These are the devotionals that are taken from the book For the Love of God by D.A. Carson. It goes along with the church's bible reading plan
September 2 - 1 Corinthians 7
In the course of his treatment of “virgins” (1 Cor. 7:25–38—the word refers to the sexually inexperienced, whether male of female), Paul writes, “Because of the present crisis, I think that it is good for you to remain as you are” (1 Cor. 7:26). Thus it is good for the celibate to remain celibate, for the married not to seek a divorce, and so forth. This does not mean, Paul adds, that if a virgin marries, she is sinning. But he does insist that “the time is short” (1 Cor. 7:29). What does this mean?
(1) Some have argued that in common with everyone else in the early church, Paul believed that Jesus was going to return very soon, certainly within their lifetime. With so limited a horizon, Paul says that on the whole it is better for those who are celibate to remain unmarried. This reading of the passage means, of course, that Paul and the rest of the early church were just plain wrong: Jesus did not come back that quickly. But there are so many passages in the New Testament that envisage the possibility of long delay that we cannot go along with the notion that early Christians suffered under this particular delusion.
(2) Some have argued that “the present crisis” (1 Cor. 7:26) refers to some specially troubling period of persecution. If the authorities are out to get Christians, especially their leaders, it might be an advantage to be celibate: you are more mobile, can hide more easily, and the authorities cannot exert pressure on you by leaning on your family. But this interpretation has two insuperable problems. (a) It may fit the celibates, but it doesn’t fit all the other people to whom Paul makes application: e.g., those who mourn should live as if they did not mourn, those who are happy as if they were not, those who buy something as if it were not theirs to keep (1 Cor. 7:29–30). (b) Above all, there is no good evidence that the Corinthians were being threatened with persecution. The entire tone of this letter suggests they were finding life a bit of a lark.
(3) The word rendered “crisis” simply means “necessity” or “compulsion.” What Paul is referring to is neither the return of Christ nor persecution, but the present “necessity,” the present “compulsion,” of living with the End in view. Unlike pagans and secularists, we cannot make our chief joy turn on marriage, prosperity, or any other temporal thing. They all fall under the formula “as if not”: live “as if not engrossed in them. For this world in its present form is passing away” (1 Cor. 7:31, emphasis added). There are responsible ways for Christians to enjoy these things, or mourn, or be happy—but never as if these things are ultimate.
September 3 - 1 Corinthians 8
Apparently some Christians in Corinth, secure in their knowledge that idols are nothing at all, and that all meat has been created by the one true God so that it is good to eat even if it had been offered to an idol, feel wonderful liberty to eat whatever they like. Others, converted perhaps from a life bound up with pagan superstition, detect the demonic in the idol, and think it unsafe to eat food that has been offered to them (1 Cor. 8). The thrust of Paul’s argument is plain enough. Those with a robust conscience on these matters should be willing to forgo their rights so that they do not damage other brothers and sisters in Christ.
It may nevertheless crystallize the application if we underline several elements:
(1) The issue concerns something that is not intrinsically wrong. One could not imagine the apostle suggesting that some Christians think adultery is all right, while others have qualms about it, and the former should perhaps forgo their freedom so as not to offend the latter. In such a case, there is never any excuse for the action; the action is prohibited. So Paul’s principles here apply only to actions that are in themselves morally indifferent.
(2) Paul assumes that it is wrong to go against conscience, for then conscience may be damaged (1 Cor. 8:12). A conscience hardened in one area, over an indifferent matter, may become hard in another area—something more crucial. Ideally, of course, the conscience should become more perfectly aligned with what God says in Scripture, so that in indifferent matters it would leave the individual free. Conscience may be instructed and shaped by truth. But until conscience has been reformed by Scripture, it is best not to contravene it.
(3) The “weak” brother in this chapter (1 Cor. 8:7–13) is one with a “weak” conscience; that is, one who thinks some action is wrong even though there is nothing intrinsically wrong in it. Thus the “weak” brother is more bound by rules than the “strong” brother. Both will adopt the rules that touch things truly wrong, while the weak brother adds rules for things that are not truly wrong but that are at that point wrong for him, since he thinks them wrong.
(4) Paul places primary onus of responsibility on the “strong” to restrict their own freedoms for the sake of others. In other words, it is never a sufficient question for the Christian to ask, “What am I allowed to do? What are my rights?” Christians serve a Lord who certainly did not stand on his rights when he went to the cross. Following the self-denial of Jesus, they will also ask, “What rights should I give up for the sake of others?”
September 4 - 1 Samuel 28
There are several questions about the witch of Endor (1 Sam. 28) that we cannot answer. Was the prophet Samuel actually called up by her mediumistic activity, or was this some sort of demonic deception? If Samuel was called up, was this an exception of what God normally allows or sanctions? And if it really is Samuel, why does he bother answering Saul at all, thereby satisfying Saul’s lust for knowledge of the future, by whatever means, even means that were specifically condemned in Israel?
While it is difficult to provide confident answers to some of these questions, certain points stand out.
(1) What is evil in spiritism is not that it never works (some of it may be manipulative hocus-pocus; some of it may actually provide answers), but that it plays into the hands of the demonic. Above all, it turns people away from God, who alone controls both the present and the future. To find guidance for one’s life by such means will not only lead one astray sooner or later, it is already a badge of rebellion—a terrible thumbing of the nose at God.
(2) Saul is playing the part of the hypocrite. On the one hand, he has banished mediums and spiritists from the land (1 Sam. 28:3); on the other, he desperately wants one himself. Had Saul lived longer, there is no way this two-facedness would have long remained hidden from the people. The very foundations of order and justice in a society are unraveling when the powers that be indulge not only in the personal hypocrisies that afflict a fallen race, but in public breaches of the law they are sworn to uphold.
(3) When God does not answer by any of the means he has himself designated (1 Sam. 28:6, 15), this does not constitute warrant for defiance of God, but for repentance, perseverance, and patience. There is something dismally pathetic about seeking God’s counsel while happily taking action that God himself has prohibited.
(4) The heart of Saul’s sin is what it has been for a long time. He wants a domesticated god, a god like the genie in Aladdin’s lamp, one pledged to do wonderful things for him as long as he holds the lamp. He somehow feels that David now holds the lamp and wishes he could get the power back, but does not perceive that the real God is to be worshiped, reverenced, obeyed, feared, and loved—unconditionally. Here is a man who thinks of himself as at the center of the universe; whatever gods exist must serve him. If the covenant God of Israel does not help him as he wishes, then Saul is prepared to find other gods. This is the black heart of all idolatry.
September 5 - 1 Corinthians 10
First Corinthians 10 includes several passages worthy of prolonged meditation. But today we reflect on a passage which, superficially speaking, is one of the easiest of them.
Paul tells the Corinthians that the things that happened to “our forefathers” (1 Cor. 10:1) that are recorded in Scripture “occurred as examples to keep us from setting our hearts on evil things as they did” (1 Cor. 10:6). After giving some examples, the apostle again says, “These things happened to them as examples and were written down as warnings for us, on whom the fulfillment of the ages has come” (1 Cor. 10:11).
(1) It is important to observe the diversity of purposes the Scriptures have. Elsewhere we learn, for instance, that the Old Testament Scriptures, or parts of them, were given to make sin appear as the awful thing it is, nothing less than trangression; to prepare the way for Christ, not only by prophetic words but also by models, patterns, and “types” that anticipated what Christ would be like; to announce the time when God would take definitive action on behalf of his people; to warn against sin and judgment; and much more. But here, the Bible provides us with examples to keep us from pursuing evil things. That means that although the Old Testament narratives doubtless offer more than “mere” moral lessons, they do not offer less. While we seek out the complex layers of inner-canonical connection, we must not overlook the moral instruction that lies on the very surface of the text.
(2) The gross sins that Paul lists by way of example—idolatry, sexual immorality, “testing” the Lord (i.e., by doubting his goodness or ability, as in Ex. 17:2), and grumbling (10:7–10)—are not unknown among contemporary believers.
(3) According to Paul, God’s intention was that the writing down of these materials in Scripture was so that we should benefit from it—the “we” referring to those “on whom the fulfillment of the ages has come” (1 Cor. 10:11). Doubtless this should not be taken as an exhaustive statement of God’s intention, but it is certainly meant to be a foundational one. Thus from God’s perspective, the Old Testament books were not meant simply for those who read them when they were first written, but for “us” who live at this formidable moment in world history when the first installment of the promises of the ages is being experienced.
(4) Implicitly, it is all the more shocking if we who have received so much instruction and warning from ages past ignore the wealth of privilege that is ours. In our blindness we sometimes marvel at how some Old Testament figures or groups could so quickly abandon the godly heritage and covenant they received. How much worse if we do so!
September 6 - 1 Corinthians 11
Three observations about the Lord’s Supper, from the many that could be drawn from Paul’s treatment of it (1 Cor. 11:17–34):
First, it is a temporary ordinance. It is to be observed only “until he comes” (11:26). In part this is because of its “memorial” function (“do this in remembrance of me,” 1 Cor. 11:24). In the new heaven and the new earth, transformed believers will not need a rite like this one to “remember” Jesus, for he will perpetually be the center of their focus and adoration. Knowing this, each time we participate in the Lord’s Supper we are not only helped to look backward to Jesus’ broken body, but forward to the consummation.
