Читать книгу The Hebrew Prophets after the Shoah - Hemchand Gossai - Страница 6

I typically begin my classes with one of several questions/statements in order to set a stage for what my expectations are from my students. Thus, I may ask: “Why do we read?” While I am aware of the distinct possibility that reading might not be a priority for some, I do not teach to what is currently popular and in vogue but what I consider essential and important. Beyond the commonly expected, I am invariably surprised and heartened by some of the responses. I tell my students, paraphrasing a comment that is attributed to C. S. Lewis, that we read so that we know we are not alone. We find ourselves in the narratives of others, and perhaps mysteriously, and even miraculously, their stories become our stories. We laugh, we weep, we wonder. We identify with characters whose worlds are so immediately different from ours, so distant from ours, literally and figuratively, that on the surface one might wonder what could possibly be the connection, and yet we find ourselves connected, and indeed in defining moments we are transformed. We cannot only read books that simply reflect, confirm or underline our particular perspectives, ideologies or truth claims. This sadly is somewhat pervasive when it comes to the Bible and biblical material. “Reading the Bible is not an unmediated meeting of reader with biblical author(s), but is rather like pulling up a chair at a feast that has been underway for some time. However, this image carries another, sobering implication, for not all diners bring nourishing food to the feast.”1 There is a well-established tendency to read sections of the Bible that simply reflect one’s ideology. So for example one is not surprised that for some obedience is the principal guiding principle in which one approaches the Bible; for others taking every word or circumstance literally, is essential and then it becomes very difficult, if not impossible to follow fully every iota of the Bible. So what are the alternatives? Is it to make an arbitrary determination that some parts of the Bible do not apply, and therefore should not be obeyed? Is it to employ a variety of means to justify and uphold one’s ideology? At the very least these are myopic, and have the mark of being simultaneously destructive.

The Hebrew Bible has much that will resonate and inflame at the same time, but the issue is not what should be redacted and discarded, but rather to learn even from those parts for which we have a visceral reaction. So, I advocate a hermeneutic of engagement; a relational approach. Among the many virtues in this approach is the fact that it will expand the angle of our thinking, while allowing us to engage with the rich layers of the text. Reflecting on books and ideas of several writers and activists, each coming from different circumstances, Robert Coles notes that there are three essential questions that form the foundation of their works. How does one live a life? What kind of life? And for what purpose?2 Our lives chronicle moments of violence, pain, oppression and injustice but also freedom, peace, redemption and grace. These questions and the choices are often made in the face of devastating moments, universal and profound in their relevance. What is essential for us in exploring the Hebrew Prophets critically is the idea embedded in these questions, namely that finally we do not live unto ourselves and in a vacuum. Our lives are inextricably tied to each other, and so how we live our lives, the kind of life we live, and the purpose, are all immediately relevant, and interconnected with each other. These questions are not to be forgotten. We must not forget who we are, for in so doing we will not forget the moral calling that we have, and the universe that beckons us. “Maybe we forget because maybe not to forget is more than we can bear; we ourselves . . . take stock morally, spiritually, humanly—we confront the great existential questions that Camus and Sartre and Simone Weil and others have put on us.”3

The world faces something of a challenge with a critical component of the prophets’ message, namely the particular emphasis on individualism in many societies, and the challenge of embracing community that the biblical text invariably emphasizes. When a well-known axiom such as “it takes a village” is used in American political discourse, it is frequently pilloried in some quarters, and at other times cast aside as socialist or some such remark meant to be disparaging and dismissive. Yet, many who hold the very distinct view that individualism is the core of the American worldview also seek to emphasize their rootedness in the biblical tradition. It is, I believe, a challenging chasm to bridge.

According to Israelite understandings, it is not as isolated individuals, but as members of a community that we realize our being . . . The moral soundness of the community, moreover, is mostly clearly manifest in its treatment of its most vulnerable members

. . . Individual responsibility is not ruled out by this sense of solidarity; yet it gains an essentially social meaning. I act not simply for myself, but for the wellbeing of the whole people. I am answerable not simply to myself and my own principles, but to the whole people and its foundational principles.4

Ogletree’s idea regarding the essential tension between the individual and the community is one that strikes at the biblical core. Not only within the political realm does one hear the language of individualism extolled as a principal virtue, but within religious communities, where faith, narrowly construed as individualistic, is viewed as the ideal.

The essence of being human is that one does not seek perfection, that one is sometimes willing to commit sins for the sake of loyalty . . . and that one is prepared in the end to be defeated and broken up by life, which is the inevitable price of fastening’s one’s love upon other human individuals . . . Many people genuinely do not wish to be saints, and it is probable that some who achieve or aspire to sainthood have never felt much temptation to be human beings . . . One must choose between God and Man, and all “radicals” and “progressives,” from the mildest Liberal to the most extreme Anarchist, have in effect chosen Man.5

Some such as Socrates or Jeremiah or Joan of Arc or Gandhi or Mother Theresa or King or Wiesel may be thought of in such regard, but none of whom sought to be a saint; whatever such titles are bestowed on them by others, it is not what they set out to be or do. Neither the saint nor the prophet sets out to be the saint or the prophet.

