is—if the conversation has no beginning—then we will miss the messy riches of the middle, the parts where we have to wrestle with God and leave marked by the encounter to receive the blessing. We miss the questions it would ask of us. We miss the lifelong journey of discovery and delight it promises, because we were too mired down in making sure we “knew it all.”

I’m noticing that the more I learn, the less I know. As God increases in my perception, I decrease. Every new discovery or epiphany simply expands the universe of what I don’t understand. With every answer comes a thousand more questions.

This, I think, is as it should be.

how did Jesus read the Bible?

As tends to happen in October, I’ve been deep in thought for the past couple of weeks about the upcoming round of Bible180 in the new year. It seems I find something to tweak either in the actual reading plan or in the creation and delivery of reading resources on an annual basis—and this year is shaping up to be no different.

What lights me up about Bible180 is, always, showing people the way to whole-Bible literacy. We don’t skip a single verse. We read it all, from the heartwarming quotes that make their way onto coffee mugs and home decor to the hideous revelations of the depravity of the godless human soul that we’d all like to pretend aren’t even in there. It is a journey not for the faint of heart.

In past years, we have always followed a loosely chronological reading plan, with the goal of tracing the history of humanity from Creation in Genesis 1 through God’s selection of Abraham in Genesis 12, and then following that storyline across all the ups and downs of the nation of Israel as they prove over and over again how desperately we need a Savior. I have enjoyed reading it this way because a linear chronology is an easy throughline to grasp, particularly when very little about the rest of the challenge is easy.

But something has been bugging me to reconsider this approach for awhile now. Conversations with a longtime spiritual mentor whose Biblical knowledge I deeply value, as well as the contents of the BibleProject’s “Introduction to the Hebrew Bible” course that I’ve been taking, have inspired me to ask a simple question:

How would Jesus have read the Hebrew Scriptures?

I don’t mean this in a cheesy “What would Jesus do?” way. I mean to ask: When Jesus was living on earth, what Bible was He reading, memorizing, quoting? Not a chronological one. And it’s not because those who canonized the Hebrew Bible were too dumb to figure out the concept of chronology.

It’s because the chronology is not the point.

He is the point.

Our Christian Bibles are arranged with a 39-book Old Testament that begins with the books of history (Genesis through Esther), followed by the books of poetry/wisdom (Job through Song of Songs), and finally, the books of prophecy (Isaiah through Malachi). The history books are arranged, sensibly, in what we would consider the closest to chronological order. When this is how we’ve consumed the Bible for our entire lives, it’s not hard to see why we tend to think of the Old Testament as the history of Israel—handy background information on the origins of the Christian faith, divinely inspired, but really not that important now that we live on the other side of the page denoted “New Testament.”

The reality is that our Bibles look nothing like the Word of God that Jesus knew inside and out—nor like the Scriptures that Messiah-seeking Bible nerds like Simeon or John the Baptist would have pored over in search of the Anointed One. Have you ever wondered, as I have every single year, what happened between the closing of Malachi and the beginning of Matthew that inspired John to start preaching a “baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins,” well before Jesus ever began to reveal Himself as the Savior of the world? Was John the Baptist just a little eccentric and a lot Spirit-filled, or was he basing his ministry on knowable truth that could be found in the tapestry of the Holy Scriptures?

The collection of sacred writings that John and Simeon and Jesus would have recognized didn’t convey a timeline of the important characters and events of Israel’s history, accented with poetry and prophecy. Instead, the arrangement of the scrolls that made up what we now call the Hebrew Bible or the Old Testament focused on the sweeping central theme that first begins in Genesis 3:

The LORD God said to the serpent, “Because you have done this, cursed are you more than all cattle. and more than every beast of the field; on your belly you will go, and dust you will eat all the days of your life; and I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your seed and her seed; he shall bruise you on the head, and you shall bruise him on the heel.”

- Genesis 3:14-15

Genesis, the first book in the first section of the Hebrew Bible, raises a question that the rest of the Scriptures will continually seek to answer: Who is He who can deliver the death-blow to the enemy of humanity? Who is He who can restore the Kingdom of God on earth, as it was before the fall in Eden?

This is not a book meant to detail Israel’s history. Rather, it’s a carefully designed quilt made of select fabrics and shapes from Israel’s history, in order to present the perfect backdrop for the moment when Jesus of Nazareth appears on the stage. Those who were paying attention—people like John the Baptist, Anna, Simeon—would have had a very good idea what they were looking for.

And we say it all the time: the Old Testament exists to point us to Jesus. But can we actually see the foreshadowings of Him when we read it, or do we throw up our hands and say “Well, it shows us that we need Jesus, anyway!”?

Even after many times reading through the Bible, and many hours in study, that’s what I often end up doing. Which tells me that maybe I’m doing something wrong.

