What did Jesus teach? Recent, and highly publicized, arguments among scholars (and some who just parade themselves as such) concerning this question have left many with the impression that there is no scholarly consensus on this issue. Jesus was a peasant revolutionary. No, he was an urbane wise man, something like an Eastern sage—no, more like a Greek skeptic. It’s all in the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Vatican is trying to keep it quiet: Jesus didn’t actually die on the cross; he managed to escape, marry Mary Magdalene, and move to southern France (as who would not if he could?). Well, actually, we know almost nothing about him, because nearly all the sayings attributed to him were invented by his followers after his death.5
Amidst this cacophony of competing theories, the press tends to give the most attention to the loudest voices and the most sensational hypotheses. So it may come as a surprise to the common reader that there is a broad scholarly consensus about what Jesus taught (as there has been now for nearly half a century), even though inventive new theories do keep popping up, a tribute (as much as anything else) to the intense, metahistorical interest that Jesus continues to generate after two thousand years. Certainly, it would be hard to imagine such a plethora of theories sprouting around the life of any other ancient historical figure, even one as important as, say, Julius Caesar.
But before investigating what Jesus taught, let’s step back a bit and take a look at the origins of Mark’s Gospel, as well as at Matthew’s, since these are the gospels that bear the closest resemblance to each other. According to a tradition established by the second century, Matthew, a tax collector (employed by the Romans to dun his own people) who left his profession to follow Jesus as the fishermen had done, wrote the first gospel “in the Hebrew tongue”—probably the same Aramaic that Jesus and all Judea spoke as their daily language. But we have lost this Aramaic Matthew,6 and what we have bears evidence of having been lifted from Mark and mixed with another source, which, because Matthew’s Gospel contains many more of Jesus’s words than does Mark’s, must have been a collection of the sayings of Jesus. This collection, now also lost, may well be the original Aramaic Matthew. Since scholars can no longer consult it, they have given to this putative source the name “Q” (short for German Quelle, or “source,” as modern biblical scholarship got under way among German scholars). Matthew’s Gospel, at least as we have it, could not have been written directly by Matthew, the Jewish tax collector who abandoned his careful ledgers to follow Jesus. It was written rather by someone who had a Greek-speaking audience in mind (and, therefore, one outside Palestine), an audience that included at least some gentiles, who needed explanations of Jewish customs that would need no explaining to Jews. But this does not mean that this gospel has no connection to Jesus’s truant tax collector. Its origins, especially its meticulous preserving of Jesus’s sayings and discourses, may well lie with such an eyewitness.
Mark is traditionally remembered as an “interpreter” for Simon Peter, an Aramaic-speaking fisherman and Jesus’s first follower, who would certainly have required interpretation when he arrived, as we know he did in later life, in Greek-speaking cities, such as Antioch, and Latin-speaking cities, such as Rome, where he was crucified in the seventh decade of the first century by Augustus’s notorious successor, Nero, as part of an evening’s entertainment. If Mark was Simon’s amanuensis and this is his gospel, it is unlikely that he could have written it before Simon Peter’s death, for in such a case it would almost certainly have borne the fisherman’s name. As with Matthew, close analysis of the text reveals that this gospel came into existence over time—starting from oral testimony, advancing to written drafts and then to its final form—a process that cannot now be reconstructed exactly. But there is no compelling reason to doubt that at the beginning of the process stands the apostle7 Simon Peter, just as the apostle Matthew may stand as the ultimate source of the gospel that bears his name.
Matthew’s account is considerably more developed than Mark’s—which makes sense if the origin of Matthew’s Gospel lies with a fairly sophisticated Roman official, used to keeping accounts and comfortable in passing from one culture to another, while the origin of Mark’s Gospel, written in all likelihood after 63 but before 70, lies with a fisherman. Matthew’s Gospel, as we have it, must have been written after Mark’s—probably in the 70s or early 80s—which suggests that both gospels, dependent ultimately on eyewitness (and earwitness) accounts, were committed to the written page within a few decades of Jesus’s death. And though Jesus certainly speaks in Mark, it is Matthew to whom we must look for an elaboration of Jesus’s teaching.
