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2. THE BIBLICAL ROOTS: THE OLD COVENANT
All plenty which is not my God is poverty to me.
—St. Augustine
Simplicity is deeply rooted in the Old Testament revelation. In it, God revealed both what he is like and how people are to live. The two ideas are inseparable. The more clearly we understand the nature of God, the more clearly we understand how we are to live.
The pressing question today is not, “Is there a God?” but, “What kind of God is there?” Few seriously champion atheism because of its obvious intellectual vulnerability, but many have searching questions about what God is like. Is God cruel or is he good? In short, can God be trusted? Simplicity of heart can flourish only in the fertile soil of trust, and it is the Old Testament’s revelation of the faithfulness and goodness of God that opens the door to that trust.
We also struggle to understand how we are to live. Few of us would buy into the naive notion that the accumulation of bigger and better things will give us joy or purpose. Yet neither are we comfortable with the rigid ascetic who thunders down denunciations on the evil of possessions. We don’t want to be materialists, ever acquiring and ever hoarding. And yet John the Baptist, with his skins and wild honey, doesn’t quite seem the model either. How can we put material things in a proper perspective in a world of dental bills and piano lessons? How do we decide for or against a new microwave oven or a dishwasher? This ancient record of God’s revelation to his people, Israel, provides us with important hints for answering such questions.
It is, of course, a long journey from Kadesh-barnea to London or Chicago in both space and time. The cultural distance might tempt us to wonder if instruction about lifestyle—even divine instruction—given to shepherds and farmers would have any relevance to modern urbanites. What does the law of gleaning have to do with the consumer price index? How can the year of Jubilee possibly relate to the international trade deficit?
The problem is a real one, but thoughtful people realize that though specific legislation often has only parochial application, the principles inherent in that legislation are timeless. In fact, the Old Testament revelation provides us with some of the most profound perceptions of life to be found anywhere. That, of course, does not solve the hermeneutical question of how to understand the perceptions, or the practical question of how to apply the perceptions, but it does save us from temporal snobbishness.
Radical Dependence
The creation story is the starting point for our understanding of simplicity. At center stage is God, who speaks, and at his word the entire universe comes crashing into being. The high point of his creative effort is humanity, whom he made male and female.
The radical dependence of the entire creation upon God is a central teaching of this breathtaking narrative, and certainly the pivotal notion for our understanding of simplicity. We have no independent existence, no self-sustaining ability. All we are and all we possess is derived.
We need to lift high the biblical doctrine of creation today, particularly our own creatureliness. We are not the captains of our souls nor the masters of our fates. We are part of the created order and hence totally dependent. Our posture is not one of arrogant acquisition, but of simple trust. What we have or ever will have comes from his gracious hand.
We are dependent upon God for even our sense of worth as individuals. Our uniqueness and dignity are rooted in our creation in the image of God. Our value is not tied to wealth, status, accomplishments, or position. It is a gift. Obviously, this wonderful truth flies in the face of the modern tendency to define people by what they produce or what they have.
The terrible reality of the fall was nothing more than a repudiation of our dependence upon God. Adam and Eve took to themselves what God had forbidden. They said, in effect, “We will provide for ourselves.” They mistrusted the goodness of God by believing the serpent’s lie that God was holding back from them something good. And when they did, they realized that they were naked. The nakedness in question was not so much a lack of clothes as it was the awful vulnerability which they assumed in repudiating their dependence. Independence always comes at a high price, and especially so when it involves a rejection of the gracious provision of God.
Simplicity means a return to the posture of dependence. Like children, we live in a spirit of trust. What we have we receive as a gift.
Radical Obedience
If the first insight into simplicity that we receive from the Old Testament is radical dependence, the second is radical obedience. Perhaps nowhere is this more graphically seen than when Abraham was called upon to surrender his most priceless treasure—his son Isaac. God spoke; Abraham obeyed. No contingency plans, no skirting around the issue, no ifs ands or buts. Through a long, painful process Abraham’s life had been honed down to one truth—obedience to the voice of Yahweh. This “holy obedience” forms the grid through which the life of simplicity flows.
Radical obedience is possible only when God has our supreme allegiance. The Ten Commandments begin with three staccato warnings against idolatry. Idolatry is, of course, the attempt to erect an allegiance higher than God. “No,” shouts the Decalogue; the one true God must be the heart of our devotion.
