Afterward Moses and Aaron went and said to Pharaoh, “Thus says the Lord, the God of Israel, ‘Let my people go, that they may hold a feast to me in the wilderness.’” But Pharaoh said, “Who is the Lord, that I should obey his voice and let Israel go? I do not know the Lord, and moreover, I will not let Israel go.” (Exodus 5.1-2)

Not only is this scene famous and storied, but the chain of events it kicked off is the main thrust of the book of Exodus, which itself has been the subject of many books, songs, plays, and films.  It fills us with empathy for the Israelites, and ever since those events took place, the story has been invoked by people who saw in their own circumstances a similar struggle between oppressed and oppressor.  The most famous of these was the plight of African slaves in the American south leading up to the civil war.

There’s an odd feature of the story that plays out between Moses and Pharaoh following this initial confrontation.  We all know of the Ten Plagues, culminating in the death of the firstborn throughout Egypt—the final straw that led to the Israelites’ liberation.  But Pharaoh didn’t change his mind all of a sudden after holding out for months while his kingdom fell apart around him due to God’s wrath.  Several times Pharaoh considered granting Moses’ demand—but the demand itself is the really interesting thing.  Moses and Aaron appear to be requesting a temporary leave of absence for the whole nation, rather than absolute freedom.

Then they said, “The God of the Hebrews has met with us. Please let us go a three days' journey into the wilderness that we may sacrifice to the Lord our God, lest he fall upon us with pestilence or with the sword.” (Exodus 5.3)

This is just after the very first time they’ve told Pharaoh, “let my people go.”  At the least, there’s room for misunderstanding, as if perhaps the Israelites intend to return to their burdens after they hold their religious observance in the wilderness.  This happens several more times.  For example:

Then Pharaoh called Moses and Aaron and said, “Go, sacrifice to your God within the land.” But Moses said, “It would not be right to do so, for the offerings we shall sacrifice to the Lord our God are an abomination to the Egyptians. If we sacrifice offerings abominable to the Egyptians before their eyes, will they not stone us? We must go three days' journey into the wilderness and sacrifice to the Lord our God as he tells us.” So Pharaoh said, “I will let you go to sacrifice to the Lord your God in the wilderness; only you must not go very far away. Plead for me.” Then Moses said, “Behold, I am going out from you and I will plead with the Lord that the swarms of flies may depart from Pharaoh, from his servants, and from his people, tomorrow. Only let not Pharaoh cheat again by not letting the people go to sacrifice to the Lord.” (Exodus 8.25-29)

Pharaoh cheats again, by not letting the people go to sacrifice to the Lord—but that’s beside the point.  Moses uses an awful lot of words to try to justify this scheme in Pharaoh’s eyes, when it’s really not the issue at hand, and they both know it.  They’re both talking about this as if it’s a temporary thing, but Pharaoh clearly understands that the Israelites will not come back, if he gives them leave to do what they’re asking.

So Moses and Aaron were brought back to Pharaoh. And he said to them, “Go, serve the Lord your God. But which ones are to go?” Moses said, “We will go with our young and our old. We will go with our sons and daughters and with our flocks and herds, for we must hold a feast to the Lord.” But he said to them, “The Lord be with you, if ever I let you and your little ones go! Look, you have some evil purpose in mind. No! Go, the men among you, and serve the Lord, for that is what you are asking.” And they were driven out from Pharaoh's presence. (Exodus 10.8-11)

Moses resists saying the obvious—“we’re all leaving, and we’re not coming back.”  But Pharaoh gets it, and refuses again.  This bizarre, politely euphemistic argument continues right up until the tenth plague puts an end to the discussion.

Why does this matter to us?  Just as the slaves of the antebellum south saw an analogy between Exodus and their own situation, we can see parallels to our spiritual struggle with enslavement to sin.  For us, the argument often goes the other way!  As Satan tries to hold on to us, or to recapture us, his spokesman—usually our own thoughts—refuses to be forthcoming about what he wants.  It’s just one time, we may tell ourselves, I won’t become addicted. It’s just one lie to clean up this mess and then after that I won’t have to tell any more.  It’s just one night of fun, I can always repent later.

Both parties really know what’s on the table, though.  When Satan asks for an inch, he has every intention of taking a mile.  We may convince ourselves it’s not that bad, and continue our flirtation with sin.  When we back away from its more extreme ends, we use that as evidence we can stop ourselves from letting it become a real problem.  But we know it’s a farce.  When we give in to temptation in the little things, we’re laying the foundation for another “just this once” to follow on its heels.  Add up a lifetime of “just this once” sins, and what do you get, but a life of slavery?  Instead, start taking the small steps to reject sin’s rule over you.  If you’re already enslaved, try Moses’ approach of asking for an inch with every intention of going much farther.  Try saying “no,” just this once.  If you follow the Prophet through the waters, a short distance into the unknown, you’ll get a glimpse of the freedom you’ve never had, but always wanted.  “If you can gain your freedom, avail yourself of the opportunity” (1Co 7.21).

