Lectionary Commentaries for June 9, 2024
Third Sunday after Pentecost

Mark 3:19b–35 is among the evangelist’s subtlest intercalations: the insertion of one story inside another, inviting us to hear each as the other’s counterpart. Jesus’ refutation of theological teachers (3:22–30) is sandwiched inside his family relations (3:19b–21, 31–35). In both passages there’s a serious misapprehension of Jesus that reveals fractured households. His family has “come out to seize him, for they were saying, ‘He’s out of his mind’” (verse 21; my translation). Simultaneously, “the scribes who came down from Jerusalem said, ‘He has Beelzebul, and by the ruler of the demons he casts out demons” (verse 22, New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition).

The rupture between Jesus and his mother and brothers is echoed by his reference to “a house … divided against itself” (verse 25). This Markan sandwich leaves a vinegary aftertaste. In 3:28–30 Jesus declares that confusing the Holy Spirit’s agent with unclean spirits amounts to commission of an unforgivable sin. In 3:33–35 Jesus radically redefines members of his family—in antiquity, the most basic social organization—as all who do God’s will.

Return to Mark 3:22–30. Jesus’ response to the accusation that he’s in league with the prince of demons is mysterious. He didn’t flee from his accusers. Instead, “he called them to him and spoke to them in parables” (3:23). Because parables are inherently cryptic (in Hebrew, meshalîm: “shadowy sayings”: Psalm 78:2), Jesus’ reasoning in Mark 3:23b–27 is tricky. The claims made in verses 23b–26 suggest that Satan’s commonwealth is as susceptible to internal instability as are this world’s kingdoms and houses. Accepting the scribes’ premise, Jesus leads them to an awkward position. If they deny what Jesus asserts is the case, they are thrown at odds with the basis of their own accusations. If they accept Jesus’ assertion as just so, they end up agreeing with him, contradicting their own indictment.

Even more perplexing: there’s tension between the reasoning of 3:24–26a, which suggests that Satan’s kingdom has not yet fallen, and the hint in 3:26b that it has. In a roundabout way verse 27 relaxes the stress. Jesus can continue to thwart demonic powers, not because he is in cahoots with them (3:22), but because he has bound Satan. Jesus “has Beelzebul,” not as a collaborator, but under his control—though not entirely so. A portion of the strong man’s house remains inviolate; some aspect of Satan’s enterprise continues. This world is still assaulted by devilish forces, which, tottering now, will ultimately collapse (James 4:7; 1 Peter 5:8–9; Revelation 2:10).

Though all other sins are forgivable, aligning Jesus with demonic forces is a sin that cannot be released (Mark 3:28–30). Why? Mark does not explain. It’s a parable. Here’s my take: Identifying as diabolical the one endowed with God’s holy spirit (1:8, 10) is a peculiar blasphemy, beyond the pale of remission, because one thereby drives oneself away from the true agent of forgiveness (2:5, 10; compare “the deathward sin” in 1 John 5:16–17). To stretch the metaphor in Mark 2:17: we’ll never surrender to therapeutic surgery if we’re so deluded that we think our physician is Hannibal Lecter. To team Jesus with Satan is so utterly perverse that its proponents put themselves under conditions in which forgiveness is a practical impossibility.

Mark 3:31–35 picks up the dangling thread in 3:21—Jesus’ family, who believe he’s deranged. Jesus’ redefinition of family in verses 34–35 is multidimensional. Spatially, it comprises, not family outsiders (verse 31), but those inside who encircle Jesus (3:32). Kinship is based, not on blood, but on doing God’s will (verse 35), which Jesus will demonstrate at Gethsemane (14:36). Jesus’ real family is the faithful church, surrounding him and obedient to their common Father (see 8:38; 13:32; 14:36; cf. Matthew 23:9).

To the relatives identified by the crowd—“your mother and your brothers” (Mark 3:32)—Jesus conspicuously adds “my sister[s]” (3:35), which women in Mark’s own community would surely have heard as referring to them. The identification of family with church would also have consoled early Christians whose confession had ripped apart their own families (10:28–30; 13:12–13). That said, any household—including the church—can become so riven that it caves in. Jesus’ own circle harbored his betrayal from the beginning (3:19).