The incontestable reality is that a person’s faith does not develop in a vacuum without the influence and nurturing of others within the community. Some Christian communities have embraced this idea, and e.g., within the Roman Catholic and Anglican traditions, before one can enter into the ordination process, one must first journey through a discernment process where members of the community engage with the candidate precisely to discern the person’s calling. It is this idea that must be extolled, namely that one functions within the community and in the context of what is in the best welfare of the community.

In the case of communities growing out of biblical tradition, the courage to speak with impartiality at times when popular opinion is being swayed by materialistic individualism, myopic expediency, racism, sexism, economic elitism, or nationalistic self-interest will be fostered by the prophetic tradition . . . and especially by the central reality of the God of compassionate justice.6

On the issue of individualism and community, Ezekiel is frequently cited as the prophet whose words regarding the role of the individual is the fulcrum upon which the shift occurs from communal responsibility to that of the individual.7 This however is an oversimplification of Ezekiel’s message. Even as one reads and interprets this text in the context of the exile, it seems much more evident that in fact Ezekiel not only is not radically shifting the focus from community to individual, but rather he is reorienting the moral responsibility of the community in light of the exilic experience.

Ezekiel 18 suggests that the prophet is not elevating the individual so much as he is seeking to reconstitute moral community in the face of exilic sentiment that they are simply the victims of the sins of a previous generation . . . Ezekiel criticizes the notion of inherited guilt in order to call the present generation of exile to repent, turn, and live (vs. 20–29). It is not to individuals that Ezekiel speaks, but to a generation in exile.8

One might say that in entering the life of another in a meaningful way is one pathway through which we might further discover who we are. It is the reality of an unavoidable interconnectedness. Referring to E. M. Forster’s “only connect” and Martin Buber’s “I–Thou,” Coles underlines the significance of this interconnectedness. “All of this reminds us to trust, finally someone else, and thereby finally some self-respect that is more than one’s own egotism. What good is it to accumulate knowledge, know the theories, know the means of earning a living; know the intricacies of how to work the system, but not be human, how to be kind and loving to ourselves and others?”9 Or as Mandolfo observes, “According to Bakhtin, we are all co-authors of one another’s identities. In other words, the whole story about us cannot be told by us alone . . . Part of the job of authoring others involves listening to them as responsibly as we can, listening and responding fairly.”10 In recent years, our lexicon has included the language and the horrific circumstances surrounding what has been coined “blood diamonds.” Such diamonds with their beauty, and patrons with the natural impulse to buy these beautiful pieces of nature now have to face the reality that the only way these diamonds are possible and available are on the backs and lives of those who have been crushed to produce them. The diamonds are mined for the sake of the insatiable appetite of others for the opulent life, and for those who are willing to sacrifice the lives of others to accumulate such wealth and beauty. Such is the devastating cycle. Less we imagine that this is a moment that does not affect all of us, we are mistaken. In fact, this idea has everything to do with us who look to God as the architect of our existence and God’s ongoing presence that guides us. Ultimately, the issue here is neither about the diamonds nor the wealth accrued. There are rather two things to note. It is about the source of the wealth, and then what one does with the wealth; that is finally at issue. Fretheim has observed, “while wealth as such is apparently not condemned, the wealthy often are, because wealth is so easily, indeed it is almost always gained on the back of the underprivileged and misused once it has been procured.”11

This is a distinction not to be overlooked. There is nothing evil or condemnatory about wealth in and of itself. But the manner in which it is accrued is of deep concern, and a subject of prophetic indignation. The prophets are unequivocal that there is no such thing as accruing wealth singularly by oneself. There are always others who are used to generate wealth for others. One cannot misconstrue the profound straightforwardness of the prophet Micah who says, “Your wealth is full of violence.”12 We know that among others Isaiah was connected with the “powers that be” and perhaps even had access to wealth. So it is not a matter of wealth and access. Indeed it is egregious enough to gain wealth crushing the poor which we know existed in ancient times and throughout history, and has been documented, but, wealth invariably becomes a platform for further accumulation. What transpires is that one lives lavishly at the expense of the other through the other’s “sweat and tears” and perhaps unavoidable and inherited circumstances. It is about the abuse and infidelity of an indelible relationship. For the prophet to be able to make such pronouncements to the people many of whom are his own people, there must be a dramatic transformation. Speaking from a psychological perspective, Kast argues that mood swings might have an important and perhaps positive function. We are accustomed to concluding that mood swings are a bad sign; an even temperament is sought and hoped for. It strikes me that as a metaphor Kast’s idea is precisely what one might seek for the people as they hear the words of the prophet. Even temperament at that point is neither noble nor hoped for. It has to be a radical change of mood as one sees oneself, and one sees the world. It is a mood swing that is not involuntary but voluntary, one that is intentional. As Kast has suggested, a mood swing might very well be an indication that something has gone out of tune and must be changed to put us back in tune again.13