Jeremy Nettles

So to keep me from becoming conceited because of the surpassing greatness of the revelations, a thorn was given me in the flesh, a messenger of Satan to harass me, to keep me from becoming conceited. Three times I pleaded with the Lord about this, that it should leave me. But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12.7-9)

The apostle Paul teaches us so much about Christ’s salvation and his plans for us.  Most of this comes from direct teaching in his 13 letters in the New Testament, but we can learn from his experiences, too.  When we put together the record of his work in Acts with the letters he wrote, we get a fuller picture of Paul that is more relatable today.

Paul’s second missionary journey started out fairly well, with a jaunt through the churches of southern Galatia he’d established the first time around.  This was familiar territory and familiar work—it was Paul’s comfort zone, and the churches grew in strength and numbers while he was there.  But when the Holy Spirit instructed Paul and his crew to cross the Aegean Sea and spread the gospel in Macedonia, they set off into the unknown.

Their first major stop in Macedonia started out well, but soon took a distressing turn:

The crowd joined in attacking them, and the magistrates tore the garments off them and gave orders to beat them with rods. And when they had inflicted many blows upon them, they threw them into prison, ordering the jailer to keep them safely. (Acts 16.22-23)

God rescued Paul and Silas, and brought salvation to the jailer and his household in the process; but while that’s cause for rejoicing, the next day the authorities sent them away from the city.  They went to Thessalonica, where at first they had success spreading the good news of Jesus.  However, once again some of the local Jews took great offense,

and taking some wicked men of the rabble, they formed a mob, set the city in an uproar, and attacked the house of Jason, seeking to bring [Paul and his helpers] out to the crowd. (Acts 17.5)

The mob was unsuccessful, but it alarmed the church to the extent that they smuggled Paul and Silas out of the city that night—chased away before his work was finished.

His reception in Berea was better; but when the angry mob from Thessalonica down the road got wind of what was happening, they followed Paul to Berea and chased him from there, too!  This time, he set off alone, and went much farther, to Athens.  There he continued his work of preaching the gospel, including a beautiful speech appealing to these pagan Gentiles to turn their devotion away from idols and toward “The God who made the world and everything in it, being Lord of heaven and earth” (Ac 17.24), who had appointed a man to “judge the world in righteousness,” and proved it “by raising him from the dead” (v31).  He had some success, but his departure from Athens seems abrupt and lacks an obvious cause; on top of that, there’s a suspicious silence about Athens for the rest of the New Testament.  This suggests that, in the midst of an intensely pagan culture, the church fizzled out quickly.

By the time Paul made it to Corinth, he was alone and battered by a string of what must have seemed abject failures.  He was clearly frustrated, and his enthusiasm somewhat diminished—he later tells the church at Corinth, “I was with you in weakness and in fear and much trembling” (1Co 2.3).  He did his best, but at this point, he probably expected another short-lived success before the rug would be jerked out from under him.  But this time, things were different.

And the Lord said to Paul one night in a vision, “Do not be afraid, but go on speaking and do not be silent, for I am with you, and no one will attack you to harm you, for I have many in this city who are my people.” And he stayed a year and six months, teaching the word of God among them. (Acts 18.9-11)

What changed, so that Paul’s long streak of swiftly established, then abandoned churches came to an end at Corinth?  Was he doing something wrong at Philippi, Thessalonica, Berea, and Athens?  Not necessarily.  Some find fault with his approach to preaching the word in Athens—a lofty, philosophical presentation built on the words of pagan poets.  There’s a kernel of truth to this, but it ignores that this was only intended as an introduction to the one and only God and his Son.  Additionally, Paul was already preaching Jesus in the synagogue before the pagans invited him to speak.  So it’s not that he was failing in his duty before—it’s that Paul’s labor was never the key to the audience’s response.  “So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth” (1Co 3.7).

Paul was keenly aware of this while at Corinth, and we should learn the lesson, too!  The power isn’t in us—to impart salvation, to defeat sin, to pass judgment, to vindicate Christ, or anything else.  We may become discouraged, as Paul was, when we do the right thing, and it still doesn’t turn out the way we want or expect.  That’s not an excuse to give up, but it is a reminder that we’re not in control of the world.  God shows his power in weakness.  If you want his power to be shown in you, then stop pretending to be powerful yourself!  Admit that you’re broken, and submit yourself to his will, to obey what he tells you.  Like Adam and Eve from the beginning, we’ve only ever messed things up when we tried to take over God’s role.  We’re too weak.  Trust him to do the heavy lifting.

