The Messenger in the OT Who Shared God's Name Is the Son of God
An easily overlooked part of the creation account—but one that is crucial to understand—is that God is a name-giving Lord. And these names are inextricably linked to existence itself.
The Hebrew verb used for naming is קרא (qārāʾ), which is usually translated “call.” God “called [קרא] the light Day, and the darkness he called [קרא] Night” (1:5). Also, “God called [קרא] the expanse Heaven” (v. 8 ), he “called [קרא] dry land Earth,” and the waters “he called [קרא] Seas” (v. 10).
In Genesis 2, the Lord gives to Adam, his kingly image-bearer on earth, the God-like duty of name-giving. The Lord brought to the man all the animals “to see what he would call [קרא] them. And whatever the man called [קרא] every living creature, that was its name” (v. 19). Later, Adam said that the newly formed creature, who was formed from his side, “shall be called [קרא] Woman” (2:23).
Notice: in each of these examples, creation is followed by naming. The name completes the creation process.
This biblical model reflects other ancient Near Eastern understandings of the intimate connection between Existence and Name. The Jewish scholar, Nahum Sarna, discusses how, in the Babylonian creation account (Enuma Elish), we hear of “the time before names had been given to heaven and earth.” And “an Egyptian text portrays the pre-creation state of the world as the time ‘when no name of anything had yet been named.’” Sarna concludes: “Not to have a name meant nonexistence” (On the Book of Psalms).
So, where are we going with this? In the Bible, names are not just a handy way of being able to identify something; they are enmeshed with identity or essence itself. A name is not just an empty word or label but is virtually identical with that which is named.
The implications of this are manifold, so I will just impress one upon you. If you are familiar with my book The Christ Key, you know that I spend quite a bit of time arguing that the Messenger of the LORD (often translated “angel of the LORD”) in the OT is the Son of God.
Notice what is said about this Messenger in Exodus 23:21, “my name is in him.” This is a shocking and revealing declaration! If God’s name is in this Messenger, then who God is, his existence, his essence, his being, is in this Messenger. The Lord is not saying, “I’ve handed him my name tag.” He’s saying, “Who I am is also in him.”
This is the Hebrew way of saying what the later Greek creeds will call homoousios, that is, “of the same essence.” We confess in the Nicene Creed that Jesus was “begotten, not made, being of one substance [homoousios] with the Father…”
When the Lord says, in Exodus, that he has put his name in his Messenger, he is saying (in Hebrew fashion), that this Messenger is NOT a created angel. No, this Messenger is “of one substance” with Yahweh, bearing his name, filled with his identity, distinguished from but also inseparable from him.
God’s own name, self-bestowed, eternal, expressive of his identity and essence, is shared with the One whom he has sent. In unity with the NT, the OT proclaims the full divinity of the Son of God.
The depth of our friendships has a direct correlation to its cost. The deeper our love, the greater the cost. #CostOfFriendship#DepthOfOurLove https://t.co/XOqQCzhBpD via @JD_Wininger
The Dumpster Sermon
I heard one of the shortest but most memorable sermons not from a pulpit but from beside a dumpster. I had pulled my semi up behind a convenience store to grab a cup of coffee. As I climbed out of the truck, a woman walked up to me. Her face burned a deep brown. Stained jeans and sockless shoes and weary eyes. “Sir,” she said, “I hate to bother you, but can you help me?” Pointing over her shoulder, she said her husband was in the dumpster. They were hungry and he was digging for food. Could I give them anything?
When I came out of the store a few minutes later, she and her husband were standing beside my truck. I handed them the two submarine sandwiches I’d bought inside. The man took them, handed them to his wife, and stretched out his hand. I shook it, feeling the grime and grease of the dumpster on his palm. On his weathered face glowed a gratitude more profound than anything I’ve ever witnessed. “Thank you, sir,” he said, “thank you so much. We don’t have hardly nothing. Just got to town a few nights ago. Been sleeping under the bridge over there. But God, he always seems to send people to help us out. Jesus been good to us that way. He always provides.” And thanking me again, they walked away, out of my life, but never from my memory and gratitude.
A man who had no address, no car, no savings account, who was about to eat out of a trash can—he told me that “Jesus been good to us that way.”
Every time I think of that dumpster sermon, uttered by a homeless prophet, I remind myself that wisdom lurks in the outer places. Rich gratitude among the impoverished and forgotten. Jesus been good to us that way. Yes, he has. And Jesus was good to me in sending that man into my life for a few brief moments. He reminded me that God has friends in low places. In low places profound faith flourishes. And from those low places resounds the voice of God from the lips of his people.
Thank God for pastors, for church leaders, for bestselling Christian authors, for all those in positions of prominence whom Christ uses to proclaim his Good News of salvation for the world. But thank God too for people who have never read a word of Martin Luther or Karl Barth but whose lives are inked through and through with the theology of the cross. They drive tractors, flip burgers, shingle roofs, and, yes, dig through dumpsters.
