Lectionary Commentaries for July 21, 2024
Ninth Sunday after Pentecost
from WorkingPreacher.org
Gospel
Commentary on Mark 6:30-34, 53-56
Matt Skinner
First Reading
Commentary on Jeremiah 23:1-6
Kathryn M. Schifferdecker
First of all, no, it is not Good Shepherd Sunday in the lectionary cycle. But you might be forgiven for thinking so, given the texts for this week. The 23rd Psalm begins with its familiar metaphor, “The LORD is my shepherd.” And Jesus has compassion on the crowds who come to see him because they are “like sheep without a shepherd” (Mark 6:34). And God, through the prophet Jeremiah, pronounces judgment on “the shepherds who destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture” (Jeremiah 23:1).
It is not Good Shepherd Sunday, but the metaphor of the shepherd nevertheless informs several of our texts for this week.
“Shepherd,” of course, was a common metaphor for “king” both in Israel and in other ancient Near Eastern lands. In this passage, the word undoubtedly refers to the kings of Judah, but the judgment also encompasses Judah’s other leaders. Both prophets and priests are mentioned, for instance, in the following oracle (Jeremiah 23:11).
What have these shepherds done to deserve divine judgment? They have scattered the flock. They have not “attended” to their flock, so the Lord will instead “attend” to the shepherds. And, yes, you are right to hear an ominous tone in the latter use of that word.
The details of the shepherds’ sins here are scarce but the previous chapter provides some context. “Thus says the LORD: Act with justice [mishpat] and righteousness [tsedakah], and deliver from the hand of the oppressor anyone who has been robbed. And do no wrong or violence to the alien, the orphan, and the widow, or shed innocent blood in this place” (Jeremiah 22:3).
And later, to the sons of King Josiah, “Are you a king because you compete in cedar? Did not your father eat and drink and do justice [mishpat] and righteousness [tsedakah]? Then it was well with him. He judged the cause of the poor and needy. … But your eyes and heart are only on your dishonest gain, for shedding innocent blood, and for practicing oppression and violence” (Jeremiah 22:15–17).
Oppression, violence, the shedding of innocent blood, neglecting to take up the cause of the widow, the orphan, and the foreigner—these are the sins of the kings of Judah, along with idolatry (22:8–9).
The consequences of bad leadership are devastating. The shepherds sin and the flock is scattered.
The consequences of bad leadership are devastating in every age and place. We know that today as well. We see it every day on the news. To take just one example, the brutal attack by Hamas on Israel resulted in the deaths of well over a thousand Israelis, and many hostages are still being held in Gaza. And the ensuing nihilistic conflict between Hamas and the Israeli government has ushered in nothing but death and destruction for tens of thousands of people in Gaza and no assurance of lasting security for Israel. Meanwhile, in Europe, the ego of one man, Vladimir Putin, has resulted in the deaths of well over 100,000 Ukrainians and Russians and the devastation of Ukraine’s infrastructure.
Bad leadership destroys lives and community. And bad leadership is not confined simply to outright violence. Corruption, deceit, self-centeredness, laziness—such venal qualities in a leader, whether king, prime minister, or president, make the lives of their citizens much harder and more insecure.
The good news in this passage is that God sees and judges such shepherds/leaders, and that God will gather the flock that has been scattered. The people will again be “fruitful and multiply,” an obvious reference back to the creation story in Genesis 1, where God is the one who rules, the one who creates life and causes it to flourish abundantly.
And God will raise up new shepherds for God’s people. These new leaders will actually shepherd the flock, so that they will not be afraid, “nor shall any be missing, says the LORD” (Jeremiah 23:4).
The promise continues: God will raise up a descendant of King David, that golden king of Israel. This “righteous Branch” from David’s line will reign with wisdom like the young Solomon, but unlike Solomon, his reign will ultimately be marked by justice (mishpat) and righteousness (tsedakah) in the land (23:5). Christians rightly hear in this promise resonance with the life of Jesus the Christ, but the promise also tells us something about temporal rulers.