The nature of moral community in its covenantal commitment to justice, righteousness, and shalom has not changed, but its way of being in the world has changed. Its suffering in the midst of the empire is for the sake of the empire and not Israel alone. This is to have profound implications for future generations of the faithful community of God’s people, because the way of national political power for that community was not to be possible.14

Invariably when discussing the issue of what YHWH seeks or what might be YHWH’s perspective in a matter of gravity or substance, there is a call to the prophet. In this regard, for example one hearkens to the 1 Kings 22 narrative.15 When Jehoshaphat inquires of Ahab as to whether God’s imprimatur has been sought in the matter of war, Ahab refers to his four hundred prophets; Jehoshaphat wonders aloud to Ahab as to whether the perspective of any other prophet was sought. This is all by way of saying that when God’s perspective is sought, the prophet is invariably the one who enters the scenario, and is not left to those under the employment or presence of the king. Ahab is not thrilled at the prospect of having Micaiah prophesy, but nonetheless expects nothing but the truth from him. He feels obliged to hear the prophet’s pronouncements despite his disinclination to do so. He knows the truth. Perhaps in contrast to Ahab is Sophocles’s, Creon, King of Thebes, who in his obstinacy is not only responsible for the death of his son and wife, but the public humiliation of Polyneices, in death, and the vengeful and barbaric punishment of Antigone. Yet, when he is faced with Teiresias, the blind prophet, he is forced to see what the prophet tells him. The prophet’s word will be heard, and unlike Ahab, there is a change of heart on the part of Creon, but even here such dramatic transformation is not enough, as the people who mattered most to him die at their own hands; finally they die because of him. As is the case here and in the biblical text, the prophets must have distance from the ruler.

Immediately after the terrorist attack on September 11, 2001, Archbishop Rowan Williams wondered about the tragedy and the response that was sure to come. He insightfully notes, with a generalization that has merit: “the hardest thing in the world is to know how to act so as to make the difference that can be made; to know how and why that differs from the act that only relates or expresses the basic impotence of resentment.”16 Williams’ words following September 11 are apropos here. Because the US has not experienced anything quite like the tragedy and horror that befell us on that day, not only did we not have the language and vocabulary, we did not know how to gather our emotions and how to channel them. We have witnessed war and terror from afar, but now it was at our doorstep. Williams suggests that “there is a particularly difficult challenge here, to do with making terms with our vulnerability and learning hope to live with it in a way that isn’t simply denial, panic, the reinforcement of defences.”17

When spoken or written, my words and ideas are never generated in a vacuum. I am shaped singularly by those who have read, listened, dialogued, reflected, critiqued, debated with me, and who unreservedly have committed themselves such conversations. My sincere thanks to Walter Brueggemann who graciously agreed to write the Foreword to this book. His works have been enormously influential on my scholarship, particularly the manner in which I interpret the biblical text in the context of contemporary society. My heartfelt thanks to my Graduate Assistant Aaron Roberts who not only read the manuscript and made copious notes, but formatted the work and created the indices. Many thanks to K. C. Hanson for his ongoing support and acceptance of this work, and the staff at Wipf & Stock for their attentiveness and professionalism. It is a privilege to work with them.

Most of all thanks to my family for countless moments of grace, bidden and unbidden. So my heartfelt thanks to Annika, Chandra, Clara, David, Joshua, Krista, Maren, Nathan, and Rachel. Known or unknown, they have all left their mark on this work. And my deepest thanks to Viera for her love and unwavering encouragement and support; she has journeyed with me at every turn, and it is to her that I dedicate this book.

1. Callaway, “Exegesis as Banquet,” 221.

2. Coles, Handing One Another, 181.

3. Ibid., 197.

4. Ogletree, Use of the Bible in Christian Ethics, 80.

5. Orwell, “Reflections on Gandhi.”

6. P. D. Hanson, Isaiah 40–66, 216.

7. See Ezekiel 18.

8. Birch, Let Justice Roll Down, 297.

9. Coles, Handing One Another Along, 196.

10. Mandolfo, “Perseverance,” 53.

11. Fretheim, “Interpreting the Prophets,” 104.

12. Mic 6:12.

13. Kast, Joy, Inspiration and Hope, 25–26.

14. Birch, Let Justice Roll Down, 300.

15. 1 Kings 22 will be explored in detail in chapter 7.

16. Williams, Writing in the Dust, 47.

17. Ibid., 57.