Today we need to hear again that God alone is worthy of our worship and obedience. The idolatry of affluence is rampant. Our greed for more dictates so many of our decisions. Notice how the fourth commandment of the Sabbath rest strikes at the heart of this everlasting itch to get ahead. We find it so very hard to rest when, by working, we can get the jump on everyone else. There is no greater need today than the freedom to lay down the heavy burden of getting ahead.
The prohibition against covetousness is the tenth commandment. At the heart of the sin of covetousness is the inner lust to have. Obviously, there is nothing wrong with having things: it is the inordinate desire, the inner compulsion, the undisciplined craving that is condemned. Covetousness is the idolatrous worship of things. But, and here comes the rub, all of us feel that we are in complete control of our desire for things. We would never admit to an ungovernable spirit of covetousness. The problem is that we, like the alcoholic, are unable to recognize the disease once we have been engulfed by it. Only by the help of others are we able to detect the inner spirit that places wealth above God. And we must come to fear the idolatrous state of covetousness, because the moment things have priority, radical obedience becomes impossible.
The Generosity of God
A dominant note in the Old Testament witness is the generosity of God, who freely gives to his children. Repeatedly in the creation story we have the confession that the earth is good. God lavished abundant provision upon the original pair.
God called Abram from Ur of the Chaldeans to be the father of a new nation. With that call was the promise to make Abram’s name great and to prosper him in material ways (Gen. 12:1–7). This pledge was certainly fulfilled, for we are informed that “Abram was very rich in cattle, in silver, and in gold” (Gen. 13:2).
Abraham’s son of promise, Isaac, was likewise showered with material provision: “The LORD blessed him [Isaac], and the man became rich, and gained more and more until he became very wealthy. He had possessions of flocks and herds, and a great household, so that the Philistines envied him” (Gen. 26:12–14). Even Jacob, who received the parental blessing from Isaac through deceit, was indeed blessed. When he sought to return to his homeland, he offered to Esau, his brother, a tribute that only the genuinely wealthy could afford—490 costly animals, including thirty camels with their young (Gen. 32:13–21). Joseph and Job both went through the crucible of obedience, and both were rewarded handsomely in the end. Solomon chose wisdom above wealth, but received both in abundance.
The book of Deuteronomy is peppered throughout with promised blessing, and we do the text a grave injustice if we seek to spiritualize the blessing. It was literal land and flocks with which God said he would bless the people: “He will love you, bless you, and multiply you; he will also bless the fruit of your body and the fruit of your ground, your grain and your wine and your oil, the increase of your cattle and the young of your flock” (Deut. 7:13). Deuteronomy 16:15 is typical of so much in this echoed law code: “God will bless you in all your produce and in all the work of your hands, so that you will be altogether joyful.” Note that the rejoicing is because of the abundant provision from the hand of God.
Even the book of Amos, which lashed out so viciously at the uncompassionate accumulation of wealth, saw a day
when the plowman shall overtake the reaper
and the treader of grapes him who sows the seed;
the mountains shall drip sweet wine,
and all the hills shall flow with it.
I will restore the fortunes of my people Israel…
says the LORD your God. (Amos 9:13–15)
And Malachi flatly declared that, if only the people would open their hearts in obedient giving, God would open the windows of heaven and pour out upon them material blessing beyond what they could possibly contain (Mal. 3:10).
We do need to stress that the promise of material blessing was a conditioned promise. It was no blank check. There was the stipulation, “If you are willing and obedient, you shall eat the good of the land” (Isa. 1:19). That is to say, there was a strong emphasis upon the inward nature of simplicity—holy obedience—that conditioned all the promised provision. And a vital aspect of that obedience was compassionate provision for the poor and needy.
And why shouldn’t the high note of obedience have among its secondary notes the promise of blessing? After all, it would be a strange kind of God who would always repay obedience by withholding the good of the earth. Such did sometimes happen, as the Psalmist testified, but even so he was puzzled by the prosperity the wicked enjoyed while he suffered (Ps. 73). God at times does withhold material blessing for our greater good, but that is the exception to the rule of gracious provision, which is also for our good. It is like God to want to give us good things.
The connection between obedience and blessing is genuinely significant, and the significance is not primarily in the notion of being rewarded for doing what is right. That has its place, but it is a minor place, almost a childish place. The deeper reality in obedience is the kind of spirit it works into us. It is a spirit that crucifies greed and covetousness. It is a spirit of compassion and outreach. It is a spirit of sensitivity and trust. Once this inner disposition has taken over our personality, material blessings cannot hurt us, for they will be used for right purposes. We will recognize material goods to be not for us alone, but for the good of all.
