How the Bible Actually Works

by Peter Enns

  Now, the cats. You’ll notice two types of food on the shelf on the right side along the basement stairs . . .

  People (namely my family) have told me I’m impossible to live with, but that’s not on me. I won’t—I can’t—just say, “Please take care of our animals for us while we’re gone, and be sure you do it right or you won’t get paid!” and leave it at that. My holy commandments are clear and go on for two pages, single-spaced. After all, life on earth hangs in the balance. At least it does for the animals.

  Likewise, when our children were younger and I ordered them from on high to clean their rooms or be banished to the Phantom Zone for all eternity, the first question I got was, “Whaddaya mean by ‘clean’?” The stakes were high, and they wanted to know exactly what I expected of them. And if I complained about the crappy job they did, they read me the riot act about how I wasn’t “clear” and it looked clean enough for them.

  As odd as it might seem, most biblical laws really aren’t clear. They may work as general guiding principles, sure, but when God says, “Thou shalt not,” you’re really hoping for some specifics.

  But readers from ancient times have always understood that keeping a law means more than “doing what it says”; it means deliberating over what the command actually requires here and now.

  Discerning how a law is to be obeyed, in other words, is an act of wisdom. Wisdom and Law,* as we will see, go hand in glove.

  Pick most any law out of a hat—maybe something from the Ten Commandments. The Fourth Commandment says, Remember the sabbath day, and keep it holy (Exod. 20:8). Remembering the sabbath means to observe it, which means, as the following verses explain, to cease from all work (sabbath means “rest” or “cease” in Hebrew). This goes for all who live in the household, from the head on down to children and servants. Even the animals take a day off.

  I suppose at first blush this seems clear enough. Just knock off the work one day a week as God said. How complicated could that be? Plenty complicated. For one thing, what exactly constitutes “work”?

  In American Christian culture, not working might mean not going in on Sunday to that place that gives you a paycheck.* But is work only what we get paid for or is it any task that requires some exertion? Ancient Israelites didn’t collect a paycheck, and yet they had this command to follow. What about cutting the grass, painting the trim, washing the car? And does it make any difference whether I might actually find cutting grass relaxing (I do)? Is it all relative? How do we know? Will God smite me for emptying the dishwasher or organizing my T-shirt drawer on a Sunday afternoon?

  And what if your Sunday leisure causes others to work? If you go to a movie or eat out, are you contributing to someone else’s sin? It’s easy to get paranoid. To be on the safe side you might just want to try standing still and practice shallow breathing for twenty-four hours.

  And what about those of us who don’t “go to work” in the conventional sense with clearly defined work hours? What if you’re, say (hypothetically speaking, I’m asking for a friend), a college professor, who only teaches four hours a day, two days a week, but has to prepare whenever said hypothetical professor gets a chance, which usually involves reading, not to mention grading?

  I can’t get anything past you. I’m talking about me. Before we go on, please don’t hate me because I have a great work schedule. Just remember that after college I went back to school for longer than a two-term presidency. And if we were to compare paystub-to-schooling ratios, you would have to agree I deserve this teaching schedule. And you can’t take it from me.

  But to make my point, reading is part of my job. Should I therefore not read on Sunday? Should I just play it safe and watch TV? Although someone has to find the remote (which I lost) and press the button. Is that work? And what do I do when a news ticker crosses my screen and I’m tempted to read it? Do I avert my eyes?

  I’m getting ridiculous, I know. But more seriously we’re not even getting into whether police, firefighters, surgeons, disaster-relief workers, or Apple customer service should have Sunday off—not to mention whether single mothers who need to feed their children and keep a roof over their heads can afford the luxury of “keeping the sabbath.”

  To complicate matters further (because that’s what I do), although some Christians believe that observing the sabbath is still binding (because it’s a “clear” biblical command), others argue that it’s not, taking their cue from “clear” New Testament passages like Colossians 2:16–17 (sabbaths are a thing of the past) and Matthew 12:1–8 (Jesus himself “works” on the sabbath by plucking grain). So maybe for Christians sabbath keeping isn’t a thing at all. It’s really not clear either way, though that hardly keeps some Christians from almost coming to blows over it—and Calvinists know I’m only slightly kidding.