Second, properly observed, the Lord’s Supper is to have a kerygmatic function. The word kerygmatic comes from the verb kerysso, “to proclaim”: Paul says that by this Supper we proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes (11:26)—though he uses a different verb here. Normally the verb used is found in an evangelistic context: we proclaim or announce the Gospel to people still unconverted. If that is what Paul means, then one of the functions of the Lord’s Supper—its kerygmatic function—is evangelism. Certainly I have been in churches where that is the case. Unbelievers are part of the service. They are warned not to partake, but are encouraged to observe and reflect on what they see and hear. Something of the significance of the rite is explained, perhaps its function as witness to Jesus the bread of life who gives his life for the life of the world (John 6:51). The ordinance and the word together proclaim the Lord’s death.
Third, the approach of the Lord’s Supper provides an opportunity for each Christian to examine himself or herself before eating the bread and drinking the cup (11:27–28). Interpreters disagree as to what the failure to recognize the body of the Lord means (11:29). To evaluate the options is not possible in this context. I may simply record my conclusion: Paul warns that “anyone who eats and drinks without recognizing the body of the Lord,” which was offered up on the cross and to which witness is borne in this rite, “eats and drinks judgment on himself.” How could it be otherwise? To say, by participating, “We remember,” and “We proclaim,” while cherishing sin, is to approach this table in an unworthy manner; it is to sin “against the body and blood of the Lord” (11:27). But regardless of whether this particular interpretation is correct, the warning itself must be taken with utmost seriousness. It is not a question of being good enough, for no one is. The only “worthy manner” by which to approach this Supper is contrition and faith.
September 7 - 2 Samuel 1
When David hears of the deaths of Saul and Jonathan (2 Sam. 1), his grief is not merely formal. He could not help but know that the way to the throne was now open to him. Nevertheless, his sorrow is so genuine that he composes a lengthy lament (2 Sam. 1:19–27), sets it to music, and teaches it to the men of his tribe (2 Sam. 1:18) so that it will be sung for a long time as one of the folk ballads of the land.
Many elements of this lament deserve long reflection. Today I shall reflect on just one verse: “Tell it not in Gath, proclaim it not in the streets of Ashkelon, lest the daughters of the Philistines be glad, lest the daughters of the uncircumcised rejoice” (2 Sam. 1:20). Formally, the text is plain enough. Gath and Ashkelon were the two leading Philistine cities. David is saying, in effect, not to let the Philistines know of the deaths of Saul and Jonathan, lest they be glad and rejoice.
Of course, the Philistines could not help but find out, and David, of all people, knew that. But his purpose in penning these words is not literally to keep the Philistines in the dark a little while longer. How could that be? They had already hoisted the body of Saul onto the wall of Beth Shan (1 Sam. 31:10) and sent messengers with the news throughout Philistia (1 Sam. 31:9). But if these lines from David’s pen do not function as literal advice, what is their function?
In part, it is simply a lament. It is a powerful way of saying that the opponents of the Israelites would be delighted with the news, and therefore their pleasure is a measure of the tragedy. But I suspect there is another overtone. When one of our leaders falls, conduct yourself in such a way as not to give strength to the opposition.
That is a lesson that must be learned again and again by the church. When a minister of the Gospel is caught embezzling funds or having an affair, then certainly the biblical principle for discipline must be brought to bear immediately. If the law has been broken, the civil authorities must be contacted. If families have been damaged, there may be a great deal of pastoral work to be done. But understand well that many unbelievers will be gleefully rubbing their hands and saying, “See? What can you expect? All this religious stuff is so hypocritical and phony.” Thus Christ is despised and the credibility of Christian witnesses diminished. Christians must restrain their tongues, watch what they say, and be especially careful about saying anything unnecessary to unbelievers. This is a time for mourning, not gossip. “Tell it not in Gath. . . .”
September 8 - 1 Corinthians 13
Although 1 Corinthians 13 forms part of a sustained argument that runs through chapters 12–14, the passage constitutes such a lovely unit with so many wonderfully evocative lines that it has called forth countless extended treatments. Today I shall reflect a little on the first three verses.
This text does not say that love is everything and that the other things mentioned—speaking in tongues, the gift of prophecy, an ability to fathom mysteries and all knowledge, a faith that can move mountains, self-denying surrender of all possessions for the sake of the poor, and suffering a martyr’s death—are nothing. Rather, it insists that those things are utterly insignificant unless they are accompanied by love. Love does not displace them; its absence renders them pointless and ultimately valueless.
This paragraph is calculated to abase the arrogant. History offers sad examples of people who have become proud of their gift of tongues, of their prophetic gift, even of their philanthropy and self-sacrifice. But it is a contradiction in terms to be proud of one’s love, in any Christian sense of love. Perhaps that is one of the reasons why these other virtues are destroyed if unaccompanied by love.
One of the most striking features of this statement about love is how it rules out of bounds one of the definitions of love that still persists in some Christian circles. They say that Christian love does not belong to the emotional realm, but is nothing other than an unswerving resolve to seek the other’s good. That is why, they say, love can be commanded: one may thoroughly dislike the other person, but if one conscientiously resolves upon his or her good, and acts accordingly, it is still love. Quite frankly, that sort of casuistry is reductionistic rubbish. What has just been dubbed “love” is nothing other than resolute altruism. But in these verses Paul firmly distinguishes between altruism and love: “If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames” (1 Cor. 13:3): here are both altruism and self-sacrifice, but Paul can imagine both without love. So love must be something other than, or more than, mere altruism and self-sacrifice.
It may be difficult to provide a perfect definition for Christian love. But it is not difficult to find its supreme example. Christ’s love for us is not grounded in our loveliness, but in his own character. His love is not merely sentimental, yet it is charged with incalculable affection and warmth. It is resolute in its self-sacrifice, but never merely mechanical self-discipline. If we wish to come to terms with the apostolic depiction of Christian love as “the most excellent way” (1 Cor. 12:31b; see also the meditation for October 11) that all believers must follow, we need only imitate Jesus Christ.
September 9 - 2 Samuel 3
Even after the death of King Saul, David did not immediately become king of Israel. At first David is anointed king over Judah (2 Sam. 2:1–7), and only Judah: even Benjamin, which remained with Judah following the division between “Israel” and “Judah” after the death of Solomon, at this point was allied with the other tribes (2 Sam. 2:9).
Abner, the commander of what was left of Saul’s army, installed Ish-Bosheth, Saul’s surviving son, as king of Israel (2 Sam. 2:8–9). Skirmishes multiplied between David’s troops and those of Ish-Bosheth. Many battles in those days brought the opposing troops together in a fierce clash, followed by a running fight: one side ran away, and the other chased it. In one such clash, one of the three sons of Zeruiah—Asahel, from David’s forces—is killed by Abner (2 Sam. 2:17–23). The killing was “clean,” i.e., within the rules of warfare and not a murder. Nevertheless, this death precipitates some of the most important actions in 2 Samuel 3.
Bringing the different parts of the country together into united allegiance under David was a messy and sometimes ignoble business—a reminder that God sometimes uses the folly and evil of people to bring about his good purposes. Abner sleeps with one of Saul’s former concubines (2 Sam. 3:6–7). This was not only a breach of moral law, but in the symbolism of the time Abner was claiming the right of royalty for himself. It was a major insult and reproach to Ish-Bosheth. Thus Abner’s reasons for taking the eleven tribes over to David seem to have less to do with integrity and a desire to recognize God’s calling than out of frustration with Ish-Bosheth and some lust for power himself. Then Abner is murdered by Joab and his men (2 Sam. 3:22–27), Joab being one of Asahel’s brothers. But this really is murder, and a defiance of David’s safe-conduct.
How David handles this crisis reflects both his great strengths and one of his greatest weaknesses—strengths and weaknesses that will show up again. Politically, David is very astute. He distances himself utterly from Joab’s action, and insists that Joab and other leaders become part of the official mourning party of the slain Abner. “All the people took note and were pleased; indeed, everything the king did pleased them” (2 Sam. 3:36). On the other hand, David does not bring Joab to account, fobbing off his responsibility by protesting that “these sons of Zeruiah are too strong for me” (2 Sam. 3:39). In other words, he shirked his responsibility—as he would do later with his son Amnon (2 Sam. 13), the consequences of which triggered Absalom’s revolt and almost cost David his throne. It is never God’s way to abdicate biblically mandated responsibility.
September 10 - 2 Samuel 4-5
Clearly the writer of 2 Samuel (whose identity we do not know) thinks it important to record the various steps by which David came to rule over all Israel. Canonically, this is important because it is the beginning of the Davidic dynasty that leads directly to “great David’s greater Son” (see the May 17 meditation). Within this framework, I wish to reflect on several features in these two chapters (2 Sam. 4–5).
(1) It is quite stunning to observe how David was prepared to wait for the throne, without taking the kind of action that would have secured it for him more quickly. Not least impressive is his stance toward Ish-Bosheth. Ish-Bosheth’s murderers, Baanah and Recab, who think they will curry favor with the rising star by their vicious assassination (in line with the common standards of the day), learn that David’s commitment to justice ensures their execution. The only slightly sour overtone is the double standard: these murderers pay a just penalty for their crime (2 Sam. 4), while in the preceding chapter the murderer Joab, because of his power, is publicly shamed but does not face the capital sentence.
(2) This book carefully chronicles how “all the tribes of Israel” (2 Sam. 5:1) approach David at Hebron and invite him to become their king. In God’s providence the evil assassination by Baanah and Recab brings about the fulfillment of God’s promise to David.