Jeremy Nettles

It’s safe to say that Jesus was not happy with hypocrites, and that he often saw them in positions of prominence in Jewish society.  Over the course of the four Gospels, we find him calling out this habit by name nineteen times.  Matthew in particular picked up on this trend—his Gospel accounts for fourteen of these instances.  For example, during the famous Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says,

“Thus, when you give to the needy, sound no trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may be praised by others. Truly, I say to you, they have received their reward.” (Matthew 6.2)

He then instructs us to approach our giving more anonymously—the trouble isn’t the charitable deed, it’s the selfish motivation for what is supposed to be a selfless act. 

The very next point in the sermon is similar:

“And when you pray, you must not be like the hypocrites. For they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, that they may be seen by others. Truly, I say to you, they have received their reward.” (Matthew 6.5)

Again, the problem isn’t the prayer, it’s the theatrical approach.  Prayer is meant to focused on the Creator who made us, loves us, commands us, and is able and willing to listen to our praises and pleas, invisible to our eyes, wherever we are and whenever we call.  If we pray as a performance for others to see, we’re missing the point!  The same idea appears a bit later (6.16) with regard to the practice of fasting; again, the hypocrites have made it about being seen and thought righteous by others, rather than about devotion to God.

Yet again in the same sermon, Jesus highlights hypocrisy with regard to the practice of rebuking each other:

“You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother's eye.” (Matthew 7.5)

This one is different, isn’t it?  Jesus highlights not the motivation, but the inappropriate nature of presuming to correct your brother, when you obviously bear greater guilt, yourself!  This is more in line with what we typically think of as hypocrisy, which is nicely summed up, although without using that word, in Romans 2.1-3:

Therefore you have no excuse, O man, every one of you who judges. For in passing judgment on another you condemn yourself, because you, the judge, practice the very same things. We know that the judgment of God rightly falls on those who practice such things. Do you suppose, O man—you who judge those who practice such things and yet do them yourself—that you will escape the judgment of God?

Put another way, this is the sort of person who preaches one thing, but practices another—that’s the description Jesus used in Matthew 23.3, then in the same discourse he called those sort of people “hypocrites” six times by the end of the chapter.

The word hypocrite comes from a Greek term for an actor.  It’s easy to become addicted to the praises of other people around us, and to chase those, in the form of social media “likes” and “shares,” awards, or simple status and praise in our circle of friends and acquaintances.  We ought to care about the glory that comes from God, rather than what comes from man (cf. Jn 12.42-43), but are likely to find it easier—or more satisfying to the flesh—to please men, than God.

Hypocrisy is a common complaint about Christians; it’s often cited as the reason for leaving a local congregation, or leaving the church altogether.  Are the people, who take such great offense at hypocrisy, themselves perfect?  No; but they resent being judged by people who practice the very same sins, or having the specks in theirs eyes removed by people who seem to have logs in their own.

The problem of hypocrisy isn’t just that we fail to live up to God’s standard—although that’s how it starts.  It’s also not a problem of relaxing God’s standard on the basis of our own failures.  The problem is that we all fail—“for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Ro 3.23); and yet we must uphold God’s standard, and this means preaching what we have not practiced.  Does that mean we must all be hypocrites, or else abandon the pursuit of righteousness altogether?  No!  Jesus tells us not to be hypocrites, but he also tells us not to relax his commandments (Mt 5.19).  Since God’s standard is a fact, as is our own failure, the answer is to admit it and rely on Christ’s grace while striving to keep his commandments better in the future.  “Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed” (Ja 5.16). 

We currently live in a society that doesn’t value confession or forgiveness.  It doesn’t even value repentance or growth—if you’ve ever transgressed its rules (which are quite different from God’s rules!), you have nothing to look forward to but the certainty of man’s eventual judgment.  As a result, since we’ve all sinned, the world encourages hypocrisy—playing the part of a supposedly perfect person, regardless of who you really are, and holding everyone else responsible for their own transgressions at every turn.  But whose approval means more—man’s or God’s?  What did Jesus have to say about this attitude, back in the Sermon on the Mount?

