In William Shakespeare’s play King Lear, the title character decides in his old age to divide his kingdom between his three daughters, in proportion to their love for him. The older two lavish praise on their father and wax poetic about their devotion, but Cordelia, the youngest, simply says, “I love your majesty / According to my bond; nor more nor less” (I.1.101-102). The older two were flattering their dotard father in order to secure a better inheritance, but Lear is too foolish to see it, and gives half his kingdom to each, while disinheriting and banishing Cordelia.

This being Shakespeare, the truth comes out and just about everyone dies by the play’s end; but not before Lear faces his folly. His older daughters refuse to show him even basic hospitality, whereupon Lear rushes into the wilderness and wanders through a raging storm, airing his frustration to the weather, as much as to his companions. Eventually, he begins a fresh rant, then stops short:

Pour on; I will endure;—

In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril!—

Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all,—

O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;

No more of that.

(King Lear, III.4.21-25)

Shakespeare’s genius is not in the mechanics of his writing; rather, it’s how they beautifully express his vision of the world. Here, he’s captured the all-too-common plight of the person who accepts a lie, does great sin in his deluded state, then struggles to reconcile himself to the plainly visible truth, for fear of the inner pain involved in admitting his error.

That’s madness in itself, isn’t it? Lear tortures himself and imperils his own life, in an effort to avoid accepting some shame. He’s already humiliated in everyone else’s eyes, so he doesn’t stand to lose status by turning around—in fact, he’d gain some! But people often do as Lear does. We entrench ourselves so deeply in the lie, that we stop caring about other people’s opinion of us, and focus on our own! That is to say, we jealously guard our stubborn, foolish, insane sense of pride.

The fictional King Lear’s failed attempt to avert madness is mirrored in real people, in real situations. Pontius Pilate didn’t want to sentence an innocent man to death. When the Jewish authorities brought Jesus to him, he “said to them, ‘Take him yourselves and judge him by your own law’” (Jn 18.31); they refused. He questioned Jesus and found “no guilt” in him (Lk 23.4), but they persisted. He tried to dump the problem off on Herod (v7), but Herod sent him back. He tried to satisfy the mob by flogging Jesus (Jn 19.1-5); but it wasn’t enough. Still he “sought to release” Jesus (v12), but the authorities tacitly threatened to denounce him as a traitor, “If you release this man, you are not Caesar’s friend.” (v12). Pilate finally “took water and washed his hands before the crowd, saying, ‘I am innocent of this man’s blood’” (Mt 27.24), then “delivered him to be crucified” (v26).

Isn’t that ridiculous? Pilate was given the power of life and death by the Roman State, and by God. He was to be “God’s servant,” for the good of the governed, wielding “the sword” in order to dispense “God’s wrath on the wrongdoer” (Ro 13.4). But he abdicated his responsibility and attempted to soothe his own conscience by the hollow of gesture of washing his hands before handing down the most unjust verdict in history. But although everyone could see what he was doing, like King Lear he avoided honest introspection, thinking, “that way madness lies.”

It’s not limited to the sins of unbelievers, though. Paul (somewhat confusingly) illustrates the Christian’s ongoing struggle:

For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. Now if I do what I do not want, I agree with the law, that it is good. So now it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me. For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing.

(Romans 7.15-19)

We can admit we’re broken and persist in the struggle, knowing that we have “an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous” (1Jn 2.1); or we could remain self-righteous, while also wallowing in our desire to sin, refusing to acknowledge it and let Jesus help us, doing what is mad, for fear of madness.

It doesn’t even stop at overtly transgressive sins. There has always been a segment of the church that devotes itself to “speculations rather than the stewardship from God that is by faith” (1Ti 1.4). It starts with a view toward piety—that is, a manner of life in keeping with God’s commandments. But we all have to interpret those commandments, and while the center is always clear—“Flee from sexual immorality” (1Co 6.18), for example—on the margins, questions remain about precisely what is sexual immorality, and these require the use of our judgment. It’s good to be careful, but attempts to stay well clear of the line grow from custom, to conviction, to a mandate for all. Before you know it, someone is preaching, “It is good for a man not to have sexual relations with a woman” (7.1), which is not exactly false, but is also far from the whole story! Thus, someone concerned with obeying God ends up putting forth traditions and interpretations as God’s holy word.

This is why Paul counseled Timothy,

charge them before God not to quarrel about words, which does no good, but only ruins the hearers.

(2 Timothy 2.14)

Be careful not to think yourself immune to these follies, for that way, truly, madness lies.