Each of them embodies the earthiness of theology. The same God born in a barn and laid in a feed trough is swaddled in the ordinaries of their unawesome lives. The same God who had nowhere to lay his head sleeps with them under interstate bridges. The same God who was blackballed by the religious highbrows of his day sits and mourns with those who have been broken by the church. The same God who died between two crooks hangs out with cons and ex-cons today. The same God who let a prostitute weep on his feet and dry them with her hair embraces and kisses believing women today who have been entangled in the sex trade. He is the God of the cross who is found where the world doesn’t seek him—or, all too often, where the church doesn’t expect him to be. Jesus is there for them, for us, for all people. He is a God of surprises, whose ways shock us into expanding our horizons. The laborers in his vineyard may wear suits and ties, boots and jeans, or leather and tats. But they are all his laborers. Or more precisely, his children. God’s family is full of misfits. Always has been, always will be. For our Father’s family is founded on grace, not goodness.
-Adapted from my book, Your God Is Too Glorious (2nd Edition), available at https://t.co/Tc3bvc4WDB or Amazon
Growling over God’s Word—הגה
“This Book of the Law [i.e., Torah] shall not depart from your mouth, but you shall meditate on it day and night, so that you may be careful to do according to all that is written in it.” —Joshua 1:8
The Hebrew verb for meditate is hagah. But don’t conjure up the image of a Buddhist monk sitting in the lotus position chanting “Om.” Picture a lion growling over his prey (Isa. 31:4). Picture a dove cooing or moaning in distress (Isa. 38:14). The prophet Isaiah uses hagah to describe the sounds of both these animals. This is the voice of meditation.
Meditation, in other words, is not all about closing your eyes, saying nothing, and disappearing inside yourself. It is about focusing your eyes on the Bible, saying the words, and disappearing inside Christ. When you meditate, you are a lion crouching over its prey. You are the eater and the Word is your food. Take a bite, chew it, taste it, crunch the verbs, salivate over the nouns. There’s no rush. This is not McDonald’s. Savor the feast. Growl over the words you swallow. Let them echo from the chambers of your body. Let each one have its say. No word is unimportant. Each has a voice. Let them roll off your tongue. What you are eating is what you are saying. God’s Word becomes your word.
O Lord, teach us to delight in your Word, that we may meditate in it day and night.
(From my book, Unveiling Mercy: 365 Daily Devotions Based on Insights from Old Testament Hebrew)
Morning farm chores done, time for my breakfast. Home fries, two sausage links, three over medium eggs. And hot coffee of course. Has me thinking about how much dad would have enjoyed that with me. #FarmFresh#CrossDubya
Which OT book is quoted more in the NT than any other? Psalms.
Which OT verse is quoted more in the NT than any other? Psalm 110:1.
Which OT book did Jesus quote when he was being crucified? Psalms.
Why are the psalms the heart of Scripture? Because, as Martin Franzmann said, "Theology is doxology. Theology must sing." It cannot remain mute words inside a book, but it leaps off the printed page, exits the mouth, and fills the air with a holy sound. In the psalms we sing with Jesus, and Jesus sings with us, in a hymn to the Father through the Spirit, amidst a choir of saints and angels. Here are God's words to us that become our words back to God. The psalms are verbal tears for the suffering, a steady hand to the wavering, a beating heart to the dying.
No other biblical book was on the lips of Jesus as he was about to die. Let them ever be on our lips as well, for they are the songs of heaven on earth.
Divorce
Years ago, when I went through divorce, I did not come out on the other side a better Christian (whatever that means), a better person, or a stronger person. But I did grasp more fully that, in and of myself, I am nothing. I have zilch to offer God. I have nothing of my own to claim, except my faults. I have no strength, no righteousness, no moral pedigree to wow heaven.
In divorce God married me to the cross. I didn’t want it; indeed, I hated it. But upon my shoulders God laid it. The ring of nails. The veil of darkness. The kiss of death. When we are stripped of all the good we think we are and have, we come face to face with the evil within. We fight and wrestle and gasp and die and become nothing.
Then our Lord, who created everything out of nothing, says, “Now I have you exactly where I want you.” The only material that God really works with is nothing. He brings to nothing the things that are (1 Corinthians 1:28) that through this nothing he might show us that our everything is that one who is the source of our life, Christ Jesus, whom God makes our “wisdom and our righteousness and sanctification and redemption,” (1:30).
He opens our eyes to see that we are not dead on a cross alone. We are part of a thorn-crowned Savior who became our everything. We die in him and life returns. We have no hope in ourselves but in him we receive hope of cosmic proportions. Our face, which only a God can love, the Father of love bends down and kisses. He bathes away our filth. He lifts up our downcast eyes. He gives us his own name. We are married to the cross, and there meet the bridegroom of our souls.
Like so many of the hardships in life, it is only in hindsight that we realize the hidden hand of God at work in our deepest woes. He is not making us stronger but is making us dead, that we might truly live in the strength that he provides. He is not making us better people but unveiling how bad we are that we may find in Christ the riches of our Father’s goodness.