This leads to another important factor in understanding the Old Testament emphasis upon material blessings. Almost without exception the promised provision was for the community rather than the individual. The stress was upon the good of the nation, the tribe, the clan. The idea that one could cut off a piece of the consumer pie and go off and enjoy it in isolation was unthinkable.
Generosity Begets Generosity
God’s great generosity to us sets us free to model that generosity toward others. Because he gave, we are enabled to give.
This celebration of the generosity of God and freedom to give in return is clearly seen in the year of Jubilee (Lev. 25). The Jubilee was a call to a divinely enabled freedom from possessions and an equitable restructuring of social arrangements.
Once every fifty years, on the Day of Atonement, the loud trumpet was to sound, proclaiming “liberty throughout the land to all its inhabitants” (Lev. 25:10). All slaves were to be set free. All debts were to be canceled. All land was to be returned to the original owner.
Inherent in the concept of the Jubilee was a carefree spirit of joyous trust. God could be relied upon to provide what was needed. He had promised, “I will command my blessing upon you” (Lev. 25:21). It was this inner spirit of trust that gave the ability to meet the stipulations of the Jubilee.
There was an important social principle in the Jubilee. If it had been faithfully executed (which it was not), it would have utterly eliminated the age-old problem of the rich becoming richer and the poor becoming poorer. It was, in effect, legislative justice on behalf of the poor—an institutionalized legal mechanism for solving a social and spiritual problem. The vicious cycle of poverty could be broken. Parents who had lost everything and were forced to sell themselves into slavery to survive knew that their children need not be crushed with their economic legacy. They could have a fresh start. Conversely, the wealthy could not forever lord it over those less fortunate. Their advantaged position was not perpetual.
We would do well today to take a thoughtful look at this unique approach to curbing social injustice. We live in a world in which the gulf that separates the haves and the have-nots is widening at a phenomenal rate. It is, of course, the height of simplistic thinking to assume that you can take an ancient and local law and attempt to universalize it and apply it to the complex international scene. But neither is the Jubilee principle totally irrelevant to our day. In fact, it just might give us some important clues into ways we could have a saner, more just world.
Another interesting thing about the Jubilee was the perspective it gave on the land, a perspective that was characteristic of Old Testament thought. The land did not have value in and of itself, but only in terms of the number of crops it would produce until the Jubilee (Lev. 26:16). Land was not used as an investment, as is common today. The point was that the children of Israel did not own the land; they were merely given the use of it. God was the sovereign of the land: “The land shall not be sold in perpetuity, for the land is mine” (Lev. 25:23). As in the case of the treasurer of a company or the housekeeper of a mansion, human authority over the land took the form of supervision. God had so parceled out the land that all the people could benefit from its produce.
This principle of equitable distribution rather than hoarding, and managership rather than ownership, was as revolutionary then as it is now. What would happen if this idea—that the purpose of the land is to serve the needs of humanity rather than provide the means of self-aggrandizement—were to be accepted today? What would that say to our real estate investments? Perhaps such an approach would not meet with general approval, but what if Christians were to believe that the land was for the good of all people alike? Is it possible that this group alone could unleash resources that would amputate starvation from the face of the earth?
We have no historical evidence that the children of the covenant ever implemented the Jubilee. However, that tells us only that they were often a stiff-necked and disobedient people; it provides no light on the rightness or workability or even desirability of such an arrangement. What the Jubilee principle does show us is God’s deep, abiding concern for justice and equity.
The law of the first fruits also illustrates how our generosity flows out of God’s generosity. This law stipulated that the first of the crop to ripen was to be given to God. It was, in effect, an act of trust in the generosity of God. People gave in confidence that they would be able to bring in the rest of the harvest. It was an acted-out confession of God as the gracious Giver of all good things.
Similar to the law of first fruits, the tithe was a concept of joyful celebration. By Jesus’s day this delightful rule had become as twisted and abused as it has in our own day. It is sad to think that tithing, which was intended to express liberation and freedom, has been so often turned into another way to put people into bondage.