Jesus, attracting crowds to himself by his authoritative explications of the scriptures and his unusual power to heal those who suffer, sees a large multitude headed his way. He trudges up a mountainside and addresses the crowded valley (which must have had very good acoustics) thus:
Happy the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.
Happy the afflicted, for they will be comforted.
Happy the undemanding, for they will inherit the earth.
Happy the hungerers and thirsters for justice, for they will be filled.
Happy the merciful, for they will be given mercy.
Happy the pure in heart, for they will see God.
Happy the peacemakers, for they will be called God’s children.
Happy the persecuted for justice’s sake, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.
Happy are you when they abuse and persecute you and tell all evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad for your reward is great in heaven: so did they treat the prophets before you.
Well, with one or two possible exceptions, this doesn’t seem a happy lot. What’s happy about the poor (“in spirit” or otherwise), the afflicted, and the persecuted? Empty stomachs that hunger and dry throats that thirst don’t sound so happy; peacemakers usually get their comeuppance; and is anyone more persecuted than “the pure in heart”? “Happy the unhappy,” we might say in summary. But these are the Beatitudes, as central to Jesus’s teaching as the Lord’s Prayer will be and—for Matthew, at least—Jesus’s basic program.
Once again, we see the apocalyptic imagination at work, concentrating on a future of rewards beyond earthly time, but—as is becoming part of Jesus’s signature approach—not bothering to mention the destruction of the wicked persecutors or to emphasize some coming conflagration. Some of the “happy” ones are clearly miserable for the moment—the afflicted (or, in another translation, “those in mourning”), the undemanding (“the meek” being the usual translation), the pure, and the persecuted—all of whom are persecuted in one way or another and appear to have had their way of life thrust upon them. Others—the poor in spirit, the champions of justice for the downtrodden, the merciful, the peacemakers—seem to have chosen their way. The division points to Jesus’s two audiences: the powerless, who need to be reminded that God loves them and will see to their ultimate triumph, and the powerful, who need to be goaded by the example of those who have abandoned their comfort for the sake of others. The purpose of the Gospel is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.
There courses through the Beatitudes the strong current of Jewish ethics, that countercultural tendency so opposed to the majority societies of the ancient world. Like the prophets before him, Jesus wants justice. Even if he does not harangue as they did, there can be no doubt of his profound commitment to their ideals. As Amos had warned the people of Israel, they were all about to be destroyed because they ignored the poor; as Micah told Judah, the only things necessary to avoid the coming catastrophe were to “do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.” Jesus does not speak of destruction or enslavement. Instead of lashing out with threats, he holds up an ideal—or rather ideals, which are all humbly concrete: become one with the poor, defend their undefended interests, be sympathetic and forgiving toward others, make peace wherever you can. If you do these things, you will be happy. Indeed, these are the only ways to happiness. P
ower is an illusion and its exercise an excuse for cruelty. It is the misuse of power that is responsible for poverty, oppression, injustice, war, and torture. Not exactly inspiration for Alexander, Augustus, or their admiring biographers.
Jesus does not mention Alexander or Augustus. His references to oppression, war, torture, and the poverty created by military conquest are indirect. But within a world that worshiped the emperor and his sword (not to speak of his armies of soldiers and bureaucrats), this bold challenge to the existing mindset was unmistakable and arresting. People stopped and listened. Matthew tells us that news of this new preacher spread all over the province of Syria, and, besides the small band of companions he had already attracted, “large crowds followed him, coming from Galilee, the Decapolis, Jerusalem, Judea, and Transjordan.”