Jeremy Nettles

In our Sunday morning adult class at River Ridge, we’re just over halfway through the oft-ignored book of Deuteronomy. Each week it’s a challenge to cover the assigned chapters in the detail they deserve; but it would be easy to get so bogged down in this 34-chapter tome, that we’d take a year to complete our study, forget where we started by the time we finished, and profit little from the ordeal. As such, it’s good to keep up our pace and complete the book in just a quarter, leaving some chance that students will retain a general sense of the materials therein, and be prepared to study and understand the details better, the next time it comes up. But it also means we have to entirely skip over some portions of the text. In one of these, left out of our study this very morning, Moses relays God’s command that Israel appoint six cities in the soon-to-be-conquered promised land, and designate them as cities of refuge.

“This is the provision for the manslayer, who by fleeing there may save his life. If anyone kills his neighbor unintentionally without having hated him in the past—as when someone goes into the forest with his neighbor to cut wood, and his hand swings the axe to cut down a tree, and the head slips from the handle and strikes his neighbor so that he dies—he may flee to one of these cities and live, lest the avenger of blood in hot anger pursue the manslayer and overtake him, because the way is long, and strike him fatally, though the man did not deserve to die, since he had not hated his neighbor in the past.”

(Deuteronomy 19.4-6)

It seems odd to see God taking the side of the “manslayer,” but the details make all the difference. Rather than a murderer, the focus here is on someone guilty of a lesser—though still heavy—offense. Our legal system differentiates between degrees of murder and manslaughter, and it’s not difficult to see that it has taken its cue from God. While the dead man is equally dead regardless of whether he was killed purposely or by accident, intentions do matter, and the guilt of common negligence is not in the same class as the guilt of malevolent hatred.

The law of Moses generally, and Deuteronomy in particular establish a clear-cut system for dealing with homicide—in short, accusation was to be brought by the witnesses to the local judges (e.g. 16.18), who would weigh the testimony and reach a verdict, or refer the case to a higher court, if it was too difficult to decide (17.8ff). If found guilty, the murderer was to be stoned to death by the local populace, starting with the witnesses against him (e.g. 17.7). However, a more primitive method was deeply rooted, and God allowed it continue, although clearly with the intent that it should die away from among his people over time.

The ancient way required the closest male relative of the person killed to act as the “avenger of blood” (19.6). His job was simple: track down the killer and return the favor, not necessarily waiting to hear his side of the story first. This was not really what God wanted, but Israel wasn’t ready to flip that switch yet, and the tradition existed for good reasons, although they grew less legitimate, as the nation became better organized under God’s instruction. So, as he did with other foul but deeply rooted practices like slavery (cf. 15.12ff), divorce (cf. 24.1ff), and polygamy (cf. 21.15ff), God imposed strict limitations on the exercise of this ancient judicial duty.

Of course, it wasn’t a get-away-with-murder card, either!

“But if anyone hates his neighbor and lies in wait for him and attacks him and strikes him fatally so that he dies, and he flees into one of these cities, then the elders of his city shall send and take him from there, and hand him over to the avenger of blood, so that he may die. Your eye shall not pity him, but you shall purge the guilt of innocent blood from Israel, so that it may be well with you.”

(Deuteronomy 19.11-13)

Without endorsing this savage method of dispensing justice, God instructed his people to cooperate with it, when it was clear the killer had no right to live. That’s really the key here—preventing and atoning for the shedding of “innocent blood.” In the verses just quoted, that phrase means the blood of the murder victim. Yet it was also used in the prior section, in which Moses said to appoint additional cities of refuge, if the nation’s borders expanded enough to warrant it,

“lest innocent blood be shed in your land that the Lord your God is giving you for an inheritance, and so the guilt of bloodshed be upon you.”

(Deuteronomy 19.10)

In this instance, it refers not to the original victim, but to the man who accidentally caused his death, who Moses imagines will be unjustly killed by the familial avenger, if he lives too far from a city of refuge to obtain asylum before being caught and lynched!

It’s a complicated situation, and (one hopes) it will remain a foreign notion to us through lack of related experience. But perhaps it can help us to imagine the very real and difficult questions that often arose in that darker and more brutal time. Such scenarios often exceed man’s wisdom and ability to give each person what he deserves. There is tension between justice—of which God told Israel, “Justice, and only justice, you shall follow” (16.20), and vengeance, of which he told them, “Vengeance is mine” (32.35). In the end, however, due to our sins we all deserve God’s vengeance! Yet, blessedly, he has appointed a refuge for his people today, too, not in a walled city, but someplace far more inviting and secure!