(3) David’s capture of Jerusalem (2 Sam. 5:6–12) has to be recorded, for this not only becomes David’s capital city but in due course becomes the resting place for the tabernacle. During the reign of his son Solomon it will become the site for the temple. Enormously important theological issues revolve around Jerusalem and the temple. These are taken up in turn by the prophets (before and after the Exile), by Jesus himself, and by the New Testament writers. Reflect, for instance, on John 2:13–22; Galatians 4:21–31; Hebrews 9; 12:22–23; Revelation 21–22.
(4) Above all, when the Israelites invite David to become their king, they say, “And the LORD said to you, ‘You will shepherd my people Israel, and you will become their ruler’” (2 Sam. 5:2). The “shepherd” theme is more comprehensive than the “ruler” theme, and is developed in various ways. At the outset of the Exile, God excoriates the false “shepherds” who are more interested in fleecing the sheep than in securing and nurturing the flock (Ezek. 34)—a phenomenon not unknown today. So God repeatedly promises that he himself will be the shepherd of his people; indeed, he will send forth this servant “David” (three-and-a-half centuries after David’s death!) to be their shepherd (Ezek. 34:23–24; see the meditation for March 20). In the fullness of time, the rightful heir of David’s line declares, “I am the good shepherd” (John 10:11).
September 11 - 2 Samuel 6
David would doubtless make many of us uncomfortable if he lived today. He was such an intense man—exuberant in his pleasures, crushed in his discouragement, powerful in his leadership, unrestrained in his worship.
(1) One occasion that displays much of the man displays no less of God, viz. bringing the ark of the covenant, and presumably the entire tabernacle, up to Jerusalem (2 Sam. 6). David does not send down a few clerics—the designated Levites—and no more. He gathers thirty thousand crack troops and representatives from the whole house of Israel, to say nothing of musicians and choirs.
(2) When Uzzah stretches forth his hand to stabilize the ark because the oxen pulling the cart have stumbled, the “LORD’s anger burned against Uzzah because of his irreverent act; therefore God struck him down and he died there beside the ark of God” (2 Sam. 6:7). That certainly put a damper on the festivities. David is both angry with God (2 Sam. 6:8) and afraid of him (2 Sam. 6:9). For the time being he resolves not to bring the ark of the Lord up to Jerusalem. Certainly there is something in most of us that silently thinks David is right.
Yet all along God has been profoundly concerned to eradicate any hint that he is nothing more than a talisman, a controllable god, some godlet akin to other neighborhood godlets. One of his strongest prohibitions was not to touch the ark, or look inside it. Indeed, on the latter point seventy men of Beth Shemesh had paid with their lives a bare generation earlier (1 Sam. 6:19–20; see the meditation for August 15), when they had ignored the edict. Our text calls Uzzah’s act “irreverent” (2 Sam. 6:7). What made it “irreverent” or “profane” was not that Uzzah was malicious, but that there was no reverent fear before his eyes, no careful distinction between all that God says is holy and what is merely common. The horror of profanity is identical: people say they do not mean anything by it when they take the Lord’s name in vain. That is precisely the point: they do not mean anything by it. God will not be treated that way.
(3) The ark remains with Obed-Edom for three months, and he experiences so much blessing that David becomes interested again (2 Sam. 6:11–12). Blessing and reverence go hand in hand, and David—and we—had better realize it.
(4) Michal turns out to be her father’s daughter: she is more interested in pomp, form, royal robes, and personal dignity than in exuberant worship (2 Sam. 6:16). She despises David precisely because he is so God-centered he cares very little about his persona. People constantly fretting about what others think of them cannot be absorbed by the sheer God-awareness and God-centeredness that characterize all true worship.
September 12 - 2 Samuel 7
After his palace is built, David recognizes that he is living in splendor in comparison with the small and unostentatious tabernacle. He desires to build a temple, a “house” in which to place the ark of the covenant (2 Sam. 7).
Through Nathan the prophet, however, God puts the shoe on the other foot. David wants to build a “house” for God, but God declares that he himself will build a “house” for David. The word house can refer to a building, but it can extend to household and even to a dynasty (e.g., the house of Windsor). David hopes to build a “house” for God in the first sense; God tells David he is building a “house” for him in the third sense. Although David’s son Solomon will build a “house” for God, in the last analysis God himself is the ultimate Giver, and the “house” he proposes to build will prove more enduring.
In this context, then, God makes some remarkable promises to David. “The LORD declares to you that the LORD himself will establish a house for you” (2 Sam. 7:11), God says. To continue David’s line after his death, God adds, “I will raise up your offspring to succeed you, who will come from your own body, and I will establish his kingdom. He is the one who will build a house for my Name, and I will establish the throne of his kingdom forever” (2 Sam. 7:12–13). The referent goes no farther than Solomon. In the storyline of 1 and 2 Samuel, Saul serves as the prime example of a king who reigned and whose throne was not secured, whose “house” was not built. But it will not be so with David. His offspring will reign. When Saul sinned, in due course God rejected him. But when David’s son does wrong, God says, “I will punish him with the rod of men, with floggings inflicted by men. [So this “son” is certainly not Jesus.] But my love will never be taken away from him, as I took it away from Saul” (2 Sam. 7:14–15). So far, then, Solomon occupies the horizon.
But then once again God takes the long view: “Your house and your kingdom will endure forever before me; your throne will be established forever” (2 Sam. 7:16). This either means that there will always be someone on the throne in the line of David, or something more powerful. In the course of time, the prophecies about the coming “David” or “son of David” become freighted with much greater promise. Isaiah foresees someone who “will reign on David’s throne and over his kingdom,” but who is also called “Mighty God” and “Everlasting Father” (Isa. 9:6–7). Here is an heir to David who maintains the Davidic dynasty not by passing it on, but by his own eternal reign.
September 13 - 2 Corinthians 2
It is beyond these brief reflections to provide a history of the difficult visits and painful letters that generated deep emotion in the apostle’s relations with the Corinthians. Relations between Corinth and Paul are apparently improving in the opening chapters of 2 Corinthians, but remain a trifle raw.
In this context Paul devotes quite a bit of attention to explaining the nature of his ministry, whether its grand design or discrete decisions he has made. For example, in 2 Corinthians 1, it is fairly obvious that the Corinthians had charged Paul with being fickle. He had said he would come, and then he had changed plans and not arrived. Paul acknowledges that he had indeed changed plans, but insists this does not indicate fickleness (2 Cor. 1:15–17). In his conduct he tries to imitate God’s steadfast faithfulness (2 Cor. 1:18–22). And then he gives the real reason why he did not show up: he was trying to spare the Corinthians, for he knew that if he had shown up at that point he would have had to take action that would have caused even more distress (2 Cor. 1:23–2:2).
In 2 Corinthians 2, Paul is still unpacking various elements of his ministry. Here we note two.
First, Paul understands his ministry to be akin to a device that distributes the fragrance of the knowledge of God (2 Cor. 2:14). Otherwise put, before God Paul himself is an aroma, “the aroma of Christ among both those who are being saved and those who are perishing” (2 Cor. 2:15). “To the one we are the smell of death; to the other, the fragrance of life” (2 Cor. 2:16). In other words, Paul insists that he does not himself change, depending on his audience. He is the same aroma; he proclaims the same Gospel, the same discipleship, the same Christ, the same way to live. Whether he is perceived to be a sweet fragrance or a foul stench does not depend on some change in him, but on the people who must deal with him. Implicitly, the Corinthians must recognize that some animus against the apostle is the animus of the unregenerate heart. “And who is equal to such a task?” (2 Cor. 2:16).
Second, many Corinthians (as becomes clear later in this letter) thought that teachers should command substantial salaries, and if they didn’t, they weren’t worth much. In that kind of atmosphere, it would be easy to despise even a gifted apostolic teacher who refused your money. But because he was teaching a gospel of grace, Paul evangelized for free. (He accepted support money from elsewhere.) On the long haul, he did not want to gain a reputation for peddling the word of God for profit; rather, he wanted to be known as a man sent from God (2 Cor. 2:17).
September 14 - 2 Corinthians 3
In some ways, Paul finds himself in an embarrassing position. If he fails to answer some of the concerns that the Corinthians entertained about him and his ministry, he could lose them—not lose them personally (that wouldn’t have bothered Paul), but lose their loyalty to him and therefore to the message that he preached. On the other hand, if he goes on at length about himself, at least some of his detractors will say that he is stuck on himself, or that he is insecure, or that a real apostle would not have to defend himself, or something else of the same sort.
Precisely what their charge was, we cannot be sure. That Paul is sensitive to the danger is pretty obvious from several places in the Corinthian correspondence, not least 2 Corinthians 3:1–3. At the end of chapter 2, Paul had insisted that “we [either an editorial ‘we’ or a self-conscious reference to the apostles] speak before God with sincerity, like men sent from God” (2 Cor. 2:17)—not at all like peddlers working for profit. Now he rhetorically asks, “Are we beginning to commend ourselves again?” (2 Cor. 3:1). The “again” is what betrays the fact that Paul has had to face this problem before with the Corinthians. More specifically, he asks, “Or do we need, like some people, letters of recommendation to you or from you?” (2 Cor. 3:1). It sounds as if “some people” have attempted to establish their credentials by bringing letters of introduction with them. They or the Corinthians then become dismissive of Paul because he neither fits into the cultural pattern of proving his credentials by asking for a high fee (chap. 2), nor does he bring along papers—from Jerusalem or some other authoritative center—to establish his bona fides.