The discourse at the beginning of which Matthew sets the Beatitudes is always called the “Sermon on the Mount,” but we know that the author (or, better, the final editor) of this gospel is not recounting here a single event but has arranged much of the material he found in Q into a digest of Jesus’s essential message. Having enunciated his basic program, Jesus is now depicted by Matthew as going on to provide a commentary on the Torah, the Law (or, better, Way of Life) of the Jewish people as outlined for them in their most sacred texts, the Five Books of Moses. This commentary is so important within Matthew’s framework that it is worth quoting in its entirety:
Do not imagine that I have come to abolish the Torah or the Prophets: I have come not to abolish but to complete. I tell you solemnly: till heaven and earth disappear, not one jot or tittle will disappear from the Torah—not till everything has come to be. So whoever breaks even one of the least of these commandments and teaches other human beings to do likewise will be called least in the Kingdom of Heaven; but whoever keeps them and teaches them will be called great in the Kingdom of Heaven. (For I tell you: unless you do more justice than the scribes and Pharisees, you will never make it into the Kingdom of Heaven.)
You have heard that it was said to our People long ago: Thou shalt not kill;8 and whoever does must face judgment. But I say to you: Whoever is angry with a brother must face judgment; whoever calls a brother “raqa” [Aramaic for “moron”] must answer to the Sanhedrin [the Jewish high court]; whoever calls him “traitor” is in danger of the fire of Gehenna.9 Let’s say that you are bringing your offering to the altar and remember that your brother holds something against you: leave your offering before the altar and go first to reconcile yourself with your brother; then return and make your offering. [Similarly,] come to terms with your accuser before you reach the court, lest he hand you over to the judge, and the judge to the warden, and you be thrown into prison. Solemnly I tell you: you will not get out till you have paid the last penny.
You have heard that it was said: Thou shalt not commit adultery. But I say to you: Whoever looks on a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart. If your right eye is your downfall, tear it out and throw it away; better you should lose one of your members than that your whole body perish in Gehenna. And if your right hand is your downfall, cut it off and throw it away; better to lose one of your members than that your whole body go down to Gehenna.
And it has been said: Whoever divorces his wife must give her a writ of dismissal. But I say to you: Whoever divorces his wife, unless the marriage is already spoiled,10 makes her an adulterer; and whoever marries a divorced woman commits adultery.
Again, you have heard that it was said to our People long ago: Thou shalt not swear falsely, but keep the oaths that you have made to the Lord. But I say to you: Do not swear at all, either by heaven, since that is God’s throne, or by earth, since that is his footstool, or by Jerusalem, since that is the City of the Great King. Do not swear by your own head either, since you cannot turn a single hair white or black. Say “yes” when you mean “yes,” and “no” when you mean “no.” Anything more than this comes from the Evil One.
You have heard that it was said: Eye for eye and tooth for tooth. But I say to you: Do not resist the evildoer. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other to him; if someone sues you for your shirt, give him your coat as well; if someone makes you go one mile, go with him an extra mile. Give to everyone who asks; and from anyone who wants to borrow from you do not turn away.
You have heard that it was said: Love your neighbor and hate your enemy. But I say to you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in Heaven—for he makes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends his rain to fall on the just and the unjust. For if you love those who love you, what reward can you expect? Don’t even the tax collectors do as much? And if you save your greeting for your brother, what are you doing that’s so wonderful? Don’t even the gentiles do as much? You must, therefore, include everyone, just as your heavenly Father includes everyone.
It is one thing to tell people that they may not murder one another without losing their own lives; but it is quite another to say that we may not even dress someone down or make fun of him or exclude him from our midst—or hellfire may be the consequence! What would happen if men could not divorce their wives? (Among the Jews, a man could obtain a get, or “writ of dismissal,” for as trivial a reason as bad cooking. But there were no grounds under which a woman could obtain a get against her husband—and it is the sexual injustice of such procedures that Jesus is principally objecting to.) And don’t look on a woman with lust? Earth to Jesus: Hello! (Of course, what Jesus is objecting to here is not spontaneous arousal but sexual oppression—the ease with which any man of the ancient world, especially a well-connected one, could arrange to satisfy himself on any woman he wished, her wishes in the matter being beside the point.) In a world where Alexander the Great was the supreme icon, ideas like “turn the other cheek” and “love your enemies” must have struck many as positively hilarious. Certainly, in the atmosphere of first-century Judea, where the brutal examples of the Seleucids, the Caesars, and the Hasmoneans held the cultural spotlight, this advice would have sounded even more unrealistic than it does to us.