Let’s give Jesus’ mother and brothers and Jerusalem’s scribes the benefit of the doubt. They all may have wanted, more than anything else, to do God’s will. So may we, in pew and in pulpit. The trap ever before us is to define the kingdom’s boundaries and expect God to abide by our beliefs.

As a child I sang, “Lord, I want to be like Jesus in my heart.” Three bars of that hymn and I’m back in a little brick church in North Carolina, with memory verses and vacation Bible school and cardboard fans tucked behind hymnals by the funeral home—fans, stapled to sticks like tongue-depressors, picturing Jesus holding a lamb. “Lord, I want to be like Jesus.” I meant it then. I mean it now. And yet I know, perhaps knew even then, that in my heart there’s a hardness that really wants Jesus to be like me.

Here’s what Howard Thurman (1899–1981) prayed:

Lord, I want to be more holy in my heart.
Here is the citadel of all my desiring,
where my hopes are born
and all the deep resolutions of my spirit take wings.
In this center, my fears are nourished,
and all my hates are nurtured.
Here my loves are cherished,
and all the deep hungers of my spirit are honored
without quivering and without shock.
In my heart, above all else,
let thy love and integrity envelop me
until my love is perfected and the last vestige
of my desiring is no longer in conflict with thy Spirit.
Lord, I want to be more holy in my heart.¹

Notes

1. Howard Thurman, Meditations of the Heart (New York: Harper & Row, 1953), 166.

The relationship between God and the primeval couple undergoes a seismic change after they eat the forbidden fruit. It is a new stage with new theological insights as we follow the drama of God visiting them. 

As the story unfolds, we read about God arriving at the end of the day. The difference with this visit is that they hide from God. The idyllic harmony of love and community in Genesis 2 has been lost, and their consciousness has shifted. The act of hiding symbolizes new emotions and spiritual change. They know and feel shame because they see themselves naked. Such a transformation in their understanding alters the perception of their place in the world. This is the mythical beginning of human existence. Genesis 3 describes nakedness and its implications for their relationship with God, their thoughts, desires, and limitations. 

As a myth of creation, in this case of humanity’s origins, this narrative is a poignant description of our journey from birth to death. This journey is marked by self-discovery and moral discernment as indicators of our emotional and moral growth. 

Two questions in the narrative reveal the change in Adam and Eve’s understanding. God’s first question captures an essential element of their journey. “Where are you?” is more than God’s inquiry about their whereabouts. The question is an invitation to an inward journey. God is seeking more than coordinates. “Where are you?” is a request toward introspection and communion with the Divine. 

A personal God seeks dialogue beyond verbal interaction. God longs for deeper connection and holy conversation even if God knows their new emotional and spiritual condition. God’s invitation to communion and fellowship contrasts with Adam’s actions once he hears that God is in the garden. He is afraid and hides himself, activities that reflect his journey of self-discovery. 

“Who told you that you were naked?” is God’s second question. After Adam explains to God why he decided to hide, this question goes deeper into Adam’s understanding of his new self. It seeks to confront Adam’s unique sense of vulnerability and awareness of guilt and shame, exposing the consequences of their disobedience. God invites Adam to consider the source of his new knowledge and to assess its validity and implications for life in the garden. The question also suggests God’s commitment to dialogue because it helps Adam grapple with the nature of human understanding. It is a question about morality and the complex theological task of discerning right from wrong, an ongoing process in human existence.

In the aftermath of their disobedience, Adam’s and Eve’s responses to God’s question show an interplay of accountability and evasion. Adam blames God for his actions; paraphrasing Adam’s retort, the woman God placed in the garden gave Adam the fruit. Adam knows the power of blaming others instead of accepting responsibility. Indirectly, God is responsible because God provided the woman in the first place. His words suggest avoidance of guilt. He insinuates that God’s gift of a companion is the source of his downfall. 

Blame passes on from one to another, as the woman does not accept responsibility and blames the serpent who tricked her, deflecting personal accountability for her eating and partaking of the fruit. She shifts the burden, attributing her disobedience to a persuasive animal. Both responses reflect the human inclination to evade accountability by pointing to other factors: God’s provision, or external influences. 