But Paul does not reply by defending his apostolic status in terms of the resurrected Christ’s direct revelation to him. (Elsewhere, however, that is exactly what he does, and even in this chapter he insists that his competence is from God himself, 2 Cor. 3:5). Here he wisely adopts a stance that simultaneously points to the peculiar nature of his own ministry, and gently encourages the Corinthians to acknowledge that they are in no place to think differently. What he tells them, in effect, is that their existence as Christians constitutes, for them, adequate credentialing of Paul. Paul preached the Gospel to them. They are his “letter of recommendation”—the result of his ministry (2 Cor. 3:1, 3). And since genuine conversion is the work of the Spirit of God, they, as Paul’s letter of recommendation, should see themselves as having been “written” not with ink but “with the Spirit of the living God,” and not on a papyrus sheet or a stone tablet, but on the human heart (2 Cor. 3:3).
September 15 - 2 Samuel 11
Here is David at his worst (2 Sam. 11). In the flow of the narrative through 1 and 2 Samuel, it is almost as if adversity brought out the best in David, while his chain of recent unbroken military and political successes finds him restless, foolish, and not careful.
The sins are multiple. Besides the obvious transgressions of lust, adultery, and murder, there are deep sins scarcely less grievous. His attempt to cover his guilt by bringing Uriah home fails because Uriah proves to be that most exceptional of men: an idealist—an idealist who sees even his military responsibilities in terms of his covenantal faith (2 Sam. 11:11). And all this from a converted Hittite! Worse, David’s extraordinary manipulation of the military and political levers of power shows that this king has become intoxicated by power. He thinks he can arrange anything; he thinks he has the right to use the state to advance and then cover up his own sin. The name of that game is corruption.
There are other remarkable elements in the narrative.
First, almost nothing is said of Bathsheba, except that she was beautiful, was seduced, and eventually married David. Of course, at one level she was no less guilty than he. But of this the text does not say a word. Elsewhere the Bible can record the exploits of good women (Ruth) and evil women (Jezebel); indeed, toward the end of David’s life Bathsheba herself plays a significant role. Perhaps in part the text does not cast blame on her here because she has been manipulated by a figure far more powerful. More likely the silence signals not relative degrees of blame but primary focus: the account is of David, and ultimately of David’s line.
Second, it is astonishing that David thought he could get away with this. Even politically, too many people had to know what he had done; the story could not be kept quiet. And how could David imagine, even for a moment, that God himself would not know? Was he at this point badly alienated from God? At the very least, this chapter provides a dramatic witness to the blinding effects of sin.
Third, the chapter ends—somberly and powerfully—with the simple sentence, “But the thing David had done displeased the LORD” (2 Sam. 11:27). Doubtless David was quietly congratulating himself for his clever cover-up. He had sinned and gotten away with it. Some of his more servile lackeys may even have congratulated their master. But God knew, and was not pleased. Believers who are walking with their Creator and Redeemer never forget that God sees and knows, and that what pleases him is the only thing that really matters; what displeases him will sooner or later catch up with us.
September 16 - 2 Samuel 12
In Nathan’s dramatic confrontation with King David (2 Sam. 12), the prophet’s courage was mingled with a formidable sagacity. How else could a prophet grab the attention of an autocratic king and denounce his sin to his face, apart from this oblique approach?
Certain features of this chapter must be reflected on.
First, the fundamental difference between David and Saul is now obvious. Both men abused power in high office. What makes them different is the way they respond to a rebuke. When Samuel accused Saul of sin, the latter dissembled; when Jonathan questioned Saul’s policy, a spear was thrown at him. By contrast, although Nathan approaches his subject obliquely, the sin is soon out in the open: “You are the man!” (2 Sam. 12:7). Yet David’s response is radically different: “I have sinned against the LORD” (2 Sam. 12:13).
That, surely, is one of the ultimate tests of the direction of a person’s life. We are a race of sinners. Even good people, people of strong faith, even someone like David—who is “a man after God’s own heart” (cf. 1 Sam. 13:14)—may slip and sin. There is never an excuse for it, but when it happens it should never surprise us. But those who are serious about the knowledge of God will in due course return with genuine contrition. Spurious converts and apostates will string out a plethora of lame excuses, but will not admit personal guilt except in the most superficial ways.
Second, only God can forgive sin. When he does so, sin’s proper punishment, death itself, is not applied (2 Sam. 12:13).
Third, even when sin’s ultimate sanction is not applied, there may be other consequences that cannot be avoided in this fallen and broken world. David now faces three of them: (1) that the child Bathsheba is carrying will die; (2) that throughout his lifetime there will be skirmishing and warfare as he establishes his kingdom; (3) that at some point in his life he will see what it is like to be betrayed: someone from his own household will temporarily seize the throne, exemplified by sleeping with the royal harem (2 Sam. 12:12–13). Each is piquant. The first is bound up with the adultery itself; the second is perhaps a hint that the reason David was tempted in the first place was because he had not gone forth to war along with Joab, but had stayed home (2 Sam. 11:1), clearly longing for peace; and the third treats David to the betrayal that he himself has practiced.
Fourth, David’s response to the most pressing of the judgments is altogether salutary. God is not the equivalent of impersonal Fate. He is a person, and a person may be petitioned and pursued. Despite his massive failure, David is still a man who knows God better than his numerous critics.
September 17 - 2 Samuel 13
The threat to David’s reign predicted by the prophet Nathan begins with a sordid side-tale that nevertheless betrays exactly what is wrong with David’s rule (2 Sam. 13).
The multiplicity of royal wives meant that there were many half brothers and half sisters. This sets up the wretched rape of Tamar. The profiles of the people involved, with the exception of Tamar, betray what today we would label a dysfunctional family. Of course, only two of the brothers, Amnon and Absalom, are seen close up. But David’s handling of them—or better, his utter failure to handle them—is of a piece with the way he had earlier failed to handle Joab (see meditation on September 9).
Amnon is lustful, immature, irresponsible, deceptive, and brutal. One of the most revealing statements about him is what is said immediately after he has raped Tamar: “Then Amnon hated her with intense hatred. In fact, he hated her more than he had loved her” (2 Sam. 13:15). We are dealing with a spoiled child who has become an evil man.
If at this point David had exercised the justice he should have displayed in his role as head of state, the history of the next few years would have been entirely different. He shares the sin of Eli (see 1 Samuel 3 and the August 13 meditation): he sees his sons doing evil, and does nothing to restrain them. If he had required Amnon to face the full force of the law, not only would he have fired a shot across the bows of any other potentially wayward son, he would have proved he cared for what had happened to his daughter, and he would have drawn the horrible bitterness and vengefulness that Tamar’s full brother Absalom now brings to a boil.
At this point Absalom is a tragic figure. He rightly holds Amnon accountable. Unable to find redress in the legal system that his own father has short-circuited, he opts for vengeance, then has to flee his father’s wrath. Doubtless he should not have slain Amnon, but up to this point he is presented as a more attractive and principled character than the man he assassinates. Yet he knows that even David cannot ignore this particular murder, so he flees, leaving his father to look foolish and indecisive.
Relationships between fathers and sons are rarely both rich and straightforward. But the pattern of David’s life, juxtaposed with Eli’s but a few short chapters earlier, illustrates the kinds of disasters that befall families where the father, however loving, indulgent, godly, and heroic he may be, never holds his children to account, never disciplining them when they go astray. David’s failure with Amnon and Absalom was not a first: it was the continuation of a moral and familial failure begun when the boys were in diapers.
September 18 - 2 Samuel 14
What a twisted thing sin is. Its motives and machinations are convoluted and perverse.
At one level the account of 2 Samuel 14 is pretty straightforward. At another, it is full of thought-provoking ironies.
David adopts the worst of all possible courses. At first he cannot simply forgive Absalom, for that would in effect be admitting that he, David himself, should have taken decisive action against Amnon. On the other hand, David cannot bring himself to ban Absalom decisively, so he secretly mourns him. After Joab’s ruse with the “wise woman” (2 Sam. 14:2), he resolves to bring Absalom back. Even here, however, he is indecisive. If he is going to allow Absalom back in the country and the capital, why does he exclude him from seeing David—and thus intrinsically from family gatherings and the like? By the end of the chapter there is a reconciliation. But at what cost? The issues have not been resolved, merely swept under the table. On the other hand, if David is determined to forgive his son, why does he leave him in limbo for a few years? How much does this treatment by his own father foment the rebellion described in the next chapter?
There is no small irony in the fact that the man who convinces David, via this “wise woman,” to bring Absalom back, is the very man whom David should have disciplined years before (see September 9 meditation). If David had disciplined Joab, where would he have been at this point? Probably not manipulating the king’s counselors and petitioners.
On the face of it, Absalom is willing to go to some extraordinary lengths to get an audience with Joab and eventually be restored to the good graces of the king. Burning down a man’s standing grain is a pretty big step (2 Sam. 14:29–32). Yet despite all of his sincere passion to be readmitted to the king’s court and presence, it will not be long before Absalom attempts to usurp the throne (chap. 15). That is the supreme irony. After so much effort, Absalom is finally admitted to David’s presence: “he came in and bowed down with his face to the ground before the king. And the king kissed Absalom” (2 Sam. 14:33). He had gained what he wanted. So what kind of power-hungry resentment is it that mounts the vicious insurrection of the next chapter?
People who have been following the story right along will not only perceive all the proximate causes of the rebellion, the understandable connections among all the personal failures that brought about the terrible conclusion. They will also recall that God himself had predicted, as a matter of judicial punishment on David over the matter of Bathsheba and Uriah, that he would bring calamity on him from someone in his household.
