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Archive for May, 2009

La interpretación de un texto tan alusivo y escaso de detalles como lo es la palabra contra ‘Ariel’ en Isaías 29.1-8, es notoriamente difícil.

‘Ariel’ en sí no presenta problemas. Es un sustantivo compuesto que significa ‘léon/leonisa de Dios’. Es casi seguro que se refiere a Jerusalén. La tradición sionista/Jerusalemita le da un supremo valor a la urbe, enfoque de su atención. De hecho, el tema de la inviolabilidad de Jerusalén amenaza de vez en cuando con anular de la conciencia, la responsabilidad social y ética de sus líderes.

Aún si la problemática del pasaje no residiera en los mencionados detalles, no es por eso menos prominente. La interpretación se vuelve dificultosa cuando se reflexiona sobre dos puntos: el significado de denominar a Jerusalén bajo el sobrenombre ‘Ariel’ y el destino de la ciudad.

El sobrenombre es a lo mejor un intento irónico. Es decir, en el momento de caer bajo la condenación del profeta, la ciudad se considera a sí misma como una leonisa de Dios, cuando en realidad está muy lejos de cumplir con las connotaciones leoninas. Ella es una ciudad sitiada, amenazada y patética. El sobrenombre enfatiza la promesa perdida en su condición de ciudad escogida por YHVH.

Por otro lado, la dinámica de los oráculos contra las naciones probablemente sigue siendo pertinente en este pasaje. Específicamente, el juicio proclamado cae sobre la ciudad escogida, dejando al final un breve momento para mencionar la sorprendente restauración de la misma. En el caso que tenemos entre manos, este acercamiento nos conduce a implicaciones concretas con respecto a la doble mención de un ‘sueño’ que ocurre en los versos 7 y 8.

Leyendo la mencionada imagen dentro del contexto que augura la restauración de Jerusalén, los ‘soñadores’ no son los residentes de Sión, sino las mismas naciones, son ellas, según esta interpretación, las que sueñan con devorar a Jerusalén. Al despertar de aquella visión nocturna, desvanecida por la luz de la mañana, ellas siguen tan sedientas y hambrientas como el día anterior, su mordaz sentido de destrucción queda insatisfecho.

No así para Sión, quien a pesar de ser una leonisa incapaz de defenderse, es la leonisa de Dios, garante de su esperanza. Si es que se somete a los términos del juicio de Dios y confía en la capacidad inherente de YHVH para crear futuro.

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The proverbs are both too intelligent and too discerning to walk the fast path of easy description. The reader who lingers long over this anthology of accumulated wisdom learns to detect gradations rather than bold lines. Even those proverbs which appear at first sight to traffic in simple bifurcations of human character and deportment prove, upon further inspection, to do no such thing. Rather, they find their wisdom-giving context when placed alongside dicta that seem to prove their opposite. It is in the dialectical jumble and in the context of human minds careful enough not to name themselves among the wise that true discernment takes its low-profile shape.

Sometimes a single proverb will run this risk of simple bifurcation. Yet it dodges the lethal simplification that makes truisms of such declarations rather then employing them as the potent diagnostic tools they actually long to become in human hands. It is to be expected that the dialectic between human intention and the divine arrangement of things should be a proving ground for this kind of nuanced understanding:

The human mind plans the way,
but the LORD directs the steps.

A kind of seasoned ear hears this dictum best in its more ancient English style:

A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the LORD directeth his steps.

The interpretive key here is the word rendered ‘but’. The Hebrew conjunction ‘vav’ (sometimes ‘waw’) allows the reader wide discretion in detecting or constructing its meaning. ‘But’ is an adversative. It sets one statement against another. The English translators have done well in choosing the word to render the Hebrew conjunction. (more…)

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La retórica de la segunda mitad de Isaías revela una actitud quejosa de parte de Israel/Judá/Jerusalén, insinuándose como víctima de las circunstancias y los hechos de YHVH. Por el contrario, la voz profética insiste en que Judá debe afrontar la responsabilidad de su situación y realizar un arduo esfuerzo para esperar en el futuro de YHVH. Futuro al cual Judá tendrá acceso solo por medio de la sumisión al consejo de YHVH.

Esta actitud es manifiesta en Isaías 50 ante el supuesto divorcio que Israel/Judá ha sufrido a manos de su esposo, YHVH.