Something has drastically changed in the divine-human relationship. Adam and Eve realize they are naked, they feel shame about their bodies, and they sense vulnerability as God approaches them to have a conversation. Finally, they blame others for their actions. Human relationships include a continuous struggle with the newly discovered forces and possibilities. 

After speaking to Adam and Eve, God also addresses the serpent. God’s words carry both judgment and promise. They are a prophecy of conflict in the human condition between the seed of the woman and of the serpent, echoing christological considerations. Just as Adam and Eve struggle with their evolving awareness of life in the garden, God’s words to the serpent signify more than a cosmic battle. This declaration holds a profound theological significance, foreshadowing the arrival of a Redeemer, the promise of a future figure who will conquer the power of evil symbolized by the cunning serpent. 

New forces in the emotional and spiritual realm are at play as the humans discern between good and evil. However, in the Christian story, this struggle culminates in the redemptive work of Jesus Christ. It’s an insight into the divine plan of salvation, portraying Christ’s victory over evil as fulfilling this ancient prophecy. Just as Adam and Eve faced consequences for their disobedience, this prophecy introduces the promise of Christ’s redemptive act, emphasizing his pivotal role in restoring humanity’s broken relationship with God.

A nuanced understanding of God’s response lies within the judgment of the serpent and the primeval couple. God’s justice is not merely punitive but aims to guide and shape the ongoing creation process toward greater harmony and fulfillment. The promise of a Redeemer reflects God’s relentless pursuit of transformation and restoration—a continuous urging toward beauty, goodness, and wholeness within the evolving moments of existence.

Therefore, Genesis 3:8–15, viewed through human self-awareness and God’s desire for communion, embodies a narrative of disobedience and redemption and reveals the dynamic, evolving relationship between humanity and God. It portrays a relationship characterized by growth, relational depth, and the continuous emergence of new possibilities within the ongoing journey of becoming, finding its fulfillment in the redemptive work of Jesus Christ.

So many questions! How is it that the Lord of the Universe relents to the people of ancient Israel’s desire to be like other nations and have a king?

Textual horizons

Taking a look first at the bigger picture—the narrative’s context—there is a key theological framework for this text, and actually for the whole of 1–2 Samuel and 1–2 Kings. Writing after the fall of Israel (722/721 BCE) and Judah/Jerusalem (587/586 BCE), the author(s) laid out a theme of “reversal of fortune,” first seen in Hannah’ song in 1 Samuel 2:1–10.¹ The standpoint of the author(s) is grounded in the theology of the book of Deuteronomy, which is why scholars call the author(s) “the Deuteronomist.”

The theology of the books of the “Deuteronomistic History”² makes a claim that the fall of Israel and Judah is related to covenantal disobedience. This standpoint from Babylonian exile is a way to make sense of how the Divine Warrior³ did not rescue them this time, as YHWH Sabaoth had done in the narratives of Joshua and Judges. The consequence for disobedience was exile—though this tough love was held in tension with the promise that David’s throne would be established forever (2 Samuel 7:11–16), as well as with the prophetic oracles elsewhere that a remnant would return.

Thus, the author’s agenda is to teach that those who are faithful to YHWH will be lifted up, while those who are disobedient will be brought low—in other words, the reversal of fortune. This motif is repeated throughout the four books.

Now, enter the reversals of fortune that set the stage for King Saul.

While Samuel is an exemplar of faithfulness, his sons, Joel and Abijah, are the opposite, seeking selfish gains that pervert justice (1 Samuel 8:3). With just concern, the elders of all Israel come to Samuel and plead for their society, seeking to avoid the injustices evidenced in the heirs apparent. Then the people command (imperative form of “put/place/appoint”) Samuel to give them a king, which was an “evil” thing to Samuel (verse 6; New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition says that “the thing displeased Samuel”). Samuel relays “the words of YHWH to the people” (verse 10), warning them of the power of a king over them.