  I’m not belittling sabbath keeping. I actually think the practice is spiritually and emotionally healthy, and I try to keep at least a different pace on Sunday, though I respect those who are more intense about it than I am. I’m only pointing out that how (or whether) to keep the command isn’t clear.

  No, this law isn’t clear at all—even though in observing the day of rest the Israelites, at least according to the version in Exodus 20, are following God’s own pattern set up in Genesis 1, where God created the world in six days and rested on the seventh. And in Deuteronomy 5, the motivation is different, but no less serious: since the Israelites were mistreated as slaves in Egypt, they must give their own slaves—and even animals—a day of rest.

  There’s a lot at stake here, but rather than clarity we get ambiguity. The law as written leaves its readers to ponder what it means and how to obey it here and now—in other words, to practice wisdom. Like it’s on purpose.

  Maybe You Didn’t Hear Me: I Want Clarity

  The challenge of keeping the sabbath command is only one example of a principle that holds for almost any law in the Old Testament, including the rest of the Ten Commandments. Here are all ten:

  Don’t worship other gods “before” Yahweh.*

  Don’t make idols.

  Don’t misuse God’s name.

  Remember the sabbath day.

  Honor your mother and father.

  Don’t murder.

  Don’t commit adultery.

  Don’t steal.

  Don’t bear false witness.

  Don’t covet.

  Pick any one of them and you’ll hit some kind of ambiguity right away.

  How do you know when you are actually misusing God’s name? Is there a list of acceptable and unacceptable uses somewhere?* Can you say, “Oh my God, it’s raining”? Is God even God’s name or is it a title?

  And what does it mean not to have other gods “before” Yahweh? Is there wiggle room? “Okay, Lord, no other gods before you. Got it. But can I have one or two Canaanite gods alongside or perhaps tagging along behind you? You’d still be at the head of the line, of course.”

  On that last point, archaeologists have dug up hundreds of little clay figurines in the southern kingdom, Judah, dating to the seventh century BCE (the decades before the Babylonian exile). These figurines probably represent the Canaanite fertility goddess Asherah and were found in people’s homes. Maybe they kept them on the mantle or nightstand.

  The Bible takes a dim view of Israelites worshiping idols, and so we can be excused for thinking that all these figurines are just evidence of mass disobedience. But more likely the official view of Israel’s religious leaders, which is what we read about in the Bible, didn’t match the on-the-ground religious practices of the blue collar class. Judahite families of farmers and sheepherders might have thought, “Dang it all. My neighbor’s crops are doing great, and they chalk it all up to Asherah, so maybe I should get on board. What’s the harm? Yahweh is still first. He might even appreciate the company.”*

  Moving along, how exactly does one honor parents? Can they be questioned? Disobeyed—ever?

  Can you kill in self-defense, to protect your family, when ISIS
is invading your village, or when someone brings a semiautomatic rifle into a preschool?

  Can you steal to save your child from starving? Someone else’s child? And where is the line between coveting and admiration?

  Strict legalism is a myth. Laws have a knack for ambiguity, and it only takes a moment of reflection to see that they have to be interpreted, which isn’t exactly breaking news. The entire history of Judaism and Christianity bears witness to people of faith doing just that.

  For me, though, a far more interesting question is lurking just below the surface. What are we to make of this ambiguity in, of all places, the Law beyond simply pointing out, “Hey, weird. That’s really ambiguous”?

  Biblical laws shout to us something about the Bible’s purpose.

  Even biblical laws, where one can’t be faulted for expecting absolute crystal clarity, invite—even instigate—a lively discussion. When handled with a humble rather than anxious heart, laws drive us toward healthy community—not a tribalism geared toward insider-outsider thinking, but a community of faith where we can call upon wisdom as we deliberate and even debate how to live faithfully.