Kiss the Son,

        lest he be angry, and you perish in the way,

        for his wrath is quickly kindled.

Blessed are all who take refuge in him.

(Psalm 2.12)

Jeremy Nettles

A Song of Ascents. Of David.

If it had not been the Lord who was on our side—

                let Israel now say—

if it had not been the Lord who was on our side

                when people rose up against us,

then they would have swallowed us up alive,

                when their anger was kindled against us;

then the flood would have swept us away,

                the torrent would have gone over us;

then over us would have gone

                the raging waters.

Blessed be the Lord,

                who has not given us

                as prey to their teeth!

We have escaped like a bird

                from the snare of the fowlers;

the snare is broken,

                and we have escaped!

Our help is in the name of the Lord,

                who made heaven and earth.

(Psalm 124)

The book of Psalms isn’t the longest in the Bible by word count—that title goes to Jeremiah, and Genesis comes in second (at least, in Hebrew). Psalms takes third place, by a substantial margin, but that’s still pretty high on the list. Additionally, it has by far the most chapters, at 150. Second-place Isaiah has only 66! Although Psalm 119 is the longest single chapter in the Bible by a long shot, on average the psalms are each quite short, well below the length of chapters in the other books. You’d think this would make them easier to digest, and to a certain extent that’s true; but the sheer number of them leads to our eyes glazing over around Psalm 11 or so, and after that they all start to blend together into a meaningless beige in our minds. As a result, only a relative handful of them have attracted widespread attention among Christians. But each one is a gem, in its own way. This psalm, known by the extraordinarily memorable and evocative title Psalm 124, is one of these hidden gems.

It’s nestled among a collection that are all labeled, “a song of ascents.” We can only suppose this refers to the ascent toward Jerusalem and the Temple Mount. Many of these psalms contain themes obviously appropriate for such journeys, undertaken especially for the annual feasts prescribed in the Law of Moses. This one recalls some some previous instance in which “people rose up against” Israel (v2), in “anger” (v3). The psalmist says that, if not for God’s intervention, his people’s enemies would have overwhelmed them like a “flood,” a “torrent,” and “raging waters” (vv4-5).

Yet, they were not swallowed up! The details of this example of salvation are not shared here; but it’s certainly consistent with many instances in which Israel seemed to be facing utter defeat, or even extermination, only to be spared against all earthly odds. The same superscript that labels this poem “a song of ascents” also attributes it to David, and it’s a good idea to take those attributions seriously, since Jesus and the Apostles certainly did (e.g. Mt 22.43, Ac 1.16-20, Ro 4.6-7); yet there is also some question as to the meaning of the preposition “of” in these attributions! Could it sometimes mean about David, or in the style of David, or something along those lines? This is a particularly worthwhile question in the case of Psalm 124, because the psalmist shifts from one metaphor—rising floodwaters—to another that is quite different!

Blessed be the Lord,

        who has not given us

        as prey to their teeth!

We have escaped like a bird

        from the snare of the fowlers;

the snare is broken,

        and we have escaped!

(Psalm 124.6-7)

Suddenly the enemy is a carnivorous predator, or even a human trapper of birds, who not only threatens to cage God’s people, but has actually succeeded! While this, again, could describe any number of occasions on which Israel faced a mortal threat, it’s also strikingly similar to the way Assyrian King Sennacherib described his siege of Jerusalem in 701 BC:

As for Hezekiah the Jew, who did not submit to my yoke, 46 of his strong, walled cities, as well as the small cities in their neighborhood…I besieged and took. …Himself, like a caged bird I shut up in Jerusalem his royal city. Earthworks I threw up against him…

(Daniel David Luckenbill, The Annals of Sennacherib, University of Chicago Press, 1924, pp32-33)

When this happened, Hezekiah and the people penned up in the city despaired. But Isaiah the prophet sent word to him,

“Thus says the Lord: Do not be afraid because of the words that you have heard, with which the servants of the king of Assyria have reviled me. Behold, I will put a spirit in him, so that he shall hear a rumor and return to his own land, and I will make him fall by the sword in his own land.”

(2 Kings 19.6-7)

The besieged Jews awoke one morning to find that a staggering 185,000 Assyrian soldiers had been killed by “the angel of the Lord” in the night (v35). Sennacherib and the rest left. Only yesterday the snare had been wrapped so tightly that all hope of rescue was cut off. Now the threat had vanished.

It’s possible that Psalm 124 is about an entirely different occasion; it’s possible the Israelites never even heard Sennacherib’s “caged bird” quip. Regardless, God’s salvation often appears in exactly this form. His people are the victims of forces far beyond their power to resist, let alone defeat. Even so,

Our help is in the name of the Lord,

        who made heaven and earth.