The custom of tithing is first mentioned in the Bible in connection with Abraham. Upon his return from a retaliation raid, Abraham joyfully gave Melchizedek a tenth of the spoils and gave 100 percent of the remainder to the king of Sodom. Although the king objected, Abraham insisted, “Lest you should say, ‘I have made Abram rich’” (Gen. 14:17–24). Abraham gave lavishly in celebration of God’s power over his enemies. He was not counting each shekel to ensure his fair share—he wanted to get rid of it all. There was a spirit of joy and freedom connected with the giving.
The Mosaic law maintains this sense of joyful festivity. A full tenth of each Israelite’s income, beyond the first fruits, was to be given away in celebration of the gracious provision of God. The money was used to care for the Levites, the sojourners, and the poor and needy. It was also used to underwrite the expenses of the festivities involved in celebrating God’s generosity:
You shall tithe all the yield of your seed…. And before the LORD your God…you shall eat the tithe of your grain, of your wine, and of your oil, and the firstlings of your herd and flock; that you may learn to fear the LORD your God always[;]…and spend the money for whatever you desire, oxen, or sheep, or wine or strong drink, whatever your appetite craves; and you shall eat there before the LORD your God and rejoice, you and your household. And you shall not forsake the Levite who is within your towns, for he has no portion or inheritance with you. (Deut. 14:22–27)
In effect, this amounted to an all-expenses-paid religious holiday. Tithe money used for a glorious holy party! At the heart of the tithe was a joyous spirit of generosity, worship, celebration.
Nor is that all. In the regulations regarding the tithe we can see God’s special concern for the helpless and the needy, which is always an important ingredient in simplicity. Every third year the tithe money was to be gathered together and used specifically for those who were unable to care for themselves. “At the end of every three years you shall bring forth all the tithe[;]…and the Levite…the sojourner, the fatherless, and the widow…shall come and eat and be filled” (Deut. 14:28–29). In an agrarian society, land was the principal means of support, and so the Levite and the sojourner stood outside the normal means of earning a living. In a patriarchal culture the fatherless and the widow also stood outside the ordinary means of support. Given the makeup of Jewish culture in that period, these four groups of people were the least able to care for themselves. And because of God’s compassionate concern for them, this provision was written into the tithe.
We would do well to consider, given the shape of modern society, whether there are people today that parallel the Levites, the sojourners, the fatherless, and the widows. By the very nature of our culture, are there groups that are left outside the normal means of self-supporting income? If so, do not the rest of us have an obligation to respond to their need?
It should be noted that the New Testament does not make use of either the tithe or the first fruits. Jesus had a great many things to say about our attitude toward possessions, but he mentioned the tithe only twice, in both cases negatively (Luke 18:21; Matt. 23:22). The Apostle Paul had a good deal to say about giving, but any reference to the law of the tithe is conspicuously absent. Neither Jesus nor Paul ever made the tithe the basis for Christian stewardship. The reason for this will be discovered in Chapter 3.
Perhaps the patriarch Abraham should be the paradigm for our understanding of the principle of generosity. Here was a man who was given great wealth. However, it was never a wealth to be hoarded; rather, it was freely shared with the clan. Indeed, Abraham exhibited an unusual posture of relaxed nonchalance toward possessions. When the covetous spirit of Lot brought them into conflict, Abraham literally gave him the pick of the land (Gen. 13:5–12). Freely he received; freely he gave.
The Call for Justice
The call for justice is one of the great themes that echo throughout the Old Covenant. We gain insight into this cry for justice through the Hebrew word mishpat. This was a frequently used word, rich in meaning—a legal term that also carried ethical and religious connotations. Mishpat involved a morality over and above strict legal justice; it included observance of good custom or established practice, especially the practice of an equitable distribution of the land. It was used so constantly in conjunction with the Hebrew word for righteousness that the biblical scholar Volkmar Herntrich believes the two concepts should be viewed as virtually synonymous.1 This is vividly seen in the impassioned plea of Amos, “Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an everflowing stream” (Amos 5:24).
In Deuteronomy we are told that Yahweh “executes justice for the fatherless and the widow, and loves the sojourner, giving him food and clothing” (Deut. 10:18). And again the Psalmist declares, “The LORD works vindication and justice for all who are oppressed” (Ps. 103:6).
This justice involved the wisdom to bring equitable, harmonious relationships between people. Solomon prayed to receive wisdom to govern the people, and God responded, “You have asked for yourself understanding to discern what is right [mishpat]” (1 Kings 3:11).