  Laws are written in such a way to ensure that we can’t just mindlessly tick off some boxes and call it “obedience.” They might also prompt us to go to God directly with our questions and disagreement.

  Parents who tell their twelve-year-old, “Clean your room, or no internet for a week,” are just asking for a debate.

  Maybe God is too.

  Don’t Forget Your PIN

  Wisdom pushes her way front and center with virtually any law we look at. Right after the Ten Commandments in Exodus we come to several chapters (specifically 20:22–23:33) of laws collectively referred to as the Book of the Covenant (see 24:7; covenant being sort of a technical biblical term describing the legal relationship between God and the Israelites). These laws lay out what to do in various scenarios that the recently freed Hebrew slaves will encounter once they settle in the land of Canaan—such as laws covering the proper treatment of slaves, physical violence and injury, property, various matters of social justice, and other things.

  We can almost put our finger down anywhere on these pages and ambiguity hits us like a blast of cold air:

  Whoever strikes a person mortally shall be put to death. If it was not premeditated, but came about by an act of God, then I will appoint for you a place to which the killer may flee. But if someone willfully attacks and kills another by treachery, you shall take the killer from my altar for execution. (Exod. 21:12–14)

  I think a slick ancient Israelite criminal defense lawyer would have a field day here. How can you tell, really, if a violent act is actually premeditated and willful? You can make anything look like an accident, and violent offenders don’t normally announce their treachery. And that “act of God” clause is just waiting to be exploited.

  I am certain that the ancient Israelites knew as soon as the ink dried that these laws would need to be thought through, so that they could be justly and fairly administered. Wisdom, in other words, was not an add-on, but was always central for obeying any law in the Bible. Laws, once we begin thinking about what they mean and how they are to be obeyed, actually push us to seek wisdom, which goes beyond mechanical obedience.

  It’s not surprising, therefore, that ancient Jews came to think of wisdom and Law as inseparable—they need each other to work, like needing a pin number to access your cash.

  In the second-century BCE book of Baruch (another book of the Old Testament Apocrypha), wisdom and Law are virtually equated: Hear the commandments of life, O Israel; give ear, and learn wisdom (3:9). Later wisdom is said to be immediately accessible to the people, not far away “in heaven” or “across the sea” (3:29–30). That’s the exact same imagery used in Deuteronomy 30:12–13 to describe the Law (It is not in heaven. . . . Neither is it beyond the sea).

  Another second-century book of the Apocrypha, Ecclesiasticus (or the Wisdom of Jesus Son of Sirach), takes an entire chapter to make the point (chapter 24). The author and revered sage Ben Sira praises wisdom in a manner reminiscent of the book of Proverbs: she, who was with God at creation, then comes to dwell in Jerusalem and grow like a cedar in Lebanon, inviting all to eat of her fruits—which means to learn to work with wisdom and not sin (24:13–22).

  Ben Sira then slides effortlessly from wisdom to Law: All this [the preceding lengthy description of wisdom] is the book of the covenant of the Most High God, the law that Moses commanded us as an inheritance for the congregations of Jacob (24:23). Wisdom and Law seem virtually interchangeable.

  But Ben Sira is not done. He goes on to tie the Law of Moses to a time long before Moses himself—to the creation story in Genesis, as Proverbs does with wisdom. Ben Sira writes that the Law overflows with wisdom (24:25), like the four rivers mentioned in Genesis 2:11–14 (the Pishon, Gihon, Tigris, and Euphrates) that flow from Eden to water the whole earth. Eventually, as Ben Sira puts it, the water channel becomes a canal, then a river, and finally a sea (24:30–31).

  Ben Sira’s point is that Law, not just wisdom, was there all along, flowing out from Paradise. We don’t see this way of thinking in the Old Testament itself (at least not put so clearly), but now a few centuries later Ben Sira brings the Law back to the dawn of time, like wisdom, even though the Law does not actually appear until it is revealed to Moses on Mt. Sinai.

