Since the beginning of the Pastoral Formation Program in January, I have been teaching a course on the Pentateuch, the first five books of the Hebrew Scriptures (or Old Testament). It’s been a while since I’ve taught in a more formal setting, and for most of the students theological education is a new adventure, too. Add to that the fact that this program is not under the umbrella of an existing university, Bible school or seminary and the result is, particularly in these first weeks, a sort of experimentation with regard to the class schedule, the course contents, the teaching/learning style, as well as the precise level of academic rigor that will be part of the program.
As part of my normal routine, I have the class start out with a more reflective or meditative reading of a portion of the text we’ll be covering in that day’s class. This is, in part, to demonstrate to the class that there are different ways to read the bible, and although the rest of the class time might be dedicated to a more academic or theological reading of the text, that these books can also be read for inspiration, reflection and meditation. For the first several minutes of each class session, we read a passage, discuss the word and images we encountered, and share with one another what might be the message God is addressing to us today, as 21st century Christians living and learning in Dakar, Senegal.
This was all well and good throughout Genesis and Exodus. The call of Abraham, Jacob’s ladder, the climax of the Joseph story, the burning bush, manna in the desert—they all lent themselves so well to the kind of Biblical inspiration I had in mind, with lessons for us today. But suddenly, there we were smack dab in the middle of Leviticus. Shall we seek inspiration in the purifications outlined for various bodily discharges, meditate on the particulars of how long to expel a leper from the community, or maybe reflect deeply on the exhaustive list of priestly vestments in search of God’s message for us here and now?
Finding myself a bit entrapped by the rigors of the model I myself had put in place just a couple weeks earlier, I chose one of the few narrative sections of the book, the “ordination” of Aaron and his sons as priests. Sure, there were still lots of lists of dos and don’ts, lots of details of the required offerings and necessary sacrifices, but at least there was a minimum of a story line, too.
As it turns out, I needn’t have worried—or at least not so much. We read from chapter 9, and reflected a bit on its contents. People talked about the details of this passage, and I was reminded again that the particulars of the sacrifices required are not that far off from what most of the students know from village life in Senegal, even though they still seem so strange to me.
But then I asked for people to share a message they might have caught for today; a takeaway, if you will, the "money quote." Anne-Marie spoke right up. “This may not be the original context,” she said, “but I see verse 6 speaking to me, maybe to us all today.” Then she read that verse out loud: “This is what the LORD has commanded you. Do it, and the glory of the LORD will appear to you.” (I'm translating directly from the French version she was reading.)
She continued, “I think this passage is telling me that if I try to live my life listening for God’s will, and if I discover one way or another what it is that God wants me to do, and if I really do it, then, one way or another, I’ll begin to see God’s glory around me, maybe even in my own life.” And so that was our opening prayer for that Monday morning: that we would come to know what God wants us to do, and that in doing it, we would know and see and experience the glory of God all around us.
Bring on Numbers. I think we can handle it.
Grace and Peace,
Peter
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