The virtues of justice (mishpat) and righteousness (tsedakah) are a recurring theme in these chapters of Jeremiah. They are the qualities of a good king. A ruler who practices mishpat will ensure that justice is done, that the rich will not oppress the poor and the powerful will be held accountable for their deeds. The word mishpat can also be translated “judgment.” Judgment is sometimes necessary in order for justice to be done. That God will judge the bad shepherds is good news for those whom they oppress.
Rulers who practice tzedakah are upright and virtuous. They refrain from doing evil and they obey God’s commandments, including the commandment to care for the poor and vulnerable, the widow, the orphan, and the foreigner. The rulers who practice tzedakah have no blood on their hands. They obey God and they serve their people. Such a leader, such a shepherd will be called by the name “The LORD is our righteousness” (23:6).
These virtues, of course, continue to be important for leaders today, whether kings and queens, prime ministers, or presidents.
As we in the United States enter into a contentious election season, we pray for leaders of integrity to be chosen, shepherds who serve their people, who practice justice (mishpat) and righteousness (tsedakah). And we pray for such leaders in nations around the world, shepherds who will usher in God’s shalom, so that their people “shall not fear any longer, or be dismayed, nor shall any be missing.” May it be so for us and for our global neighbors.
Alternate First Reading
Commentary on 2 Samuel 7:1-14a
Klaus-Peter Adam
David’s lack of tolerance for frustration over the constraints of his limits stands in the way of God’s future unfolding. Nathan frames this as David’s spiritual task to learn humbleness.1 David will lay the groundwork for a dynastic house of rulers, yet he will not build the house of stone that will host the ark. This task will instead be reserved for his successor. For his own days, David must accept the transitory tent as provisional housing of the ark and as a reminder of his limited power.
This is a call to forbearance in the season of Pentecost. David finds himself in the tension of an “already now” and a “not yet.” At this time in the liturgical year, we primarily celebrate the fulfillment of the constitution of the church. As Christians, we exist in a tension between an already/not yet. David’s spiritual growth is measured against his acceptance of an interim solution: a preliminary dwelling space in a yet-to-be-fully-established national home. Inhabiting and claiming one’s time in a productive dynamic between the “already now” and the “not yet” of a longer project is an art and accomplishment of faith.
The king would prefer the long-term solution of a temple of stone with the welcome side effect of an image boost. Yet, determining this venture is not up to him. Rather, the prophet corrects David’s expectations, pointing to his twofold success: his name will be remembered, and he already now sees God’s people settling securely, undisturbed from its enemies, “so that they may dwell in their own place and be disturbed no more” (verse 10). The prophet Nathan invites us together with David to balance our aspirations and our limits in light of God’s great promises and God’s plan for a long story arc.
Already now David’s leadership can claim success and he will be the namesake of the dynasty that brought the ark to Jerusalem. David is a catalytic figure who has a transitional role of conquering the city, so the people arrive there and claim the future capital. This passage strikes a careful balance, though, between God providing King David a sense of security and offering a provisional shelter for the ark in a tent for now, as well as the hope of a more permanent home in a house in the time to come.
With the conquest of Jerusalem, 2 Samuel 7 reflects on an essential aspect of the settlement narrative. The house of stone may evoke contemporary struggles of the upkeep of the “houses of stone” of congregations, crumbling with the need for maintenance deferred while mourning the days when they needed to set up chairs in the narthex for Easter. The reflection on the establishment of the temple can be juxtaposed with congregational experiences of volatility and the use of temporary space, while turning old sanctuaries into arts centers, trapeze schools, or residential housing. David, like most faith leaders, wants stability, yet needs to accept God’s dwelling in the tent.
Might our assemblies have always been meant to be more provisional than the stones and roofs may have led us to believe? The preacher may recapture traditions of the pilgrimage church, such as the Priestly writer’s itinerant sanctuary in which God is “tenting” with us in Exodus 25–31, and may choose to poignantly draw out the emotional and spiritual balance of the dialectic between the settled and the itinerant nature of faith communities.
Decolonizing the tradition
The prophet Nathan addresses typical aspirations of David’s royal hubris. But Nathan also challenges us as a people of faith to think of ourselves analogously as pilgrims underway and as Christians to align this message with the coordinate system of a largely sedentary settlement culture in a Western empire. What might be constructive paths to decolonize our heritage as the Christian church in America? How might we adopt Nathan’s reminder to David as the ruler of the small Judean state whom God had raised from being a little shepherd boy to become a leader?