Así dice el SEÑOR:

¿A la madre de ustedes, la he repudiado?
¿Dónde está el acta de divorcio?
¿A cuál de mis acreedores los he vendido?
Por causa de sus iniquidades,
fueron ustedes vendidos;
por las transgresiones de ustedes
fue despedida su madre.
¿Por qué no había nadie cuando vine?
¿Por qué nadie respondió cuando llamé?
¿Tan corta es mi mano que no puede rescatar?
¿Me falta acaso fuerza para liberarlos?

El profeta toma el argumento de los aparentemente ofendidos y se lo aplica a ellos mismos. Según él, YHVH es en realidad el ofendido. Él no es el responsable principal del supuesto divorcio que Israel/Judá ha sufrido, sino ellos. Sus propios hechos han producido esta separación.

YHVH bien pudo haber resuelto la crisis. Es más, él se hizo presente particularmente para realizar este propósito. Pero nadie respondió a su ofrecimiento.

El pueblo dudó de la buena voluntad y/o de la capacidad de YHVH. El distanciamiento que para siempre marcó la vida del pueblo es producto de esa permanente duda.

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Isaías 25.1-5 se constituye en una oda de celebración ante la victoria sobre los ‘tiranos’ y los ‘crueles’ de la tierra que YHVH lleva a cabo en defensa de los pobres e indefensos. La tradición isaíanica está convencida de lo que se podría titular ‘la ética del Éxodo’. Es decir, YHVH no es imparcial ante la tormenta que los vulnerables sufren cuando el poder se concentra en manos de unos pocos poderosos.

El agradecimiento que motiva este paisaje es patente en los versos 4 y 5:

Porque tú has sido,
en su angustia,
un baluarte para el desvalido,
un refugio para el necesitado,
un resguardo contra la tormenta,
una sombra contra el calor.
En cambio, el aliento de los crueles
es como una tormenta contra un muro,
como el calor en el desierto.
Tú aplacas el tumulto de los extranjeros,
como se aplaca el calor bajo la sombra de una nube,
y ahogas la alharaca de los tiranos.

Un libro tan realista como Isaías asume la triste realidad que los que viven sin poder van a sufrir en manos de los que lo poseen. El elemento positivo de su mensaje no consiste en que YHVH no permita que esto suceda, al contrario, la injusticia es una realidad.

La tradición que el profeta Isaías promueve insiste en que YHVH considera semejante injusticia como motivo de guerra y que en consecuencia, él sale a pelear a favor de los que en un momento dado se convertirán en sus rescatados, sus redimidos, sus agradecidos.

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One might imagine that knowing Jesus were a matter of mastering certain details. His antecedents, his persona, his intentions, his purpose.

Contrary to subjectivity’s noisy heralds—for they are legion—these matters are indeed essential to knowing him, to knowing anyone. The elevation of ‘relationship’ and ‘experience’ as self-evident and absolute priorities is, one hopes, a passing fad. Yet it will cause heavy casualties before its demise. One must know some facts if one is to truly know a person. This once did not require statement and we’ll get there again or civilization will have passed us by entirely.

Yet John’s gospel reminds us of the relational, moral character of knowing Jesus. Revelation, though it bears myriad and critical facts, is not an abstract process. It occurs as Jesus and his followers relate responsibly and—in our case—obediently to each other. (more…)

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The prevailing emotion that threatens my ambiguous relationship with equanimity as I read Malcolm Webber’s ‘Church-Integrated Leader Development’ is grief. I put things in just this way because there are other sentiments in play. An injured sense of justice, for example, and here and there a dollop of anger.

Yet grief is definitely the thing. I feel that sense of loss that comes when things might have turned out rather more profitably than they have, when well-intentioned human beings forfeit what might have been theirs, when complex but not insurmountable matters are sacrificed on the altar of simplicity and short-term rhetorical gain.

Mr. Webber means well. In fact, he wants precisely what I want. This is why I feel grief’s prick rather than the damp but otherwise forgettable discomfort of indifference. (more…)

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The density of the biblical proverbs allows the mistaken impression that the editor of these sayings is playing purposelessly with syllables. A quick read breezes by what it mistakes for truism when in fact a patient loitering around the saying is capable of uncovering a deeper truth.

Proverbs 15.13 is a case in point:

A glad heart makes a cheerful countenance,
but by sorrow of heart the spirit is broken.

One might suppose that a would-be poet with a penchant for lining up nice-sounding words has painted gold leaf around the mundane. ‘Happy = happy, sad = sad’ might be all this saying has to offer. Ornament trumps substance. There is, by this reading, very little here.