Political leaders were to exercise this quality of ethical compassion on behalf of all people. Micah accused the rulers of Israel of economic cannibalism for their brutal injustice. They “eat the flesh of my people,” he lamented, and “chop them up like meat in a kettle” (Mic. 3:1–3). Jeremiah was brokenhearted that justice could not be found anywhere in Jerusalem, though a person would search every street ( Jer. 1:5).
There were repeated warnings against the failure to provide justice: “Cursed be he who perverts the justice due to the sojourner, the fatherless, and the widow” (Deut. 27:19).* Great was the blessing promised to those who did exercise justice: “Happy is he…who executes justice for the oppressed; who gives food to the hungry” (Ps. 146:7).
The prophets spared no quarter in denouncing the blatant failure of the people to do justice. The scathing denunciations of Amos are legion. Echoing throughout the book is the charge that God’s people “sell the righteous for silver, and the needy for a pair of shoes” (Amos 2:6). Amos charged that the women “oppress the poor” and “crush the needy” in their lust for an ever higher standard of living (Amos 4:1). The people were so filled with greed that they could hardly wait for the end of the Sabbath so that they could “make the ephah small and shekel great, and deal deceitfully with false balances” (Amos 8:4–6). Bribery was the order of the day, and just judges who spoke the truth were despised (Amos 5:10, 12). Is it any wonder that Amos cried out, “Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an everflowing stream”?
While Amos was lashing out against Israel in the north, Isaiah, in the southern kingdom, lamented, “Everyone loves a bribe and runs after gifts” (Isa. 1:23). Isaiah depicted a courtroom scene in which God was the prosecuting attorney who exposed the unjust practices of the rulers: “What do you mean by crushing my people, by grinding the face of the poor?” (Isa. 3:13–15).
Judah’s oppression had extended all the way to official decrees and law books. Just as God had institutionalized a system of compassionate justice, the rulers had institutionalized a system of hardened injustice: “Woe to those who decree iniquitous decrees, and the writers who keep writing oppression” (Isa. 10:1–2). We are told that God abhorred all of Judah’s pious rituals because they lacked social relevance. The life pleasing to God was found not in a series of religious duties but in obedience. The fast that God desired was for the people to “loose the bonds of wickedness” and to “let the oppressed go free.” God’s words to them were these: “Share your bread with the hungry” and bring the “homeless poor into your house” (Isa. 58:5–7).
Among the prophets there was no more plaintive or heartfelt cry than the voice of Jeremiah. He was called the weeping prophet, and with good reason. How he loved the great city of Jerusalem. He agonized over the sin of her people; he pleaded with them to repent. How brokenhearted he was when his own prophecies of destruction were fulfilled. He was a sad yet faithful figure in desperate times.
Like the others before him, Jeremiah called the people back to the Old Covenant with its stipulation to “do justice and righteousness, and deliver from the hand of the oppressor him who has been robbed”( Jer. 22:3). Repeatedly he called his listeners to plead the “cause of the fatherless” and to “defend the rights of the needy” ( Jer. 5:28, 22:15). But sadly he had to admit, “You have eyes and heart only for your dishonest gain, for shedding innocent blood, and for practicing oppression and violence” ( Jer. 22:17).
The tragedy was that the Exile could have been avoided if the people had turned in repentance to God: “If you truly execute justice one with another…then I will let you dwell in this place, in the land that I gave of old to your fathers forever” ( Jer. 7:5–7). But the Exile did occur, and the tragedy of it echoes through the centuries. Injustice, intertwined with idolatry, forced God to send Israel into captivity.
The Call for Compassion
The theme of compassion weaves its way throughout the Old Testament and can be vividly seen in the theologically rich word hesed. Hesed is so laden with meaning that the translators struggle to find an English equivalent, often rendering it “loving-kindness” or “mercy.” But hesed also carries with it the idea of endurance or faithfulness. It is most frequently used in reference to God’s unwavering compassion for his people. His wonderful hesed is from everlasting to everlasting (Ps. 103:17). It endures forever (Ps. 106:1). It was this quality of limitless mercy which God revealed to Moses when he asked to see God’s glory: “The LORD passed before him, and proclaimed, ‘The LORD, the LORD, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love [hesed] and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love [hesed] for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin’” (Exod. 34:6–7).