September 2 - 1 Corinthians 7
In the course of his treatment of “virgins” (1 Cor. 7:25–38—the word refers to the sexually inexperienced, whether male of female), Paul writes, “Because of the present crisis, I think that it is good for you to remain as you are” (1 Cor. 7:26). Thus it is good for the celibate to remain celibate, for the married not to seek a divorce, and so forth. This does not mean, Paul adds, that if a virgin marries, she is sinning. But he does insist that “the time is short” (1 Cor. 7:29). What does this mean?
(1) Some have argued that in common with everyone else in the early church, Paul believed that Jesus was going to return very soon, certainly within their lifetime. With so limited a horizon, Paul says that on the whole it is better for those who are celibate to remain unmarried. This reading of the passage means, of course, that Paul and the rest of the early church were just plain wrong: Jesus did not come back that quickly. But there are so many passages in the New Testament that envisage the possibility of long delay that we cannot go along with the notion that early Christians suffered under this particular delusion.
(2) Some have argued that “the present crisis” (1 Cor. 7:26) refers to some specially troubling period of persecution. If the authorities are out to get Christians, especially their leaders, it might be an advantage to be celibate: you are more mobile, can hide more easily, and the authorities cannot exert pressure on you by leaning on your family. But this interpretation has two insuperable problems. (a) It may fit the celibates, but it doesn’t fit all the other people to whom Paul makes application: e.g., those who mourn should live as if they did not mourn, those who are happy as if they were not, those who buy something as if it were not theirs to keep (1 Cor. 7:29–30). (b) Above all, there is no good evidence that the Corinthians were being threatened with persecution. The entire tone of this letter suggests they were finding life a bit of a lark.
(3) The word rendered “crisis” simply means “necessity” or “compulsion.” What Paul is referring to is neither the return of Christ nor persecution, but the present “necessity,” the present “compulsion,” of living with the End in view. Unlike pagans and secularists, we cannot make our chief joy turn on marriage, prosperity, or any other temporal thing. They all fall under the formula “as if not”: live “as if not engrossed in them. For this world in its present form is passing away” (1 Cor. 7:31, emphasis added). There are responsible ways for Christians to enjoy these things, or mourn, or be happy—but never as if these things are ultimate.
September 3 - 1 Corinthians 8
Apparently some Christians in Corinth, secure in their knowledge that idols are nothing at all, and that all meat has been created by the one true God so that it is good to eat even if it had been offered to an idol, feel wonderful liberty to eat whatever they like. Others, converted perhaps from a life bound up with pagan superstition, detect the demonic in the idol, and think it unsafe to eat food that has been offered to them (1 Cor. 8). The thrust of Paul’s argument is plain enough. Those with a robust conscience on these matters should be willing to forgo their rights so that they do not damage other brothers and sisters in Christ.
It may nevertheless crystallize the application if we underline several elements:
(1) The issue concerns something that is not intrinsically wrong. One could not imagine the apostle suggesting that some Christians think adultery is all right, while others have qualms about it, and the former should perhaps forgo their freedom so as not to offend the latter. In such a case, there is never any excuse for the action; the action is prohibited. So Paul’s principles here apply only to actions that are in themselves morally indifferent.
(2) Paul assumes that it is wrong to go against conscience, for then conscience may be damaged (1 Cor. 8:12). A conscience hardened in one area, over an indifferent matter, may become hard in another area—something more crucial. Ideally, of course, the conscience should become more perfectly aligned with what God says in Scripture, so that in indifferent matters it would leave the individual free. Conscience may be instructed and shaped by truth. But until conscience has been reformed by Scripture, it is best not to contravene it.
(3) The “weak” brother in this chapter (1 Cor. 8:7–13) is one with a “weak” conscience; that is, one who thinks some action is wrong even though there is nothing intrinsically wrong in it. Thus the “weak” brother is more bound by rules than the “strong” brother. Both will adopt the rules that touch things truly wrong, while the weak brother adds rules for things that are not truly wrong but that are at that point wrong for him, since he thinks them wrong.
(4) Paul places primary onus of responsibility on the “strong” to restrict their own freedoms for the sake of others. In other words, it is never a sufficient question for the Christian to ask, “What am I allowed to do? What are my rights?” Christians serve a Lord who certainly did not stand on his rights when he went to the cross. Following the self-denial of Jesus, they will also ask, “What rights should I give up for the sake of others?”
September 4 - 1 Samuel 28
There are several questions about the witch of Endor (1 Sam. 28) that we cannot answer. Was the prophet Samuel actually called up by her mediumistic activity, or was this some sort of demonic deception? If Samuel was called up, was this an exception of what God normally allows or sanctions? And if it really is Samuel, why does he bother answering Saul at all, thereby satisfying Saul’s lust for knowledge of the future, by whatever means, even means that were specifically condemned in Israel?
While it is difficult to provide confident answers to some of these questions, certain points stand out.
(1) What is evil in spiritism is not that it never works (some of it may be manipulative hocus-pocus; some of it may actually provide answers), but that it plays into the hands of the demonic. Above all, it turns people away from God, who alone controls both the present and the future. To find guidance for one’s life by such means will not only lead one astray sooner or later, it is already a badge of rebellion—a terrible thumbing of the nose at God.
(2) Saul is playing the part of the hypocrite. On the one hand, he has banished mediums and spiritists from the land (1 Sam. 28:3); on the other, he desperately wants one himself. Had Saul lived longer, there is no way this two-facedness would have long remained hidden from the people. The very foundations of order and justice in a society are unraveling when the powers that be indulge not only in the personal hypocrisies that afflict a fallen race, but in public breaches of the law they are sworn to uphold.
(3) When God does not answer by any of the means he has himself designated (1 Sam. 28:6, 15), this does not constitute warrant for defiance of God, but for repentance, perseverance, and patience. There is something dismally pathetic about seeking God’s counsel while happily taking action that God himself has prohibited.
(4) The heart of Saul’s sin is what it has been for a long time. He wants a domesticated god, a god like the genie in Aladdin’s lamp, one pledged to do wonderful things for him as long as he holds the lamp. He somehow feels that David now holds the lamp and wishes he could get the power back, but does not perceive that the real God is to be worshiped, reverenced, obeyed, feared, and loved—unconditionally. Here is a man who thinks of himself as at the center of the universe; whatever gods exist must serve him. If the covenant God of Israel does not help him as he wishes, then Saul is prepared to find other gods. This is the black heart of all idolatry.
September 5 - 1 Corinthians 10
First Corinthians 10 includes several passages worthy of prolonged meditation. But today we reflect on a passage which, superficially speaking, is one of the easiest of them.
Paul tells the Corinthians that the things that happened to “our forefathers” (1 Cor. 10:1) that are recorded in Scripture “occurred as examples to keep us from setting our hearts on evil things as they did” (1 Cor. 10:6). After giving some examples, the apostle again says, “These things happened to them as examples and were written down as warnings for us, on whom the fulfillment of the ages has come” (1 Cor. 10:11).
(1) It is important to observe the diversity of purposes the Scriptures have. Elsewhere we learn, for instance, that the Old Testament Scriptures, or parts of them, were given to make sin appear as the awful thing it is, nothing less than trangression; to prepare the way for Christ, not only by prophetic words but also by models, patterns, and “types” that anticipated what Christ would be like; to announce the time when God would take definitive action on behalf of his people; to warn against sin and judgment; and much more. But here, the Bible provides us with examples to keep us from pursuing evil things. That means that although the Old Testament narratives doubtless offer more than “mere” moral lessons, they do not offer less. While we seek out the complex layers of inner-canonical connection, we must not overlook the moral instruction that lies on the very surface of the text.
(2) The gross sins that Paul lists by way of example—idolatry, sexual immorality, “testing” the Lord (i.e., by doubting his goodness or ability, as in Ex. 17:2), and grumbling (10:7–10)—are not unknown among contemporary believers.
(3) According to Paul, God’s intention was that the writing down of these materials in Scripture was so that we should benefit from it—the “we” referring to those “on whom the fulfillment of the ages has come” (1 Cor. 10:11). Doubtless this should not be taken as an exhaustive statement of God’s intention, but it is certainly meant to be a foundational one. Thus from God’s perspective, the Old Testament books were not meant simply for those who read them when they were first written, but for “us” who live at this formidable moment in world history when the first installment of the promises of the ages is being experienced.
(4) Implicitly, it is all the more shocking if we who have received so much instruction and warning from ages past ignore the wealth of privilege that is ours. In our blindness we sometimes marvel at how some Old Testament figures or groups could so quickly abandon the godly heritage and covenant they received. How much worse if we do so!
September 6 - 1 Corinthians 11
Three observations about the Lord’s Supper, from the many that could be drawn from Paul’s treatment of it (1 Cor. 11:17–34):
First, it is a temporary ordinance. It is to be observed only “until he comes” (11:26). In part this is because of its “memorial” function (“do this in remembrance of me,” 1 Cor. 11:24). In the new heaven and the new earth, transformed believers will not need a rite like this one to “remember” Jesus, for he will perpetually be the center of their focus and adoration. Knowing this, each time we participate in the Lord’s Supper we are not only helped to look backward to Jesus’ broken body, but forward to the consummation.