While it seems that God’s warning centers on issues of conscription and taxes, the real issue is in whom the people of God will trust. The red thread of this text—and the whole Bible—is that YHWH is to be the sole relationship in whom to put one’s trust. If the people of God do not trust YHWH, there will be consequences—conscription and taxes are the light version, and exile is the heavy version—which would be understood by the first hearers of this text, who were probably in the Babylonian exile.

God relents and allows the installation of King Saul (1 Samuel 11:15), which unleashes one of the clearest reversal-of-fortune narratives in 1–2 Samuel and 1–2 Kings. (Stay tuned!)

Homiletic horizons

Who—or what—do we trust? Our dominant cultures and the wiles of the evil one are masterful at helping us misplace trust.

It would be easy to look for misguided aspects in these texts. The people seem (1) envious of other nations around them with a king. They see the selfish injustices of Joel and Abijah, so (2) they respond from their own understanding and command Samuel to appoint them a king. But do not stop with the low-hanging fruit in this (or any) text!

First, the people want to put their trust in an earthly king. God’s relenting to the people’s desire for a king will allow—if not challenge—the people to demonstrate the core of their trust. Will it be placed upon political leaders? Or will their trust rightly remain in the God of covenantal promise, deliverance, and blessing?

More importantly, there is an underlying issue of fear. The elders are afraid that they will be stuck with Joel and Abijah, though clearly YHWH knew that Samuel’s sons were unfit for leadership of God’s people. Fear is a great strategy that the evil one uses to try to undermine trust. This is not just Old Testament stories from the past; it is the story of our lives today. Fear gets a foothold because the people do not trust YHWH to rule as their true sovereign. In this text, the people did not trust YHWH to manage the ruling over them.

Remember that these texts are from the perspective of the people of God in the Babylonian exile (when these texts were compiled and edited). This perspective is also clearly seen in the Psalms, which also had some development during the exile.⁴ Many Psalms—including Psalm 138 in this group of lectionary readings—recognize the reality of misplaced trust and its consequences, such that they repeatedly recognize that YHWH alone is king (ruler, sovereign, or monarch in inclusive language).

Often good things—justice, civil society, security, et cetera—become lesser gods. Indeed, while these good things are important, they can subtly misalign our trust. Ultimately, our “hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness” (hymn lyrics by Edward Mote).

Notes

1. Mark Throntveit, “Enter the Bible — Books: 1 Samuel,” n.d., http://www.enterthebible.org/oldtestament.aspx?rid=29 (accessed February 1, 2020).
2. Sandra L. Richter, “Deuteronomistic History,” in Dictionary of the Old Testament: Historical Books, ed. Bill T. Arnold and H. G. M. Williamson (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2005), 219–30.
3. C. L. Seow, “Hosts, Lord of,” The Anchor Yale Bible Dictionary (New York: Doubleday, 1992), 306. “From the start, the epithet YHWH Sebaʾot is understood in military terms—at least in part.” See also L. Daniel Hawk, “Joshua, Book of,” in Dictionary of the Old Testament: Historical Books (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2005), 568.
4. The final form of the Psalms came later, though scholars have different approaches for determining an estimated date.

In Psalm 130, the writer calls out to God from the depths of human suffering, hoping for, expecting, and insisting on God’s hearing.¹

The psalmist has every confidence that God will hear and respond to every cry of pain because mercy, the writer insists, is who God is.

The lament of Psalm 130 is familiar to our hearing and our living. The psalmist cries out to God from “the depths” (verse 1), from the darkest abyss of human suffering. That abyss takes different shapes in individual and communal human life, but we all have had or will have some experience of it, and not always tangentially.

Grief, depression, illness, poverty, abuse—any of these experiences, and so many more, can plunge us into a darkness so deep that it can feel almost like death. That the abyss, the pit, the deep is so centrally and universally a part of human life is reflected in the Psalms’ repeated reference to it, as in 16:10; 40:2; and 69:2. Augustine, in his exposition on Psalm 130, likened the abyss to the belly of the whale in which Jonah was trapped: Jonah’s abyss was deep in the water, in the yawning center of the whale’s body, tangled in the “very entrails of the beast.”²

In verses 1 and 2, that cry is a demand to be heard, an insistence that God listen to the voice of torment: “Pay attention to my suffering, and for heaven’s sake, have mercy on me!” Often such a demand issues from a sense of God’s absence in the depths. Pain, whether physical, psychological, spiritual, or some combination, can be so isolating that we feel abandoned to our misery, even by God.