So for Bible180 2023, I’m going to try to read the Hebrew Bible in a way that’s a bit closer to how we know Jesus and His contemporaries would have read it. It looks like this:

It’s going to be a big change. In previous challenges, we’ve always read a Psalm a day; this time, in order to respect the structure of the Tanakh, I’ll be reading the entire book of Psalms in just five days—an average of 30 chapters a day. But I am excited about two things: 1) no longer having to jump back and forth between the books of the Kings and the minor prophets, and 2) waiting to read Job until the Ketuvim portion, instead of starting that overwhelming book on day 3!

Will reading it this way lead me to all the epiphanies I feel I’ve been missing over the years? I can’t say. But I have a hunch that reading according to the Messianic Hope—as the Tanakh’s designers intended—will get me closer to those epiphanies than merely reading according to the chronology has.

on coping with the Bible

I’ve just started the “Introduction to the Hebrew Bible” course from the BibleProject (it’s completely free, and extremely high quality in both content and production, if you are interested in taking it!), and I decided that as a verbal/written processor, my best bet for retaining what I learn in the course will be to write something about it as often as I can. So here’s a scribbling of thoughts from Session 1, titled, “What on earth is the Hebrew Bible?”

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I’ve been talking to an old friend and longtime spiritual mentor about various theological and Biblical questions lately, and one idea that he raised—and I keep thinking about—is that so much of pastoral ministry can often be spent “undoing” what adults were taught about God, Jesus, and/or the Bible as children. Wouldn’t it be amazing if that were not the case? What would it look like to teach children who God is and how to handle His Word in a way that wouldn’t need to be deconstructed later?

Tim Mackie echoed the sentiment in Session 1 of the class and I liked the way he put it: Christian children’s media is often the clearest revelation of the “coping strategies” we use to deal with our discomfort around the hard parts of the Bible. We rewrite Old Testament narratives as hero-villain stories or moralistic tales, or we turn the Bible into a theological encyclopedia, or we use it to proof-text doctrines we’ve already decided are correct, or we cherrypick the inspirational bits to put on calendars and coffee mugs—all to avoid dealing with the actual text as a whole.

Why? Because the text as a whole is incredibly complex, uncomfortable, difficult, and often not safe for work. Why would God choose to reveal Himself through a Bible like that?

But He does. And when we don’t accept that—and Him—on His terms, we inadvertently produce a lot of Christians who know Bible stories, understand morality, and can bend any passage into a personal application, but who don’t know God or understand His purpose for humanity.

Let me speak for myself: By all the typical metrics, I had the ideal upbringing to produce a Biblically-literate, faithful Christian adult. My parents are both born again, our family attended church very regularly and was extensively involved in church ministry, I went to Sunday school and AWANA every week from toddlerhood on, and I even chose to go to Bible school for a year after high school. I do not remember a time before I started following Jesus. And for all of this, I am so grateful (though still probably not half as grateful as I should be, since we all tend to take our upbringings for granted as “normal,” having known no different).

At the same time, I can look back and admit, with some embarrassment, that there were/are still some enormous gaps in my true knowledge of who God is and what He has done. Being able to pass the test isn’t always the same as understanding the material.

For example, four or five years ago I went through a dark and difficult period of time involving a lot of fear, loss, and grief. In that shadowy valley, I discovered for the first time that I had been leaning on the heresy of “prosperity theology”—and I didn’t even realize it until it gave way! I would have sworn up and down that I didn’t subscribe to any kind of prosperity doctrine, but the truth was, I had internalized years of learning Bible stories as moral tales, ultimately leading me to subconsciously believe that if I was a good enough Christian, God would protect me from pain.

The catastrophic loss of that core belief, even though it was one I had never formally acknowledged, utterly rocked my relationship with God for a time.

The good news is, I do see strides being made toward the creation of better Bible resources for children. Clara has a book that attempts to encompass the story of the Bible in a short, easy-to-grasp form, which is something I don’t remember having at her age—although it skips straight from the exodus to Bethlehem, which leaves out a whole lot of material that it would seem God considers important. Kevin DeYoung’s “The Biggest Story” Bible Storybook is thorough, beautifully illustrated, and fun to read, if a bit episodic in nature. I haven’t yet read his other book, The Biggest Story: How the Snake Crusher Brings Us Back to the Garden, but I’m hoping to give that one a try soon.

And as I contemplate the Herculean task of trying to teach my own child about God and the Bible, I can see why it’s so difficult. Kids are rather black-and-white thinkers, and it’s hard to imagine trying to teach them nuanced concepts that even adults struggle with. Even with all the caveats and disclaimers and shades of gray in the world, we tend to categorize information in pretty simple mental boxes—agree/disagree, safe/unsafe, good/bad, right/wrong.

The longer I study the Bible, the more inadequate those dichotomies seem. A mammoth collection of ancient, divinely-inspired texts that reveals a peephole view of God’s incomprehensible nature and His plan to rescue Creation just doesn’t fit into something as banal as “good/bad.”

And maybe that’s what it takes: Time, and repetitive, fearless exposure to the whole Bible. A ruthless rejection of the coping strategies we use to keep ourselves comfortable with (and protected from) the Word of God.

We all have to face the hard parts eventually. What if, instead of trying to turn the Bible into a safe book, we made our homes and churches into places that are safe to confront potentially threatening questions?