Second, properly observed, the Lord’s Supper is to have a kerygmatic function. The word kerygmatic comes from the verb kerysso, “to proclaim”: Paul says that by this Supper we proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes (11:26)—though he uses a different verb here. Normally the verb used is found in an evangelistic context: we proclaim or announce the Gospel to people still unconverted. If that is what Paul means, then one of the functions of the Lord’s Supper—its kerygmatic function—is evangelism. Certainly I have been in churches where that is the case. Unbelievers are part of the service. They are warned not to partake, but are encouraged to observe and reflect on what they see and hear. Something of the significance of the rite is explained, perhaps its function as witness to Jesus the bread of life who gives his life for the life of the world (John 6:51). The ordinance and the word together proclaim the Lord’s death.
Third, the approach of the Lord’s Supper provides an opportunity for each Christian to examine himself or herself before eating the bread and drinking the cup (11:27–28). Interpreters disagree as to what the failure to recognize the body of the Lord means (11:29). To evaluate the options is not possible in this context. I may simply record my conclusion: Paul warns that “anyone who eats and drinks without recognizing the body of the Lord,” which was offered up on the cross and to which witness is borne in this rite, “eats and drinks judgment on himself.” How could it be otherwise? To say, by participating, “We remember,” and “We proclaim,” while cherishing sin, is to approach this table in an unworthy manner; it is to sin “against the body and blood of the Lord” (11:27). But regardless of whether this particular interpretation is correct, the warning itself must be taken with utmost seriousness. It is not a question of being good enough, for no one is. The only “worthy manner” by which to approach this Supper is contrition and faith.
September 7 - 2 Samuel 1
When David hears of the deaths of Saul and Jonathan (2 Sam. 1), his grief is not merely formal. He could not help but know that the way to the throne was now open to him. Nevertheless, his sorrow is so genuine that he composes a lengthy lament (2 Sam. 1:19–27), sets it to music, and teaches it to the men of his tribe (2 Sam. 1:18) so that it will be sung for a long time as one of the folk ballads of the land.
Many elements of this lament deserve long reflection. Today I shall reflect on just one verse: “Tell it not in Gath, proclaim it not in the streets of Ashkelon, lest the daughters of the Philistines be glad, lest the daughters of the uncircumcised rejoice” (2 Sam. 1:20). Formally, the text is plain enough. Gath and Ashkelon were the two leading Philistine cities. David is saying, in effect, not to let the Philistines know of the deaths of Saul and Jonathan, lest they be glad and rejoice.
Of course, the Philistines could not help but find out, and David, of all people, knew that. But his purpose in penning these words is not literally to keep the Philistines in the dark a little while longer. How could that be? They had already hoisted the body of Saul onto the wall of Beth Shan (1 Sam. 31:10) and sent messengers with the news throughout Philistia (1 Sam. 31:9). But if these lines from David’s pen do not function as literal advice, what is their function?
In part, it is simply a lament. It is a powerful way of saying that the opponents of the Israelites would be delighted with the news, and therefore their pleasure is a measure of the tragedy. But I suspect there is another overtone. When one of our leaders falls, conduct yourself in such a way as not to give strength to the opposition.
That is a lesson that must be learned again and again by the church. When a minister of the Gospel is caught embezzling funds or having an affair, then certainly the biblical principle for discipline must be brought to bear immediately. If the law has been broken, the civil authorities must be contacted. If families have been damaged, there may be a great deal of pastoral work to be done. But understand well that many unbelievers will be gleefully rubbing their hands and saying, “See? What can you expect? All this religious stuff is so hypocritical and phony.” Thus Christ is despised and the credibility of Christian witnesses diminished. Christians must restrain their tongues, watch what they say, and be especially careful about saying anything unnecessary to unbelievers. This is a time for mourning, not gossip. “Tell it not in Gath. . . .”
September 8 - 1 Corinthians 13
Although 1 Corinthians 13 forms part of a sustained argument that runs through chapters 12–14, the passage constitutes such a lovely unit with so many wonderfully evocative lines that it has called forth countless extended treatments. Today I shall reflect a little on the first three verses.
This text does not say that love is everything and that the other things mentioned—speaking in tongues, the gift of prophecy, an ability to fathom mysteries and all knowledge, a faith that can move mountains, self-denying surrender of all possessions for the sake of the poor, and suffering a martyr’s death—are nothing. Rather, it insists that those things are utterly insignificant unless they are accompanied by love. Love does not displace them; its absence renders them pointless and ultimately valueless.
This paragraph is calculated to abase the arrogant. History offers sad examples of people who have become proud of their gift of tongues, of their prophetic gift, even of their philanthropy and self-sacrifice. But it is a contradiction in terms to be proud of one’s love, in any Christian sense of love. Perhaps that is one of the reasons why these other virtues are destroyed if unaccompanied by love.
One of the most striking features of this statement about love is how it rules out of bounds one of the definitions of love that still persists in some Christian circles. They say that Christian love does not belong to the emotional realm, but is nothing other than an unswerving resolve to seek the other’s good. That is why, they say, love can be commanded: one may thoroughly dislike the other person, but if one conscientiously resolves upon his or her good, and acts accordingly, it is still love. Quite frankly, that sort of casuistry is reductionistic rubbish. What has just been dubbed “love” is nothing other than resolute altruism. But in these verses Paul firmly distinguishes between altruism and love: “If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames” (1 Cor. 13:3): here are both altruism and self-sacrifice, but Paul can imagine both without love. So love must be something other than, or more than, mere altruism and self-sacrifice.
It may be difficult to provide a perfect definition for Christian love. But it is not difficult to find its supreme example. Christ’s love for us is not grounded in our loveliness, but in his own character. His love is not merely sentimental, yet it is charged with incalculable affection and warmth. It is resolute in its self-sacrifice, but never merely mechanical self-discipline. If we wish to come to terms with the apostolic depiction of Christian love as “the most excellent way” (1 Cor. 12:31b; see also the meditation for October 11) that all believers must follow, we need only imitate Jesus Christ.
September 9 - 2 Samuel 3
Even after the death of King Saul, David did not immediately become king of Israel. At first David is anointed king over Judah (2 Sam. 2:1–7), and only Judah: even Benjamin, which remained with Judah following the division between “Israel” and “Judah” after the death of Solomon, at this point was allied with the other tribes (2 Sam. 2:9).
Abner, the commander of what was left of Saul’s army, installed Ish-Bosheth, Saul’s surviving son, as king of Israel (2 Sam. 2:8–9). Skirmishes multiplied between David’s troops and those of Ish-Bosheth. Many battles in those days brought the opposing troops together in a fierce clash, followed by a running fight: one side ran away, and the other chased it. In one such clash, one of the three sons of Zeruiah—Asahel, from David’s forces—is killed by Abner (2 Sam. 2:17–23). The killing was “clean,” i.e., within the rules of warfare and not a murder. Nevertheless, this death precipitates some of the most important actions in 2 Samuel 3.
Bringing the different parts of the country together into united allegiance under David was a messy and sometimes ignoble business—a reminder that God sometimes uses the folly and evil of people to bring about his good purposes. Abner sleeps with one of Saul’s former concubines (2 Sam. 3:6–7). This was not only a breach of moral law, but in the symbolism of the time Abner was claiming the right of royalty for himself. It was a major insult and reproach to Ish-Bosheth. Thus Abner’s reasons for taking the eleven tribes over to David seem to have less to do with integrity and a desire to recognize God’s calling than out of frustration with Ish-Bosheth and some lust for power himself. Then Abner is murdered by Joab and his men (2 Sam. 3:22–27), Joab being one of Asahel’s brothers. But this really is murder, and a defiance of David’s safe-conduct.
How David handles this crisis reflects both his great strengths and one of his greatest weaknesses—strengths and weaknesses that will show up again. Politically, David is very astute. He distances himself utterly from Joab’s action, and insists that Joab and other leaders become part of the official mourning party of the slain Abner. “All the people took note and were pleased; indeed, everything the king did pleased them” (2 Sam. 3:36). On the other hand, David does not bring Joab to account, fobbing off his responsibility by protesting that “these sons of Zeruiah are too strong for me” (2 Sam. 3:39). In other words, he shirked his responsibility—as he would do later with his son Amnon (2 Sam. 13), the consequences of which triggered Absalom’s revolt and almost cost David his throne. It is never God’s way to abdicate biblically mandated responsibility.
September 10 - 2 Samuel 4-5
Clearly the writer of 2 Samuel (whose identity we do not know) thinks it important to record the various steps by which David came to rule over all Israel. Canonically, this is important because it is the beginning of the Davidic dynasty that leads directly to “great David’s greater Son” (see the May 17 meditation). Within this framework, I wish to reflect on several features in these two chapters (2 Sam. 4–5).
(1) It is quite stunning to observe how David was prepared to wait for the throne, without taking the kind of action that would have secured it for him more quickly. Not least impressive is his stance toward Ish-Bosheth. Ish-Bosheth’s murderers, Baanah and Recab, who think they will curry favor with the rising star by their vicious assassination (in line with the common standards of the day), learn that David’s commitment to justice ensures their execution. The only slightly sour overtone is the double standard: these murderers pay a just penalty for their crime (2 Sam. 4), while in the preceding chapter the murderer Joab, because of his power, is publicly shamed but does not face the capital sentence.
(2) This book carefully chronicles how “all the tribes of Israel” (2 Sam. 5:1) approach David at Hebron and invite him to become their king. In God’s providence the evil assassination by Baanah and Recab brings about the fulfillment of God’s promise to David.