Like David, the church is neither static nor stagnant, but it consistently finds itself underway. Martin Luther conceives of our faith life as a dynamic trajectory of pilgrims on the move: “This life therefore is not righteousness, but growth in righteousness. … We are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing toward it; the process is not yet finished, but it is going on; this is not the end, but it is the road.”2
Second Samuel 7 can be read as an invitation to affirm and claim the dynamic of our future and to understand ourselves as faithful pilgrims.
“I took you from the pasture. … I have been with you” (verses 8–9)
God’s choice of David is based in non-obligatory, free affirmation. This is both a bold reminder of leadership as a non-obligatory gift and a forthright warning that David might not take his leadership for granted. David recognizes that his capability as a leader is grounded in God’s selection. This makes him a humble servant in his responsible position. How might preachers talk to values such as responsibility and servanthood as the hallmarks of public service (see also Jeremiah 23:1–6) in our time?
It may or may not be necessary that one embed their faith journey in the concept of servanthood. Yet, key features of leadership, such as charisma and honesty, are critical. God calls his leaders to be shepherds. This image conceives of David the ruler as guide over the community.
“When your days are fulfilled, and you lie down with your fathers” (verse 12)
The peaceful burial and eternal resting place for David are a token of his dynasty’s meaning for posterity. This reference to David’s honor in the days to come may direct the preacher to the legacy of congregational life: “As we will fulfill our days, how might we as a congregational collective have built up a ‘house of living stones’ in a neighborhood strengthened into the future?”
Notes
- The author thanks the Rev. Dr. Kim Beckmann for commenting on earlier versions of this commentary.
- The German original is in “Grund und Ursach aller Artikel, 1521,” in: D. Martin Luthers Werke 7 (Weimar: 1883–2009), 336.
Psalm
Commentary on Psalm 23
Jin H. Han
The ubiquitous Psalm 23 has enriched the lives of believers, both Jews and Christians.1 It is so frequently recited in Christian funeral and memorial services (whereas Psalm 90 is more commonly used in the Jewish services) that many may imagine it is a Christian prayer. The first line, which also serves as the title, says it all: “The LORD is my shepherd.”
We may imagine a shepherd of the Middle East, who pays undivided attention to the well-being of the sheep. Such care preempts any sense of scarcity. “I shall not want” creates a gateway to superabundance, leading to the next scene of the sheep lying down in “lush meadows” (verse 2, Eugene Peterson’s The Message).
Ordinarily, we think of people lying down on our backs, but most animals do not do that. Some animals may sleep standing or kneeling, but most of them sprawl. Perhaps we have a picture of exhaustion here—alternatively, a posture of repose. Thanks to the good shepherd, the sheep finds rest, sustenance, and confidence in the green pastures next to the water, where everything that the sheep may need or want has been provided.
In the next scene the poet is “beside still waters” (verse 2). For ancient Hebrews, water is often an image of primordial chaotic powers (see also Psalms 33:7; 74:13). Instead of the water that is a scare, Psalm 23:2 depicts quiet waters that present no threat. The poet has not come upon this place of peace by accident. The Lord’s gentle guidance (see also Isaiah 40:11) made possible what could have been impossible otherwise.
The poet continues dwelling on the shepherd, who leads the flock “in right paths” (verse 3b). Often, many of us assume that a right path is straight, but there are not many roads with no bend in nature. Even in urban settings planned by civil engineers, the straight street is more uncommon than common. Apart from the shape or condition of the track, a right path leads the flock where they need to be. Physically, the path may be crooked, but it is the right path for me. The poet recognizes that God does that for the divine name’s sake, making each crooked turn into a moment when God’s gracious involvement is recognized.
The poet makes no mistake about life that can take us to a dark time and place. The King James Version has made the “darkest valley” famous by calling it “the valley of shadow of death”—one of the most memorable examples of the early modern English Bible. Danger lurks in the dark, but the psalmist declares, “I fear no evil.”
Difficult situations cannot be avoided, and fear comes with a double punch: one with the threat of evil and the other the fear of it. With the Lord, the poet is confident that neither will grab him. The poet has no fear, not because of courage or a strong heart but because of the Lord’s accompanying presence. The proposition of divine companionship echoes the same in the name Immanuel.