But the proverbialist is more intelligent than this and has accrued the right to be heard with more respect. What he is getting at is the deep inevitability of what one might call personal osmosis. What is on the inside will eventually find its way out. A man or a woman can keep up the charade of happiness only so long when the rot of sorrow is in the bones.

The proverb observes the priority of what a different era might call the life of the soul. If the soulful essence of a man trembles with joy, the face will show it, perhaps in the moment but necessarily over the long haul. By contrast, what the proverb describes as the spirit—here something like the observable genius of a particular human being—will eventually show the cracks, fissures, and seismic separations that occur when the heart, deep down, is stricken by sorrow.

The collector of biblical proverbs knows that a human being is an integral unit. One can play at contradiction, one can enact a theater of the self by which masks are changed as often as circumstances require. Yet eventually, incessantly, irrevocably, the true state of a woman finds its way to the face, where discerning onlookers note the fleeting shadow that casts itself across the eyes when the heart, deep below, is sick.

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Chipmunks are the garbage fish of suburban backyards. They are the bottom-feeding carp to, say, the smallmouth bass that is the inventive squirrel or the rainbow trout whose role is filled by the Northern Cardinal. A fallen Blue Jay may merit a sigh as we carry his defunct body tenderly to the garbage can. But nobody mourns a fallen chipmunk.

This common rodent expires unmourned while creating only slightly greater cosmic ripples than a squashed mosquito.

Until today. On this cool, blue-skied Spring afternoon in Indianapolis, crippled Sammy chased chipmunks as they darted among the logs of our wood-pile. Actually, he didn’t so much chase them in space and time as he intended to chase them with all his canine soul.

Rosie, his older Rhodesian Ridgeback sister, started the ball rolling, bending her muscular agility to the never-successful task of tracking the little rodents with her customary acrobatics. Sammy, barely up from the edges of the grave that threatened to devour him just days ago, lurched over on his three functioning legs to the scene of the unfolding drama.

Blindness and a 75%-rate of working limbs was not to deter this stalwart lad from making his futile stab at rodent mayhem. In some rough-and-ready choreography with Ridgeback sister Rosie, the Samsters stumbled this way and that, hinting at aggressive exertions in the direction of chipmunk prey even if his mind was much more the actor than his now-crippled body.

This boy has spirit. Custodians of the ground squirrel population of the American Midwest need not fret. Sammy will not soon be despoiling chipmunk families.

But, boy, would he like to! And that, for today, is enough.

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In the light of the myriad ethical issues that preoccupy the biblical anthology, it is most remarkable that its powers of observation and instruction are so often drawn to that little organ we call the tongue. Biblical ethics in diverse garb agree that this little muscle possesses the powers of both life and death.

It is perhaps not surprising that the theme should be drawn into the orbit of another recurring image, that of the tree of life.

The tongue that brings healing is a tree of life,
but a deceitful tongue crushes the spirit.

The tree of life is patient of multiple understandings. One that ought not be lost in the shuffle corresponds to what grammarians call an objective genitive. That is, the subject (in this case, the tree) produces the item that clings to it in a grammatically genitive construction. Life, here, is the tree’s object. The tree produces the conditions which in turn create life in a recurring fashion.

One lives and lives well when such a tree graces the square of one’s community, for its leaves, its fruit, its sheer persistent productivity see to the nourishment of the people who live in its shade. (more…)

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Two experienced veterinarians in a room at our beloved Michigan Road Animal Hospital expressed astonishment at the dog Johnny and I brought in to see them this evening. Dr. Fletcher, looked twice toward the heavens, in gratitude. ‘Es casi milagrosa‘—’it’s almost miraculous’—she says to me. Language, loss, and renewed hope each bond people.

Dr K, who saw Sammy last Friday in his extremity, rises to the occasion. Sammy’s left front leg is useless but he has learned to lurch around without its help. Regaining his canine emotional balance, he even made some pathetic but joy-worthy attempts to snap at his sister Rosie as she ran laps around him this afternoon.

The boy is fighting back.

He’s going to make it.

Sammy is not out of the woods. Yet he is proving before our watching eyes what loving care and a dog’s refusal to give in can do against calamity’s claims.

Sammy wants to play. Good grief, he wants to play.

He cannot, of course. His legs will not carry him to it. Yet he wants to play. Something tells me he will have his way.

There is joy in Mudville this evening. The fat lady is swallowing hard, trembling with stage fright, suddenly, undeniably unsure of her task.

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