(3) David’s capture of Jerusalem (2 Sam. 5:6–12) has to be recorded, for this not only becomes David’s capital city but in due course becomes the resting place for the tabernacle. During the reign of his son Solomon it will become the site for the temple. Enormously important theological issues revolve around Jerusalem and the temple. These are taken up in turn by the prophets (before and after the Exile), by Jesus himself, and by the New Testament writers. Reflect, for instance, on John 2:13–22; Galatians 4:21–31; Hebrews 9; 12:22–23; Revelation 21–22.
(4) Above all, when the Israelites invite David to become their king, they say, “And the LORD said to you, ‘You will shepherd my people Israel, and you will become their ruler’” (2 Sam. 5:2). The “shepherd” theme is more comprehensive than the “ruler” theme, and is developed in various ways. At the outset of the Exile, God excoriates the false “shepherds” who are more interested in fleecing the sheep than in securing and nurturing the flock (Ezek. 34)—a phenomenon not unknown today. So God repeatedly promises that he himself will be the shepherd of his people; indeed, he will send forth this servant “David” (three-and-a-half centuries after David’s death!) to be their shepherd (Ezek. 34:23–24; see the meditation for March 20). In the fullness of time, the rightful heir of David’s line declares, “I am the good shepherd” (John 10:11).
September 11 - 2 Samuel 6
David would doubtless make many of us uncomfortable if he lived today. He was such an intense man—exuberant in his pleasures, crushed in his discouragement, powerful in his leadership, unrestrained in his worship.
(1) One occasion that displays much of the man displays no less of God, viz. bringing the ark of the covenant, and presumably the entire tabernacle, up to Jerusalem (2 Sam. 6). David does not send down a few clerics—the designated Levites—and no more. He gathers thirty thousand crack troops and representatives from the whole house of Israel, to say nothing of musicians and choirs.
(2) When Uzzah stretches forth his hand to stabilize the ark because the oxen pulling the cart have stumbled, the “LORD’s anger burned against Uzzah because of his irreverent act; therefore God struck him down and he died there beside the ark of God” (2 Sam. 6:7). That certainly put a damper on the festivities. David is both angry with God (2 Sam. 6:8) and afraid of him (2 Sam. 6:9). For the time being he resolves not to bring the ark of the Lord up to Jerusalem. Certainly there is something in most of us that silently thinks David is right.
Yet all along God has been profoundly concerned to eradicate any hint that he is nothing more than a talisman, a controllable god, some godlet akin to other neighborhood godlets. One of his strongest prohibitions was not to touch the ark, or look inside it. Indeed, on the latter point seventy men of Beth Shemesh had paid with their lives a bare generation earlier (1 Sam. 6:19–20; see the meditation for August 15), when they had ignored the edict. Our text calls Uzzah’s act “irreverent” (2 Sam. 6:7). What made it “irreverent” or “profane” was not that Uzzah was malicious, but that there was no reverent fear before his eyes, no careful distinction between all that God says is holy and what is merely common. The horror of profanity is identical: people say they do not mean anything by it when they take the Lord’s name in vain. That is precisely the point: they do not mean anything by it. God will not be treated that way.
(3) The ark remains with Obed-Edom for three months, and he experiences so much blessing that David becomes interested again (2 Sam. 6:11–12). Blessing and reverence go hand in hand, and David—and we—had better realize it.
(4) Michal turns out to be her father’s daughter: she is more interested in pomp, form, royal robes, and personal dignity than in exuberant worship (2 Sam. 6:16). She despises David precisely because he is so God-centered he cares very little about his persona. People constantly fretting about what others think of them cannot be absorbed by the sheer God-awareness and God-centeredness that characterize all true worship.
September 12 - 2 Samuel 7
After his palace is built, David recognizes that he is living in splendor in comparison with the small and unostentatious tabernacle. He desires to build a temple, a “house” in which to place the ark of the covenant (2 Sam. 7).
Through Nathan the prophet, however, God puts the shoe on the other foot. David wants to build a “house” for God, but God declares that he himself will build a “house” for David. The word house can refer to a building, but it can extend to household and even to a dynasty (e.g., the house of Windsor). David hopes to build a “house” for God in the first sense; God tells David he is building a “house” for him in the third sense. Although David’s son Solomon will build a “house” for God, in the last analysis God himself is the ultimate Giver, and the “house” he proposes to build will prove more enduring.
In this context, then, God makes some remarkable promises to David. “The LORD declares to you that the LORD himself will establish a house for you” (2 Sam. 7:11), God says. To continue David’s line after his death, God adds, “I will raise up your offspring to succeed you, who will come from your own body, and I will establish his kingdom. He is the one who will build a house for my Name, and I will establish the throne of his kingdom forever” (2 Sam. 7:12–13). The referent goes no farther than Solomon. In the storyline of 1 and 2 Samuel, Saul serves as the prime example of a king who reigned and whose throne was not secured, whose “house” was not built. But it will not be so with David. His offspring will reign. When Saul sinned, in due course God rejected him. But when David’s son does wrong, God says, “I will punish him with the rod of men, with floggings inflicted by men. [So this “son” is certainly not Jesus.] But my love will never be taken away from him, as I took it away from Saul” (2 Sam. 7:14–15). So far, then, Solomon occupies the horizon.
But then once again God takes the long view: “Your house and your kingdom will endure forever before me; your throne will be established forever” (2 Sam. 7:16). This either means that there will always be someone on the throne in the line of David, or something more powerful. In the course of time, the prophecies about the coming “David” or “son of David” become freighted with much greater promise. Isaiah foresees someone who “will reign on David’s throne and over his kingdom,” but who is also called “Mighty God” and “Everlasting Father” (Isa. 9:6–7). Here is an heir to David who maintains the Davidic dynasty not by passing it on, but by his own eternal reign.
September 13 - 2 Corinthians 2
It is beyond these brief reflections to provide a history of the difficult visits and painful letters that generated deep emotion in the apostle’s relations with the Corinthians. Relations between Corinth and Paul are apparently improving in the opening chapters of 2 Corinthians, but remain a trifle raw.
In this context Paul devotes quite a bit of attention to explaining the nature of his ministry, whether its grand design or discrete decisions he has made. For example, in 2 Corinthians 1, it is fairly obvious that the Corinthians had charged Paul with being fickle. He had said he would come, and then he had changed plans and not arrived. Paul acknowledges that he had indeed changed plans, but insists this does not indicate fickleness (2 Cor. 1:15–17). In his conduct he tries to imitate God’s steadfast faithfulness (2 Cor. 1:18–22). And then he gives the real reason why he did not show up: he was trying to spare the Corinthians, for he knew that if he had shown up at that point he would have had to take action that would have caused even more distress (2 Cor. 1:23–2:2).
In 2 Corinthians 2, Paul is still unpacking various elements of his ministry. Here we note two.
First, Paul understands his ministry to be akin to a device that distributes the fragrance of the knowledge of God (2 Cor. 2:14). Otherwise put, before God Paul himself is an aroma, “the aroma of Christ among both those who are being saved and those who are perishing” (2 Cor. 2:15). “To the one we are the smell of death; to the other, the fragrance of life” (2 Cor. 2:16). In other words, Paul insists that he does not himself change, depending on his audience. He is the same aroma; he proclaims the same Gospel, the same discipleship, the same Christ, the same way to live. Whether he is perceived to be a sweet fragrance or a foul stench does not depend on some change in him, but on the people who must deal with him. Implicitly, the Corinthians must recognize that some animus against the apostle is the animus of the unregenerate heart. “And who is equal to such a task?” (2 Cor. 2:16).
Second, many Corinthians (as becomes clear later in this letter) thought that teachers should command substantial salaries, and if they didn’t, they weren’t worth much. In that kind of atmosphere, it would be easy to despise even a gifted apostolic teacher who refused your money. But because he was teaching a gospel of grace, Paul evangelized for free. (He accepted support money from elsewhere.) On the long haul, he did not want to gain a reputation for peddling the word of God for profit; rather, he wanted to be known as a man sent from God (2 Cor. 2:17).
September 14 - 2 Corinthians 3
In some ways, Paul finds himself in an embarrassing position. If he fails to answer some of the concerns that the Corinthians entertained about him and his ministry, he could lose them—not lose them personally (that wouldn’t have bothered Paul), but lose their loyalty to him and therefore to the message that he preached. On the other hand, if he goes on at length about himself, at least some of his detractors will say that he is stuck on himself, or that he is insecure, or that a real apostle would not have to defend himself, or something else of the same sort.
Precisely what their charge was, we cannot be sure. That Paul is sensitive to the danger is pretty obvious from several places in the Corinthian correspondence, not least 2 Corinthians 3:1–3. At the end of chapter 2, Paul had insisted that “we [either an editorial ‘we’ or a self-conscious reference to the apostles] speak before God with sincerity, like men sent from God” (2 Cor. 2:17)—not at all like peddlers working for profit. Now he rhetorically asks, “Are we beginning to commend ourselves again?” (2 Cor. 3:1). The “again” is what betrays the fact that Paul has had to face this problem before with the Corinthians. More specifically, he asks, “Or do we need, like some people, letters of recommendation to you or from you?” (2 Cor. 3:1). It sounds as if “some people” have attempted to establish their credentials by bringing letters of introduction with them. They or the Corinthians then become dismissive of Paul because he neither fits into the cultural pattern of proving his credentials by asking for a high fee (chap. 2), nor does he bring along papers—from Jerusalem or some other authoritative center—to establish his bona fides.