There is no question that Jesus is using metaphor and exaggeration to make his points. Judgment by the Sanhedrin, being thrown into jail, exile to Gehenna are metaphors. He is not really urging that you should slice off your testicles to stop unwanted erections (though in the third century, poor, humorless Origen, taking this passage literally, will do great damage to himself). I do not mean to make Jesus the first stand-up Jewish comedian; but to get the tone here, one must hear the irony (and something close to self-mockery) in Jesus’s voice—he knows perfectly well that he’s asking the impossible—and one must see the great crowd, buzzing with confusion, and observe the light dawning in some faces as they come to realize what he is really talking about.
It is precisely the entitlement of the powerful and the disfranchisement of the powerless that make life so unlivable. And whether this enshrined and permanent injustice, taken for granted by all, issues in war, torture, and all the grand oppressions to which the Beatitudes allude or just in the petty tortures that we visit on one another—the casual oppression of women by men, the interior wounds caused by quotidian mean-spiritedness, exclusiveness, and theatrical mendacity—spirit is crushed and ordinary life is made a torment.
Whereas Mark’s Jesus speaks in blunt staccato phrases (“The Time has come”)—not unlike a certain inspired fisherman—Matthew’s subtle, balanced Jesus exhibits mastery of intellectual discourse, an attention to detail that verges on the legalistic, and a profound reverence for the godliness of Jewish tradition, all of which are likely to have been heightened by the mind and memories of Matthew, the well-schooled Jewish tax collector and Roman employee. However that may be, each portrait of Jesus has been given its peculiar style by the hand, personality, and life experiences of the artist who stands behind the portrait. And yet, both portraits are patently of the same Jesus, who preaches prophetic justice—that unique, infle
xible ethic of Jewish religious tradition which insists that the poor, the downtrodden, and the marginalized be taken care of—but graciously encloses his words in a gentleness that was hardly the hallmark of the old Hebrew prophets. This is Jewish justice, all right, but justice tempered by an affectionate mercy.
JESUS KEEPS TWO AUDIENCES clearly in view: the poor and miserable; and those who, because they are neither poor nor miserable, have a religious obligation to stand in solidarity with those at the bottom of the sociopsychological heap. For those at the bottom, their only “obligation” (if that is not too strong a word) is to trust in God’s mercy. But the obligation of those on top is to exhibit God’s mercy toward those who have nothing. Mark, Matthew, and Luke all recount the story of the young man who runs up and kneels before Jesus, pleading:
“Good rabbi, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
Jesus replied, “Why call me good? No one is good but God alone. You know the Commandments: Thou shalt not kill; thou shalt not commit adultery; thou shalt not steal; thou shalt not bear false witness; thou shalt not defraud; honor thy father and thy mother.”11
“Rabbi,” said he, “I have kept all these since I was a child.” Jesus looked searchingly at the young man and, loving him well, said to him: “You are missing only one thing: go, sell everything you own and give the proceeds to the poor, and your treasure will be in heaven. Then, come, follow me.”
The young man rejects this loving invitation, not to the Kingdom which Jesus has already promised him on account of his good life, but to something more—the high honor of service to the poor and companionship with Jesus. “His face fell,” Mark tells us, “and he went away sad, because he was very rich.” This exchange alerts us to the fact that Jesus is not so much issuing “commandments” as offering invitations. And however uninviting some of these invitations may appear, Jesus insists that, if only we would look at the world through his eyes, we would see that even the harshest life can be full of comfort and the mercy of God.
Desire of the Everlasting Hills Page 7