(Psalm 124.8)

Whatever entangles you, begins to devour you, or threatens to drown you, is no challenge at all, for him! Put your trust in him, surrender to his will, and let him rescue you from the snares of sin and death.

Jeremy Nettles

Therefore we must pay much closer attention to what we have heard, lest we drift away from it. For since the message declared by angels proved to be reliable, and every transgression or disobedience received a just retribution, how shall we escape if we neglect such a great salvation?

(Hebrews 2.1-3a)

A month ago we examined the first chapter of Hebrews (ISI VI.15, 4-13-25). It explored the contrast between God’s former messengers to his people, exemplified by angels, and his final communication with man, his own Son, who is far greater in every way. Of course, that exercise was all about getting to the next point, which is illustrated by the “Therefore” that begins the second chapter. That point is this: if God didn’t even tolerate his messages being ignored when the messengers were mere servants, he will be even more jealous for obedience when he sent his Son, his very Word in human form.

The author allows no chance for his audience to miss this point. Throughout the letter his favorite tactic is to introduce a theme, and then restate it several times, uncovering a new and important detail with each repetition, until the full picture is clearly visible. In the foregoing section, the theme was still the Son’s superiority, but the focus shifted to our part in the story. In the next, Jesus’ perfection as messenger and message is tied up with his becoming like us, dwelling in a body of flesh.

For it was not to angels that God subjected the world to come, of which we are speaking. It has been testified somewhere,

“What is man, that you are mindful of him,

               or the son of man, that you care for him?

You made him for a little while lower than the angels;

               you have crowned him with glory and honor,

putting everything in subjection under his feet.”

(Hebrews 2.5-8a)

This is from Psalm 8, in which David marvels at God’s love for man. His point was that man is unworthy of the honor God has given. The author of Hebrews does not disagree; but he says David was also unwittingly prophesying about someone far greater than himself.

I saw in the night visions,

and behold, with the clouds of heaven

               there came one like a son of man,

and he came to the Ancient of Days

               and was presented before him.

And to him was given dominion

               and glory and a kingdom,

that all peoples, nations, and languages

               should serve him;

his dominion is an everlasting dominion,

               which shall not pass away,

and his kingdom one

               that shall not be destroyed.

(Daniel 7.13-14)

David meant “the son of man” in its most literal sense; God meant the Messiah. This was Jesus’ favorite title for himself. How odd for the Son of God, to instead call himself, “Son of Man”! But the prophets’ words anticipated an important detail—that God would become flesh, and in so doing would infuse David’s words with a meaning he could not have known: that by humbling himself to be born of a woman, Christ would magnify his glory all the more, and conquer all things.

At present, we do not yet see everything in subjection to him. But we see him who for a little while was made lower than the angels, namely Jesus, crowned with glory and honor because of the suffering of death, so that by the grace of God he might taste death for everyone.

(Hebrews 2.8b-9)

We can tell that this conquest is a work in progress, because we have eyes that can see the world around us. It largely maintains its doomed, purposeless rebellion against God. Yet David’s words, and Daniel’s vision, will still come to pass—indeed, they are being carried out, this very moment! The Son of Man will reign forever and ever. There will be no end to his dominion. All will bow before him, either in this present life, or before his judgment seat, when the option to do it willingly has passed. Yet he is not content to wait and gloat when that time comes. He wants to rescue as many of us rebels as will respond to his invitation and flee “the ruler of this world” (Jn 12.31) to “take refuge in” the Son (Ps 2.12). He was even willing to share, and surpass our sufferings, brought on by our sins, despite his own holiness.

For it was fitting that he, for whom and by whom all things exist, in bringing many sons to glory, should make the founder of their salvation perfect through suffering. For he who sanctifies and those who are sanctified all have one source. That is why he is not ashamed to call them brothers…

(Hebrews 2.10-11)

At last, the author has revealed the point toward which he’s been driving. This Son of God—who, as we went to some length to establish in the previous chapter, is greater even than awe-inspiring angels—joined us, the lower creation, deserving only of God’s wrath on account of our sins, in order to redeem us and make us sons of God, raising us up to sit beside him on his heavenly throne (cf. Re 3.21). Considering the length and complexity of that sentence, it’s no wonder it took so long to get us here! But there’s more, eleven chapters more. By presenting Jesus’ majesty and humility next to each other, the author has prepared us to understand an incredibly important element of Jesus’ role in his Father’s plan. It went largely unnoticed by the first generation of Christians, but it makes  the Old Testament accessible and valuable for Christians even today: Jesus is our high priest.