But the careful structure of Psalm 130 indicates that the demand here issues not from a sense of abandonment but from a certainty that God will hear. The writer cries out from the sure conviction that God cares. Verse 5 states that the psalmist trusts in the promises God has made and waits for their fulfillment, and twice in verse 6 the psalmist describes his or her soul as waiting for the Lord “more than those who watch for the morning.” This phrase may refer to those who, after a night of prayer, receive confirmation of God’s redemption with the new light of dawn. The psalmist is asserting that he or she lives with even greater certainty of God’s attention than these.

Is this the pious boasting of a holier-than-thou jerk, eager to show us up in the faithfulness department? Actually, this text is a careful statement about God’s character, not the psalmist’s, and the key to this understanding is found in verses 3 and 4. “If you, O LORD, should mark iniquities, Lord, who could stand? But there is forgiveness with you, so that you may be revered.”

The psalmist is not asserting the power of God’s judgment or even the extent of human sin, as these verses are often read. The writer is telling us that God is not the kind of God under whose judgment the sinner withers. Rather, there is forgiveness with God. Forgiveness, in other words, is who God is.

This psalm is about the very character of God, which remains steadfast even in the abyss. God is not to be feared because of the wrath of God’s judgment, but God is revered because “with the LORD there is steadfast love, and with him is great power to redeem” (verse 7). God’s unchanging love is the essence of who God is, and God’s power is precisely the power to redeem.

It is this God, the writer argues, the God who is mercy and love, who will redeem the people. In similar laments, like Psalm 25:6, the psalmist must call upon God to remember God’s mercy. Not here. Here the writer calls on us to remember that God is mercy. We need this reminder especially in the depths of misery. Augustine says that Jonah’s prayer, uttered from the depths of the whale’s body, was not contained by that body. Jonah’s prayer “penetrated all things, it burst through all things, it reached the ears of God.”

Even the prayer that issues from the utter abandonment of human suffering reaches God’s ears, is heard and answered by the God whose very being is love. What’s more, Augustine continues, that love not only hears, but becomes a companion who leads us on our way.³ God hears the cry from the abyss, meets us in the depth of our pain, and accompanies us in and through it, sharing in our suffering and leading us toward the light of God’s redemption.

The sad truth is that human beings can be downright unmade in the depths. The deepest suffering not only can tear at our flesh and our hearts; it can strip us of all that makes us who we are, such that we feel that our very selves are lost. To someone in this state, whose stolen self is unable to issue the prayer for God’s hearing, what does Psalm 130 offer?

Together with the gentle companionship of others who have known suffering and redemption, the words of Psalm 130 can be a healing balm to the shattered soul, offering assurance of God’s endless mercy and of the divine companionship that will remake all that is broken. Psalm 130 issues a calling to the assembled to claim for each and all of us the vast mercy of God and to companion one another through and out of the myriad abysses we each and all encounter.

Notes:

1. Commentary originally published on this website April 6, 2014.
2. Augustine, Exposition on the Book of Psalms, Psalm 130, Christian Classics Ethereal Library, http://www.ccel.org/ccel/schaff/npnf108.ii.CXXX.html.
3. Ibid.

Paul—the textual Paul, the letters P-a-u-l, not the man who lived and died so many years ago and is beyond our knowing—is persistent and clever. He insists on walking blind and talking about his stumbling, open to whatever is next without the slightest reason for welcoming the unknown and without the least idea of what, if anything, is coming his way. Second Corinthians 5:7 is his motto: “For we walk by faith, not by sight.” The Christian tradition, however, with rare exceptions, has ignored Paul’s devotion to not-knowing. 

Now, in Paul’s name, faith and knowledge are complementary. Bits of knowledge (although without any sense of the irony involved, these bits are often called “articles of faith”) are added to the experience of suffering to make the path easier to discern. We are told: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”; “God is always good”; “God has a plan for you.” And the cruelest piece of knowledge: “If you have faith, you will be saved.” 