  Ben Sira seems intent to show that Law, so central to Judaism, was not an afterthought during the time of Moses, but has been part of God’s purpose for Israel all along—from the beginning. But why? Ben Sira may have thought such a move was needed, given the influence of Greek culture in his time, which threatened to undermine Jewish identity. And so Ben Sira made an adjustment to the biblical story of creation. Surely, Law was there from the beginning, just like wisdom.

  Ben Sira’s placing of the Law at the very beginning of the biblical story signals for us a central point of this book: Changing times require adjustments to thinking about God and faith.

  We’ll come back to that idea beginning in the next chapter and stay with it for a while, because getting that point right is huge for seeing how the Bible works.

  * * *

  Tying Law and wisdom together reflects what we’ve already seen: Law—however divine its origin and serious its requirements—is nevertheless ambiguous, and so “following the Law” and “seeking wisdom” are bound together for all time. Ancient Jews understood that following the commands necessarily took them beyond doing what the words said. Wisdom was needed to discern how to obey.

  What a paradox. Even obedience to God is not scripted. Obedience is a wisdom exercise. Law without wisdom is incomplete.

  And now we know why Judaism has such a long and rich tradition, often maligned and misunderstood by Christians, of deliberating over what exactly biblical laws require. Because these laws are ancient and ambiguous, Judaism has had no choice but to deliberate.

  The Mishnah, the first major work of Jewish legal reflection (compiled around 200 CE), lists thirty-nine activities forbidden on the sabbath, including planting, plowing, cooking, sewing, slaughtering animals, and writing. This list may look like legalistic hand-wringing for some Christians, but it is actually an exercise in wisdom about discerning what work is in order to obey God.

  Jewish tradition has always understood that keeping the sabbath law—and any law—means working out how. And that insight still holds for today as we too seek to know God in the pages of scripture.

  Laws Don’t Stand Still for Very Long

  Not to start a fight, but here it goes. I’m not much of a fan of the NRA lobby. I say this with full knowledge that I will now lose their generous funding of my writing, but I need to speak my mind. It’s not that I’m against guns, period. I just don’t think that someone with an IQ of 70 and a documented history of violence should be able to pick up a military-grade bazooka at Toys-R-Us. Call me close-minded.

  If you’re still reading, let me get to my point. The Second Amend
ment to the US Constitution (“the right to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed”) is sometimes understood to mean that government regulation of firearms today should be kept at a bare minimum. Now, I’m no Constitutional scholar, but I do have an internet connection, and I know that this 1791 amendment has had a long history of debate. The amendment itself arose in the wake of the Revolutionary War to help ensure that a “well-regulated militia” could stand up against governmental oppression, should the new government decide to mimic the oppressive British one.

  But the amendment made no provision for what to do when a militia is no longer needed, nor would we expect its framers to have a crystal ball. And they had no possible conception of firearms that could blast dozens of rounds in a few seconds and be operated by any primate with opposable thumbs, rather than muskets that have to be loaded one bullet at a time and actually require some skill to use.

  Amendments are called amendments for a reason. Times change, and laws that made sense at one point in time don’t necessarily make sense in another, and so they need to be amended. Some amendments themselves go out of date—the Third Amendment, concerning the quartering of soldiers in private homes, for example. And one amendment, the Eighteenth (prohibition), was famously repealed by another (the Twenty-First).

  The point is that laws don’t stay still. They can’t. They’re fidgety little buggers. Debating, amending, and even moving beyond some laws are part of the deal—and that includes the laws in the Bible.

  We’ve already glimpsed that biblical laws are ambiguous—which means that how laws are kept is open to interpretation, and those interpretations reflect the circumstances of the interpreter. Laws are also ancient—they work in a world where, for example, slaves are less than fully human and virgin daughters are their father’s property.* When we come across these laws, we need to either do some quick creative thinking or just move along and come back to them when we have more energy. But we all know these laws present a problem: we just don’t think like that anymore. Times have changed and what was law then is no longer law now.