However (and here is the great challenge), this covenant love, this durable mercy, which is so central to the character of God, is to be reflected in our lives as well. God declares through Hosea the prophet, “I desire steadfast love [hesed] and not sacrifice, the knowledge of God, rather than burnt offerings” (Hos. 6:6). And the wisdom of Proverbs counsels, “He who pursues righteousness and kindness [hesed] will find life and honor” (Prov. 21:21).
But most amazing of all is the way in which the biblical writers bring together the justice of mishpat and the compassion of hesed. To give people what is due them is one thing; the quality of spirit through which we relate to those people is quite another. Zechariah received this mighty word of the LORD: “Thus says the LORD of hosts, Render true judgments [mishpat], show kindness and mercy [hesed] each to his brother, do not oppress the widow, the fatherless, the sojourner, or the poor; and let none of you devise evil against his brother in your heart” (Zech. 7:9–10). In his call to repentance, Hosea tenderly pleaded with the people, “So you, by the help of God, return, hold fast to love [hesed] and justice [mishpat], and wait continually for your God” (Hos. 12:6). And in what must be considered one of the most insightful summations of our task in all the Old Testament, we have again the outward demand of justice combined with the inward spirit of compassion:
He has showed you, O man, what is good;
and what does the LORD require of you
but to do justice [mishpat], and to love kindness [hesed],
and to walk humbly with your God? (Mic. 6:8)
Compassion and justice blended call us to simplicity of life.
Sprinkled throughout the Old Covenant is what I call its laws of compassion and concern. Perhaps the one most quickly recognized is the law of gleaning (Lev. 19:9–20, 23:22; Deut. 24:19–20). In harvesting, the farmer was to leave some of the crop along the borders and the grain which fell as he worked, so that the poor could gather it: “And when you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap your field to its very border, nor shall you gather the gleanings after your harvest; you shall leave them for the poor and for the stranger: I am the LORD your God” (Lev. 23:22). Likewise, the vineyards and the olive groves were not to be stripped bare so that there could be provision for the needy. The book of Ruth gives a vivid portrayal of the tenderness in this law. Naomi and her daughter-in-law, Ruth, had returned to Israel husbandless and landless and hence helpless, but they were able to gather the gleanings from the field of Boaz (Ruth 2:1ff.).
At the heart of God is compassionate concern for the broken and desperate. By means of the law of gleaning, he placed into the economy of Israel provision for those who, for whatever reason, had become disadvantaged. There seemed to be an almost holy indifference about whether or not the person deserved to be poor; the simple fact that the person was without was sufficient reason to provide for his or her need.
Consider the tenderness in the old laws of giving and taking a pledge. If a neighbor borrowed your oxcart and left his coat in pledge, you had to be sure to give the coat back before sunset, even if he hadn’t finished with the oxcart. Why? Because the night air was cold and the neighbor would need the coat for warmth. If you refused and your neighbor cried out to God in the chilly night, God warned, “I will hear, for I am compassionate” (Exod. 22:26–27). Deuteronomy made this rule especially binding if the pledge had been given by a poor person, since in all likelihood he had no other coat with which to keep warm (Deut. 24:12). A widow’s coat could not be taken as a pledge—she was helpless enough as it was (Deut. 24:17). A millstone could not be taken as a pledge—it was a man’s livelihood (Deut. 24:6). It was forbidden to barge into a neighbor’s house to get a pledge; you were to wait at the front door until he brought it out (Deut. 24:10–11). Graciousness and common courtesy were to penetrate all human relationships, even business dealings.
Note the approach to the giving of loans. Since it was assumed that debtors would be among the poor and vulnerable, the charging of interest on loans was forbidden. It was viewed as an unbrotherly exploitation of another’s misfortune and served only to deepen his dependency (Deut. 23:19).
Wages were to be paid to the poor on the day the work was done, undoubtedly because the money would be needed for supper (Deut. 24:14–15). If you were hungry, you could eat from your neighbor’s vineyard or grainfield, but you were not allowed to put any grapes or grain in a bucket (Deut. 23:24). And on it goes. Tender commands. Wise, empathetic instruction on interpersonal relationships.
This quality of compassion and concern extended even to the animals and the land. We often forget that the Sabbath rest principle included the needs of the livestock: “Six days you shall do your work, but on the seventh day you shall rest; that your ox and your ass may have rest” (Exod. 23:12). The land itself needed “a year of solemn rest” (Lev. 25:5). Every seventh year there was to be no planting and no harvesting, for “the land shall keep a sabbath to the LORD” (Lev. 25:2). Even the soil of the vineyards was not to be overtaxed by planting other crops between the rows (Deut. 22:9). The oxen that trod out the grain were not to be muzzled in order to allow them to eat while they worked (Deut. 25:4). Baby birds could be taken, but the mother bird was to be left to care for remaining eggs and to produce future young (Deut. 22:6–7).