Therefore he had to be made like his brothers in every respect, so that he might become a merciful and faithful high priest in the service of God, to make propitiation for the sins of the people.

(Hebrews 2.17)

Jeremy Nettles

Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, bearing with one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other; as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive.

(Colossians 3.12-13)

The second half of Colossians is the practical application section of the book. After pointing out the falsehood of the silly new doctrines beginning to divide these Christians, Paul now stresses that they must deliberately pursue unity, all of them infused with Christ (3.11). If everyone were to actually do this, then there would be no conflicts, because all Christians would behave selflessly and righteously, giving each other no cause for complaint.

However, Paul recognizes that we’re still human—after all, he asked in the previous chapter, “If with Christ you died to the elemental spirits of the world, why, as if you were still alive in the world, do you submit to” fleshly restrictions from human sources? (2.20). He’s not disputing their conversion, their forgiveness, or their eternal salvation given by God’s grace. In fact he affirms, “you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God” (3.3). They had “put on the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge after the image of its creator” (v10). But this renewal was incomplete! They still needed to “put on” many spiritual things (v12ff), and were beset by earthly desires and the “old self,” which they’d “put off” (v9), but which pursued them with a life of its own, hoping to catch and overwhelm them. The cross of Christ is an apt metaphor for the Christian’s life in the flesh—suspended between earth and heaven, suffering, humiliated and destined for death, yet joyful and content in the expectation of life and glory!

And he said to all, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.”

(Luke 9.23)

A cross is an uncomfortable place to be! As we strive toward heavenly perfection, we’re stuck dealing with earthly failures—in each other, and in ourselves. As a result, despite our best attempts to put on “compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, [and] meekness,” it’s a guarantee that we’ll also need a good bit of “patience” (Co 3.12), either due to our own failures, or our brothers’. A Christian may sometimes have “a complaint against” a brother (v13)! That doesn’t necessarily mean one brother has sinned against another; but that will happen, too. How are we to handle these conflicts? By “bearing with one another,” and “forgiving each other” (v13)!

§

What does it mean, to bear with someone? The Greek word behind this is ἀνέχομαι-anechomai, and “bear with” is not a perfectly literal translation, but it’s about as close to it as will make sense in English. It shows up, with the same meaning, when Jesus cast out a demon after his disciples tried and failed.

“O faithless and twisted generation, how long am I to be with you? How long am I to bear with you? Bring him here to me”

(Matthew 17.17)

The fault has not been corrected. Jesus has not received a request to forgive their failure, nor observed repentance. He’s diagnosing an ongoing failure, and carrying more than his fair share of the burden created by that failure. Paul also used the same word in advance of his potentially offensive behavior, telling the Christians of Corinth, “I wish you would bear with me in a little foolishness. Do bear with me!” (2Co 11.1).

Of course, this does not mean Christians are to paper over each other’s sins, encouraging them to stray from Christ and court Satan again. But many of our frustrations with each other do not rise to that level. Often Christians take offense at each other’s behavior, but stop short of calling it sin—because they know it’s just not the case, or because they can’t make such an accusation stick, or even because they’re averse to the confrontation Jesus commands in the case where “your brother sins against you” (Mt 18.15). Frequently, they then feel free to go about handling their complaints by whatever methods they desire, mistakenly believing there is no divine commandment to follow, as long as no one brings up the “S” word. But Paul says a “complaint” should be handled with patience, forbearance, and forgiveness (Co 3.13). By the way, the word translated “complaint” has the same ambiguity as in English—maybe you have a legitimate grievance, or maybe you’re just griping.

Either way, Christians on both sides of the dispute are supposed to handle it like Jesus, when he bore with his disciples in their stunted faith; and like Paul hoped his Corinthian brothers would do, bearing with him in an uncomfortable exercise into which he insisted on dragging them. There are limits—just after his own appeal for indulgence, Paul used the same word in a negative sense, saying these same brothers already “put up with” distortions of the Gospel and of Jesus himself (2Co 11.4). This was taking forbearance too far! But the goal should be unity in Christ, and we should be eager to bend for each other’s sake.

Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.

(Philippians 2.3-4)

Stephen, imitating Jesus, is a strong example of selfless forbearance. He prayed on behalf of those actively murdering him, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them” (Ac 7.60). May we all learn to bear with our brothers and sisters, as ably as our Lord and our ancestors in the faith bore with their enemies!

Jeremy Nettles