The shepherd that walks with the sheep carries a rod and a staff. The former is a weapon to fight off hostile beasts and others. The latter guides the sheep that tend to go astray. The implements provide comfort—a word that conveys not only relief but also the recovery from grief (see Genesis 38:12; Jeremiah 31:15).
In the midst of the specter of terror, the poet imagines a feast. As long as one can eat, one can endure anything. Of course, one would not ordinarily plan to have a meal while facing those who may have hostile intent. Nor should one refuse to eat in comfortable situations. All provision one may get is what the Lord has provided.
Even in harm’s way, the poet names God’s anointing—the gift of abundance like the precious oil dripping down on Aaron’s beard and garment in Psalm 133:2. And the cup overflows freely. The overage is not a picture of wastefulness, although celebration and frugality do not always make a fitting couple. Instead, it evokes an image of superabundance. Besides, the surplus may quench the thirst of someone random.
The poet concludes with a declaration of faith. In Hebrew, the adverb that heads the sentence (“surely”) speaks not only of certitude but also of confidence. The Hebrew can also translate as “only,” with which the poem anticipates nothing but “goodness and mercy” in the days ahead. Troubles may come and go, but God will always accompany us for all seasons.
Most modern translations state that God’s goodness and mercy “follow” the poet. This traditional translation is tolerable, but it hardly does justice to the drift of the poetry, for the Hebrew literally means “pursue.” The same verb is found in the description of Pharaoh’s army pursuing the people of Israel in Exodus 14:8, 9, 23.
In other words, the poet speaks of God’s goodness and mercy in a vigorous pursuit like enemy forces pursuing their target. In Psalm 23, God comes after us and will not rest until we find goodness and mercy.
The dynamic life of being pursued is paired with one of settling down (literally, sitting down). The latter state of serenity comes with the fantastic time stamps “all the days of my life” and “my whole life long.” The poet wants to live all the time in the house of the Lord. One may be tempted to imagine that the poet goes to the temple in Jerusalem every day. Since the poet imagines being a sheep in the Lord’s fold, however, the poet probably means it metaphorically, referring to the house of the Lord as the location of God’s presence. There is no conflict here.
Some early church itineraries to the Holy Land invite one to wonder whether the pilgrimage was imaginary or virtual. Many cannot make the trip but still can be in a state of worship before God for life. In a comparable manner, the poet of Psalm 23 also imagines being in the house of the Lord, even when the temple may have been beyond reach. After all, we can always be in the presence of God the good shepherd, no matter where we may be physically.
Notes
- Commentary previously published on this website May 8, 2022.
Second Reading
Commentary on Ephesians 2:11-22
Holly Hearon
These verses from Ephesians could be titled “Finding Our Roots.” While there is keen interest these days in finding our genealogical roots, Ephesians invites us to consider our roots as people of faith. This is likely something to which we already have given some thought: in terms of denominational affiliation or theological leaning, or perhaps godparents or persons of faith who have guided us.
Ephesians, however, is drawing our attention to another lineage—one we may find surprising.
Roots and groups
To fully appreciate this, we need to identify with the “you” addressed by the writer: that is, “you Gentiles [ethnē] by birth, called the uncircumcision” (verse 11). The Greek word ethnē refers to either
- a group of persons who are unified by kinship, culture, and tradition, or
- those who are viewed as different from, or “other” than, another established ethnos.1
In Ephesians, Gentiles (that’s us) are “the other.” The established ethnos, called “the circumcision,” are a people united by kinship, culture, and tradition through the covenant made between God and Abraham (Genesis 17:10–11). It is to this group that the writer belongs (3:1). Gentiles, the writer says, are “aliens from the commonwealth of Israel and strangers to the covenants of promise, without hope in the world” (verse 12).
This is a description of ourselves that we may not embrace comfortably. But to fully experience the impact of the passage, it is an identity that we need to own at least for a while. It can offer a growing space in which we consider what it is to be an outsider. Some of us are already well familiar with this space; for others it may feel new and unfamiliar.