Yet, I believe Paul’s speech flows from his faith, from his blindness: “But just as we have the same spirit of faith that is in accordance with scripture—‘I believed, and so I spoke’—we also believe, and therefore we also speak” (2 Corinthians 4:13). Faith is neither a weakened form of knowledge nor its substitute; faith is fear, trembling, stumbling forward without knowing it is forward that one stumbles. And this perplexity, according to Paul, is hosted by Scripture. 

Recall that Christians once called the Holy Spirit (pneuma) the Holy Ghost (pneuma), a translation in line with first-century usage and deserving a renaissance. As a ghost haunts, so also spirit haunts. Paul, having “the same spirit of faith,” writes of the experience of being haunted, of being on the receiving end of an inexplicable and unknowable otherness that speaks wordless words that cannot and must not be repeated (2 Corinthians 12:4). 

These words pull hearers/readers into impossible things. Like falling in love. Like mourning the dead. Like getting out of bed in the morning. Like giving justice to the long-since-murdered. And, in 2 Corinthians, like reconciliation with those Paul had hurt (see 2:4). Facing these experiences as they wash over and wash away the self, this is what Paul calls faith. 

Objections: Doesn’t Paul pepper 2 Corinthians 4:12–5:1 with sure and certain facts? Doesn’t faith depend on them? Doesn’t he relate, if not equate, faith with the knowledge of these facts? Take, for example, the immortality of the soul (2 Corinthians 4:7, 16, and 18). Surely, these verses are evidence of a certain indestructibility residing inside the body. The immortal soul has the power (if only we call upon it) to withstand the body’s suffering and even its death. Paul is in harmony with the most knowledgeable of philosophers, Plato. 

Furthermore, note that when Paul brings up the soul’s immortality, he also teaches that what doesn’t kill you does indeed make you stronger. Endurance of suffering demonstrates the soul’s strength (4:8–9) and creates greater glory at the end of time ( 4:17). Yes, these ideas are drawn from the ancient philosophers, but despite their pagan origin they merit Christian approval because they support faith. 

One more observation: We all agree (don’t we?) that the doctrine of the resurrection is the foundation of the Christian faith. Paul documents that truth in 4:14. The restoration of the crucified Jesus to life is a guarantee of the offer that God makes to everyone: If you believe, you will have life restored to your dead body.

One response to these objections is, of course, to agree with them. Another is to admit defeat and get on with life without Christianity. Another response (my preference) is to think that the textual Paul himself resists reducing faith to knowledge, and the dead Paul did too, perhaps. I think of Paul as a clever rhetorician and preveniently postmodern. Might we consider all of 2 Corinthians 4–5 in light of 5:4, where poetry swallows up and metabolizes certainty, foundations, the invincible self, immortality of the soul, and restoration of life to dead bodies? Paul includes certainty and its companions in his rhetoric only to undo them. That is why I called him clever. 

He releases us from the force these ideas have over us, inasmuch as we experience them as Christian truth. That is his postmodernism. Paul’s strategy is to challenge the stability of the “ego” so that neither the formation of the self nor its restoration after death makes sense from the standpoint of faith, if such an oxymoron is permitted. That is the way I read 1 Corinthians 15:50: “What I am saying, brothers and sisters, is this: flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable.” 

There is no identity set in stone, no immortal soul to be reformulated into a modified identity or restored to a life that once was. Instead we, undetermined beings, existing in infinite ways, made new (not renewed, as if we were overdue library books) day by day (2 Corinthians 5:16)—all this is happening right now and is itself resurrection (compare 4:14–15 with 1:9–11). 

No wonder resurrection is a mystery, an incomprehensible mixing of life and death (1 Corinthians 15:50–55). Resurrection declines to be mastered by everyday ideas that rely on repetition of what we have already experienced and expressed with words like “reformation,” “resuscitation,” or “restoration.” Even the word “resurrection” betrays the otherness of what it refers to. It fails, like all words fail. Longing, a form of mourning, and groaning respond, but they do so with breath, not with words, as in 2 Corinthians 5:2–4 and Romans 8:22–27.