The whole point of this instruction is that our dominion over the earth and the little creatures that creep upon it is to be a compassionate dominion. We are not to rape the earth but to care for it—kindly, lovingly, tenderly.
These old laws, regulations, and moral judgments temper and tender our aggressiveness. As with the mysterious manna from heaven, there is always enough to care for one’s needs, but never any for hoarding. There is a limit to a good thing, and whenever that limit is transgressed, a good thing turns into a bad thing. Our task is to bring things into their God-ordained perspective, and these Old Testament laws give us intriguing hints at what that perspective should be.
The Call for Wholeness
The vision for wholeness and peace, which shines like a beacon of light through the Old Covenant, gives us important insights into Christian simplicity. This theme is wonderfully gathered up in the Hebrew word shalom, a full-bodied concept that resonates with wholeness, unity, balance.2 Gathering in (but much broader than) peace, it means a harmonious, caring community with God at its center as the prime sustainer and most glorious inhabitant. This great vision of shalom begins and ends our Bible. In the creation narrative, God brought order and harmony out of chaos; in the Apocalypse of John, we have the glorious wholeness of a new heaven and a new earth. The messianic child to be born is to be the Prince of Peace (Isa. 9:6). Justice and righteousness and peace are to characterize his unending kingdom (Isa. 9:7). Central to the dream of shalom is the wonderful vision of all nations streaming to the mountain of the temple of God to be taught his ways and to walk in his paths; to beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks (Isa. 2:2–5; Mic. 4:1–4). Shalom even carries the idea of a harmonious unity in the natural order: the cow and the bear become friends, the lion and the lamb lie down together, and a little child leads them (Isa. 11:1–9). We are in harmony with God—faithfulness and loyalty prevail. We are in harmony with our neighbor—justice and mercy abound. We are in harmony with nature—peace and unity reign.
Economically and socially, the vision of shalom is captured in what Bishop John Taylor calls “the theology of enough.” The greed of the rich is tempered by the need of the poor. Justice, harmony, equilibrium prevail. Shalom’s theology means “a dancing kind of inter-relationship, seeking something more free than equality, more generous than equity, the ever-shifting equipoise of a life-system.”3 Excessive extravagance, vaunting ambition, ravaging greed—all are foreign to the complete, contented community of shalom. Under the reign of God’s shalom the poor are no longer oppressed, because covetousness no longer rules.
In a particularly tender scene, Jeremiah lamented the fraud and greed of prophet and priest, saying, “They have healed the wound of my people lightly, saying, ‘Peace, peace,’ when there is no peace” ( Jer. 6:14). In essence, Jeremiah had filed a malpractice suit against the self-styled religious quacks. They had put a Band-Aid over a gaping social wound and said, “Shalom, shalom—all will be well.” But Jeremiah thundered, in effect, “En shalom—all is not well. Justice is spurned, the poor oppressed, the orphan ignored. There is no wholeness or healing here!”
But the healing peace of God will not be spurned forever. Isaiah foresaw a day when the reconciliation between people would be a reality, a day when justice and righteousness would reign, a time when the wholeness of God’s peace would rule and people would “walk in the light of the LORD” (Isa. 2:4–5).
In an especially poignant passage, Scripture brings together the three Hebrew concepts we have studied: justice, compassion, and peace. The Psalmist points to the day when “steadfast love and faithfulness will meet; righteousness and peace will kiss each other” (Ps. 85:10).
What is God’s word for the world in which we live? Does he see justice and righteousness increasing among us? Is he saddened by our lack of compassion? Are there any who embrace his peace as a way of life?
I am not posing these questions only to the world at large. I query us who know Christ as our life. Can God be pleased by the vast and increasing inequities among us? Is he not grieved by our arrogant accumulation, while Christian brothers and sisters elsewhere languish and die? Is it not obligatory upon us to see beyond the nose of our own national interest, so that justice may roll down like waters and righteousness like an everflowing stream? Is there not an obligation upon us to do justice, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with God if we want to live in his wonderful peace?
These are tough questions, I know. But they are questions we must ask if we are to take seriously God’s word to us through the Old Covenant.