“For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you, but if you do not forgive others their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.” (Matthew 6.14-15)

Jeremy Nettles

Daniel is easily the most fanciful of the Old Testament prophets.  Jonah would be next on the list, and while the great fish catches our attention, remember that Daniel has the fiery furnace, the lions’ den, and the handwriting on the wall, not to mention the apocalyptic visions of both Daniel and King Nebuchadnezzar.  Just as with Jonah, we find the more unusual parts of the story more entertaining and memorable than the dry politics of, for example, Jeremiah.  We teach them to children; but adults should pay closer attention!  The first vision found in Daniel usually meets with a simplistic interpretation only half a step beyond what Daniel himself gave, but it has more to teach us, if we’re willing to make a couple of connections. 

After Nebuchadnezzar has a troubling dream, he demands that the wise men tell him both the dream and its interpretation.  Only Daniel can tell what the dream was, because God has revealed it to him.

“You saw, O king, and behold, a great image. This image, mighty and of exceeding brightness, stood before you, and its appearance was frightening. The head of this image was of fine gold, its chest and arms of silver, its middle and thighs of bronze, its legs of iron, its feet partly of iron and partly of clay. As you looked, a stone was cut out by no human hand, and it struck the image on its feet of iron and clay, and broke them in pieces. Then the iron, the clay, the bronze, the silver, and the gold, all together were broken in pieces, and became like the chaff of the summer threshing floors; and the wind carried them away, so that not a trace of them could be found. But the stone that struck the image became a great mountain and filled the whole earth.” (Daniel 2.31-35)

Then comes the interpretation.  Daniel tells Nebuchadnezzar, “you are the head of gold” (v38), and that the remaining parts of the great image represent the kingdoms that are to come after him, until God’s own kingdom is established, shattering the kingdoms of earth and standing forever.  We can quickly surmise that this is fulfilled in the church, and then we’re ready to move on.

Not so fast!  What’s the very next thing we read about Nebuchadnezzar?  He “made an image of gold, whose height was sixty cubits and its breadth six cubits” (3.1).  No further detail is given about its appearance, but considering the dream he’s just had, it’s not a huge leap of the imagination to suppose that the image resembled the image he saw in his dream.  But what is its purpose?  Is it to commemorate the dream and remind all the kings of men that their reigns will come to end even while God’s lasts forever?  No, he commands everyone under his authority “to fall down and worship the golden image” (v5), or face death for refusing.

Did Nebuchadnezzar get the point of the dream?  It was supposed to remind him that his power was fleeting and fragile, and that no amount of earthly glory could make him more than a mortal man.  He apparently didn’t listen much past “you are the head of gold.”  Instead of reacting with humility, he wanted everyone else to acknowledge his glory and majesty, without a care for his own future downfall.

This is the same thing we see from the beast in Revelation 13.  The false prophet “deceives those who dwell on earth, telling them to make an image for the beast” (Re 13.14), and gives over “those who would not worship the image of the beast to be slain” (v15).  The visions in Revelation are often mistakenly interpreted as pertaining exclusively to the end of the world and involving a lot of obviously supernatural activity at every step.  Yet we see an example, from more than five centuries prior, of a king doing exactly what John’s vision predicted would happen again, and it wasn’t some miracle-working, many-horned, bear-pawed, talking hybrid—it was the legitimate governing authority, the expected and accepted power of the day, bound by the same laws of nature as the rest of us—although he might claim to be something greater.

The next mistake is to correctly identify the beast from the sea as the Roman state, and then move on, congratulating oneself on cracking the code.  But while Rome is clearly in view, didn’t it look an awful lot like Babylon in Daniel’s time?  And wasn’t the point of Nebuchadnezzar’s dream that Babylon and Rome weren’t so special—that kingdoms of men come and go with monotonous regularity, while God’s kingdom remains?  Babylon wasn’t the first to proclaim its government divine, and it wasn’t the last, either.  Rome also would not be the last.  It impersonated Christ—the horns, the crowns, and the “mortal wound” (13.3)—and it portrayed itself as the savior of its subjects.  Established governments generally want nothing so much as to increase their power over individuals, and for thousands of years they have pulled this same stunt, stoking fears of some physical danger, and presenting themselves as the only thing standing between the populace and disaster.  It’s an effective tool, and its success clearly demonstrates that most people’s minds are not set on things that are above, but on things that are on earth (Co 3.2).  Of course, we have to live in the physical world, and that means we have to deal with physical problems every day of our lives.  But don’t make the mistake of believing that physical dangers are worse, or more severe than spiritual ones.  It’s the other way around.  The physical problems will go away one day, but the problem of sin and separation from God goes beyond this world.  Instead of buying into the cult of the beast and worshiping its golden image, concern yourself with washing your robes in the blood of the Lamb, and being conformed to his image day by day.