Making the two into one
Uncomfortable as it may make us feel, it is the experience of “otherness” that the writer wants us to remember. This is so that we may also experience being drawn into the new humanity in Christ. In verses 13–18 the writer focuses on this experience in a very particular way, developing three themes:
Those far and near: In verse 13, the writer describes “the uncircumcision” as those who were far off, but now have been brought near. The language of far/near is repeated in verse 17, but in contrast to verse 13, here it refers to two separate groups, each of whom are recipients of Christ’s proclamation of peace. In between verses 13 and 17, there are multiple references to the two becoming one: making both groups one (verse 14); creating one new humanity (verse 15); reconciling both groups to God in one body (verse 16).
Although the emphasis of the passage is on oneness, the writer repeatedly states that this unity is created from two groups, who represent different customs, traditions, and perspectives. Unity between the two groups comes about not by one group giving up its identity to become like the other. Rather, unity arises from their shared identity in Christ. Both those who were near and those who were far become, together, something new in Christ. This is brought home in verse 18: “both of us have access in one Spirit to the Father.”
Peace: There are four references to “peace” (verses 14, 15, 17 [2x]). The first declares, “He is our peace” (verse 14). The phrasing is notable, placing focus not on peace as a state of being, but on peace as something effected in Jesus’ flesh (“through the cross” [verse 16]). Christ makes both groups into one (verse 14) by creating in himself “one body in place of two” and “thus making peace” (verse 15). To say that Christ is “our peace” (verse 14) is to recognize that “our” refers to us and them, not just us.
The final two references to peace are in verse 17: “So he came and proclaimed peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near …” Note that the proclamation comes after peace has been made through Christ. It begins with the work of the cross. As something proclaimed (euaggelizō), the peace effected in Christ is a “good news” message, proclaimed to all, without preference and without reference to their former proximity to God.
Reconciliation: The references to peace strategically surround the key phrase “reconcile both groups to God” (verse 16). This reconciliation occurs in two directions. In the first instance (verse 14), the hostility refers to what separates “the circumcision” and “the uncircumcision.” The “dividing wall” likely is the wall that prevented Gentiles from entering the inner courts of the Jerusalem Temple.2 The word translated as “abolished” (“abolished the law”) is katargeō. It can also mean to set aside, or release from obligation.3 This suggests the possibility that the writer is referring to the law’s requirement of circumcision, which was a barrier to the Gentiles.
In the second reference to hostility (verse 16), the focus shifts. Here, reconciliation is between God and humankind: Christ reconciles “both groups to God in one body, through the cross, thus putting to death that hostility through it.” The result is that, through Christ, both groups have access through the one Spirit to God (verse 18). This means that those who were once far off (that’s us) are no longer strangers and aliens (verse 19). Rather, the two groups together have become members of the household of God, collectively growing into a holy temple, a dwelling place for God (verses 19–22).
Remembering that we were once outsiders to the promises of God invites reflection on how we view the household of God today:
- Are there ways we divide ourselves into those who are “near” and those who are “far off”?
- What does unity look like? How is it demonstrated?
- How do we make room for the different customs, traditions, and perspectives among the many who constitute this new humanity?
- How can we deal with differences in ways that build up the household of God?
Notes
- BDAG.
- Margaret Y. MacDonald, Colossians and Ephesians, Sacra Pagina 17 (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2000), 244.
- BDAG.
So much for subtlety and secrets.
Jesus has a way of attracting attention and drawing crowds. It can be easy to miss that because so many of the prominent passages in Mark involve him interacting with individuals who need healing or disciples who need a clue. In this reading, which is artificially created by combining two short, summary-style paragraphs and leaving out two more dramatic stories (6:35–52), Mark emphasizes just how popular Jesus grows in the communities around the Sea of Galilee.1
The passage begins by directing attention to Mark’s narrative structure. The disciples who extended Jesus’ ministry of preaching, exorcism, and healing two Sundays ago (6:7–13) have returned. Presumably their ministry conducted with Jesus’ authority adds to his growing reputation in the region. The story of John’s execution last Sunday (6:14–29) ought to remind us of the danger still lurking on the political landscape. Getting away for a while therefore sounds like a good idea for Jesus and his followers for many reasons, but there’s never an escape from the suffering of the world.