But Paul does not reply by defending his apostolic status in terms of the resurrected Christ’s direct revelation to him. (Elsewhere, however, that is exactly what he does, and even in this chapter he insists that his competence is from God himself, 2 Cor. 3:5). Here he wisely adopts a stance that simultaneously points to the peculiar nature of his own ministry, and gently encourages the Corinthians to acknowledge that they are in no place to think differently. What he tells them, in effect, is that their existence as Christians constitutes, for them, adequate credentialing of Paul. Paul preached the Gospel to them. They are his “letter of recommendation”—the result of his ministry (2 Cor. 3:1, 3). And since genuine conversion is the work of the Spirit of God, they, as Paul’s letter of recommendation, should see themselves as having been “written” not with ink but “with the Spirit of the living God,” and not on a papyrus sheet or a stone tablet, but on the human heart (2 Cor. 3:3).
September 15 - 2 Samuel 11
Here is David at his worst (2 Sam. 11). In the flow of the narrative through 1 and 2 Samuel, it is almost as if adversity brought out the best in David, while his chain of recent unbroken military and political successes finds him restless, foolish, and not careful.
The sins are multiple. Besides the obvious transgressions of lust, adultery, and murder, there are deep sins scarcely less grievous. His attempt to cover his guilt by bringing Uriah home fails because Uriah proves to be that most exceptional of men: an idealist—an idealist who sees even his military responsibilities in terms of his covenantal faith (2 Sam. 11:11). And all this from a converted Hittite! Worse, David’s extraordinary manipulation of the military and political levers of power shows that this king has become intoxicated by power. He thinks he can arrange anything; he thinks he has the right to use the state to advance and then cover up his own sin. The name of that game is corruption.
There are other remarkable elements in the narrative.
First, almost nothing is said of Bathsheba, except that she was beautiful, was seduced, and eventually married David. Of course, at one level she was no less guilty than he. But of this the text does not say a word. Elsewhere the Bible can record the exploits of good women (Ruth) and evil women (Jezebel); indeed, toward the end of David’s life Bathsheba herself plays a significant role. Perhaps in part the text does not cast blame on her here because she has been manipulated by a figure far more powerful. More likely the silence signals not relative degrees of blame but primary focus: the account is of David, and ultimately of David’s line.
Second, it is astonishing that David thought he could get away with this. Even politically, too many people had to know what he had done; the story could not be kept quiet. And how could David imagine, even for a moment, that God himself would not know? Was he at this point badly alienated from God? At the very least, this chapter provides a dramatic witness to the blinding effects of sin.
Third, the chapter ends—somberly and powerfully—with the simple sentence, “But the thing David had done displeased the LORD” (2 Sam. 11:27). Doubtless David was quietly congratulating himself for his clever cover-up. He had sinned and gotten away with it. Some of his more servile lackeys may even have congratulated their master. But God knew, and was not pleased. Believers who are walking with their Creator and Redeemer never forget that God sees and knows, and that what pleases him is the only thing that really matters; what displeases him will sooner or later catch up with us.
September 16 - 2 Samuel 12
In Nathan’s dramatic confrontation with King David (2 Sam. 12), the prophet’s courage was mingled with a formidable sagacity. How else could a prophet grab the attention of an autocratic king and denounce his sin to his face, apart from this oblique approach?
Certain features of this chapter must be reflected on.
First, the fundamental difference between David and Saul is now obvious. Both men abused power in high office. What makes them different is the way they respond to a rebuke. When Samuel accused Saul of sin, the latter dissembled; when Jonathan questioned Saul’s policy, a spear was thrown at him. By contrast, although Nathan approaches his subject obliquely, the sin is soon out in the open: “You are the man!” (2 Sam. 12:7). Yet David’s response is radically different: “I have sinned against the LORD” (2 Sam. 12:13).
That, surely, is one of the ultimate tests of the direction of a person’s life. We are a race of sinners. Even good people, people of strong faith, even someone like David—who is “a man after God’s own heart” (cf. 1 Sam. 13:14)—may slip and sin. There is never an excuse for it, but when it happens it should never surprise us. But those who are serious about the knowledge of God will in due course return with genuine contrition. Spurious converts and apostates will string out a plethora of lame excuses, but will not admit personal guilt except in the most superficial ways.
Second, only God can forgive sin. When he does so, sin’s proper punishment, death itself, is not applied (2 Sam. 12:13).
Third, even when sin’s ultimate sanction is not applied, there may be other consequences that cannot be avoided in this fallen and broken world. David now faces three of them: (1) that the child Bathsheba is carrying will die; (2) that throughout his lifetime there will be skirmishing and warfare as he establishes his kingdom; (3) that at some point in his life he will see what it is like to be betrayed: someone from his own household will temporarily seize the throne, exemplified by sleeping with the royal harem (2 Sam. 12:12–13). Each is piquant. The first is bound up with the adultery itself; the second is perhaps a hint that the reason David was tempted in the first place was because he had not gone forth to war along with Joab, but had stayed home (2 Sam. 11:1), clearly longing for peace; and the third treats David to the betrayal that he himself has practiced.
Fourth, David’s response to the most pressing of the judgments is altogether salutary. God is not the equivalent of impersonal Fate. He is a person, and a person may be petitioned and pursued. Despite his massive failure, David is still a man who knows God better than his numerous critics.
September 17 - 2 Samuel 13
The threat to David’s reign predicted by the prophet Nathan begins with a sordid side-tale that nevertheless betrays exactly what is wrong with David’s rule (2 Sam. 13).
The multiplicity of royal wives meant that there were many half brothers and half sisters. This sets up the wretched rape of Tamar. The profiles of the people involved, with the exception of Tamar, betray what today we would label a dysfunctional family. Of course, only two of the brothers, Amnon and Absalom, are seen close up. But David’s handling of them—or better, his utter failure to handle them—is of a piece with the way he had earlier failed to handle Joab (see meditation on September 9).
Amnon is lustful, immature, irresponsible, deceptive, and brutal. One of the most revealing statements about him is what is said immediately after he has raped Tamar: “Then Amnon hated her with intense hatred. In fact, he hated her more than he had loved her” (2 Sam. 13:15). We are dealing with a spoiled child who has become an evil man.
If at this point David had exercised the justice he should have displayed in his role as head of state, the history of the next few years would have been entirely different. He shares the sin of Eli (see 1 Samuel 3 and the August 13 meditation): he sees his sons doing evil, and does nothing to restrain them. If he had required Amnon to face the full force of the law, not only would he have fired a shot across the bows of any other potentially wayward son, he would have proved he cared for what had happened to his daughter, and he would have drawn the horrible bitterness and vengefulness that Tamar’s full brother Absalom now brings to a boil.
At this point Absalom is a tragic figure. He rightly holds Amnon accountable. Unable to find redress in the legal system that his own father has short-circuited, he opts for vengeance, then has to flee his father’s wrath. Doubtless he should not have slain Amnon, but up to this point he is presented as a more attractive and principled character than the man he assassinates. Yet he knows that even David cannot ignore this particular murder, so he flees, leaving his father to look foolish and indecisive.
Relationships between fathers and sons are rarely both rich and straightforward. But the pattern of David’s life, juxtaposed with Eli’s but a few short chapters earlier, illustrates the kinds of disasters that befall families where the father, however loving, indulgent, godly, and heroic he may be, never holds his children to account, never disciplining them when they go astray. David’s failure with Amnon and Absalom was not a first: it was the continuation of a moral and familial failure begun when the boys were in diapers.
September 18 - 2 Samuel 14
What a twisted thing sin is. Its motives and machinations are convoluted and perverse.
At one level the account of 2 Samuel 14 is pretty straightforward. At another, it is full of thought-provoking ironies.
David adopts the worst of all possible courses. At first he cannot simply forgive Absalom, for that would in effect be admitting that he, David himself, should have taken decisive action against Amnon. On the other hand, David cannot bring himself to ban Absalom decisively, so he secretly mourns him. After Joab’s ruse with the “wise woman” (2 Sam. 14:2), he resolves to bring Absalom back. Even here, however, he is indecisive. If he is going to allow Absalom back in the country and the capital, why does he exclude him from seeing David—and thus intrinsically from family gatherings and the like? By the end of the chapter there is a reconciliation. But at what cost? The issues have not been resolved, merely swept under the table. On the other hand, if David is determined to forgive his son, why does he leave him in limbo for a few years? How much does this treatment by his own father foment the rebellion described in the next chapter?
There is no small irony in the fact that the man who convinces David, via this “wise woman,” to bring Absalom back, is the very man whom David should have disciplined years before (see September 9 meditation). If David had disciplined Joab, where would he have been at this point? Probably not manipulating the king’s counselors and petitioners.
On the face of it, Absalom is willing to go to some extraordinary lengths to get an audience with Joab and eventually be restored to the good graces of the king. Burning down a man’s standing grain is a pretty big step (2 Sam. 14:29–32). Yet despite all of his sincere passion to be readmitted to the king’s court and presence, it will not be long before Absalom attempts to usurp the throne (chap. 15). That is the supreme irony. After so much effort, Absalom is finally admitted to David’s presence: “he came in and bowed down with his face to the ground before the king. And the king kissed Absalom” (2 Sam. 14:33). He had gained what he wanted. So what kind of power-hungry resentment is it that mounts the vicious insurrection of the next chapter?
People who have been following the story right along will not only perceive all the proximate causes of the rebellion, the understandable connections among all the personal failures that brought about the terrible conclusion. They will also recall that God himself had predicted, as a matter of judicial punishment on David over the matter of Bathsheba and Uriah, that he would bring calamity on him from someone in his household.