Jeremy Nettles

And they brought in the ark of God and set it inside the tent that David had pitched for it, and they offered burnt offerings and peace offerings before God. And when David had finished offering the burnt offerings and the peace offerings, he blessed the people in the name of the Lord and distributed to all Israel, both men and women, to each a loaf of bread, a portion of meat, and a cake of raisins.

Then he appointed some of the Levites as ministers before the ark of the Lord, to invoke, to thank, and to praise the Lord, the God of Israel. Asaph was the chief, and second to him were Zechariah, Jeiel, Shemiramoth, Jehiel, Mattithiah, Eliab, Benaiah, Obed-edom, and Jeiel, who were to play harps and lyres; Asaph was to sound the cymbals, and Benaiah and Jahaziel the priests were to blow trumpets regularly before the ark of the covenant of God. Then on that day David first appointed that thanksgiving be sung to the Lord by Asaph and his brothers.

Oh give thanks to the Lord; call upon his name;

        make known his deeds among the peoples!

Sing to him, sing praises to him;

        tell of all his wondrous works!

Glory in his holy name;

        let the hearts of those who seek the Lord rejoice! (1 Chronicles 16.1-10)

Thanksgiving stands alone among the holidays commonly celebrated in this country.  Most of the mainstream holidays are designated by the federal government, and commemorate events of civic importance, and these were all established at some point during the relatively short history of the United States of America.  Then, there are the religious holidays, which originated in the Catholic Church’s liturgical calendar, which for many centuries set aside this day or that throughout the year to remember events and people in the Bible, as well as so-called “saints” since then.  And then, of course, there’s New Year’s Day, which is, well, New Year’s Day.  This is mostly a civic holiday, but it holds the distinction of being probably the oldest continuously celebrated holiday in the world (although the date chosen to mark the new year is a subject of debate).  But Thanksgiving is different.  It’s not one of the Catholic holidays, but it has been celebrated regularly since the 1600’s, long before our country was established.

In fairness, it’s essentially a harvest festival, and there are many examples of that sort of thing all over the world.  But what makes Thanksgiving unusual among them?  Most of the harvest festivals around the world at various times have boiled down to a celebration of this sentiment: “we did it!”  This makes a good deal of sense, since harvest is hard work, and marks the completion of the broader hard work of farming, so necessary to the task of keeping us all from starving to death during the cold, dark winter.  But only rarely has such a down-home, practical, dirt-under-the-fingernails holiday been invested with the more spiritual message, “God gave it!”  It’s baked right into the name, Thanksgiving.

In the long passage quoted above, there’s an excellent example to follow.  David retrieved the ark of the covenant from Kiriath-jearim, where it sat for many years, all but ignored.  Uzzah lost his life as part of this endeavor.  Obed-edom took responsibility for its security.  David built a semi-permanent house for it in Jerusalem.  The Levites carried this heavy, gold-plated all the way to its new home.  A long list of musicians, gatekeepers, heralds, and attendants accompanied its progress toward the city.  Many of these same people were enlisted to serve in the ark’s presence continually at its new home.  Many people pitched in to make this happen.  Many people made sacrifices.  It was a group effort, if ever there was one.  When they celebrated, what was their cry?  Not, “we did it!” but “give thanks to the Lord.”

That’s the sort of attitude that we ought to have about most things.  Jesus tells a parable about a servant and his master:

“Does he thank the servant because he did what was commanded? So you also, when you have done all that you were commanded, say, ‘We are unworthy servants; we have only done what was our duty.’” (Luke 17.9-10)

Paul says something similar about building up God’s house, the church:

What then is Apollos? What is Paul? Servants through whom you believed, as the Lord assigned to each. I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth. So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth. (1 Corinthians 3.5-7)

At times we shy away from giving glory to God, for fear of presuming he altered the course of events in answer to our prayer or need.  Skepticism about this sort of thing is warranted—if we assume every occurrence is a stamp of God’s approval or indicator of his anger, we’re no better than Job’s so-called friends, who badgered him incessantly over an unknown sin they assumed must be the cause of his catastrophic misfortune.  God “makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust” (Mt 5.45), but we shouldn’t deny that he also cares about us, answers our prayers, and “richly provides us with everything to enjoy” (1Ti 6.17).

It’s good to work hard.  It’s good to reap the benefits of your labor.  It’s good to work together, it’s good to plan ahead, and it’s good to celebrate success.  But recognize that success isn’t entirely your doing.  “Oh give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; for his steadfast love endures forever!” (1Ch 16.34).

Jeremy Nettles