Mark does not disclose Jesus’ anticipated destination; that matters less than the detail that people travel swiftly to beat him there. You’d swarm him and interrupt his retreat, too, if you were both desperate and convinced that he could provide relief.
Nothing suggests that Jesus experiences frustration with the masses and their insistence. He feels compassion, a deep sympathy rumbling in his viscera. (Your congregation might be delighted to learn to pronounce the verb splagchnizomai, which indicates compassion; see also 1:41; 8:2.) His response involves more than a warm and sensitive heart. These people are being denied well-being and justice, and the offense seizes Jesus. Mark signals that by likening the people to “sheep without a shepherd” (verse 34).
The Bible often compares leaders to shepherds (for example, Numbers 27:17; 2 Chronicles 18:16). “The system” has failed the people who flock to Jesus, as evidenced in Herod Antipas’s lethal fecklessness (6:14–29).2 They are vulnerable in a predatory world. No one, it seems, guards their human dignity. They have to fend for themselves. What kind of society places people in that kind of condition?
Later, after another trip on the lake, Jesus comes ashore and again experiences the consequences of being “recognized” (verses 33, 54). Like a powerful magnet, he draws to himself people who suffer ailments and heals them, no matter where he is.
Mark notes that third parties play a part in the healings as well. Twice the narrative mentions the people who bring those who are sick to Jesus. We can use our imagination: family, friends, maybe even concerned strangers play a part in making sure that people have access to Jesus and the healthcare he freely offers. Mark makes no explicit claim that everyone who encounters Jesus receives healing, only those who touch his garment (see also 5:27–29), but obviously the implication is that he heals all. What a blessing it is when people get those who need help to the one who can help.
If Jesus was ever serious about thinking he could keep his power a secret, by now it is clear that he was quite misguided (see 1:43–45; 3:12; 5:43). People who experience healing, nourishment, and hope often have a hard time keeping quiet about it. Remember that Mark has so far revealed very little about what Jesus teaches people. His reputation as a wonderworker is magnificent.
This passage offers preachers an opportunity to reflect on the gospel’s relationship to health and wholeness. When Jesus heals people of their ailments, his acts are not symbolic of the salvation he provides. They are a piece of that salvation. We miss that when we make “salvation” into an otherworldly concept or a primarily spiritual condition.3 Jesus devotes himself to ensuring human flourishing in body, mind, spirit, and community. So, too, should any church that conducts ministry in his name and in the power of the same Holy Spirit that indwells him.
At the same time, Jesus’ ministry does not totally eliminate the things that assail our well-being. The people Jesus heals, we presume, get sick again and die. Jesus is a healer, yes, but his purpose entails more than spreading temporary wellness.
Healing stories present a challenge because they often lend themselves to ableist interpretations. Some of those interpretations operate under presumptions that ailments and diseases create defective bodies in contrast to “normal” or “healthy” human beings. They thus promote a certain kind of embodied ideal as what it means to be holy, blessed, or whole. Those ideals disparagingly associate disability or unhealth with sinfulness.
Other harmful interpretations insist that faith must be the precursor or cause of healing. They can lead us to attribute ongoing illness (or the onset of an illness) to a person’s lack of sufficient faith. (Note that this passage contains no mention of “faith” in connection with the people who are healed or the people who facilitate healing. Presumably folks believe that Jesus can heal them. That might be the sum of what “faith” means anyway, as far as Mark is concerned.)
Preachers need not hold back in proclaiming Christ’s ability to deliver and restore people, but they should watch carefully how they characterize illness and health, as well as brokenness and wholeness. It might be a good week for preachers to seek input from healthcare professionals or social workers they know as they prepare their sermons.
Preachers can also explore the ways this passage implicitly characterizes Jesus as a dangerous figure in the eyes of authorities. Drawing crowds of people—whether in “a deserted place” (6:35), along the seashore, or in “villages or cities or farms”—is bound to attract the attention of others. Giving support to harassed people, feeding hungry people (6:35–44), and healing sick people have consequences. Those actions alter economies in households and neighborhoods. They transform relationships. They urge people to reconsider old allegiances. They give people hope.
In a world where cynicism and fear are effective means of controlling people and stifling widespread human flourishing, too many hopeful people become threatening. Yet hope cannot remain hidden. It doesn’t work that way.
Notes