James: A Summary

Over the years, James has received a lot of criticism for seemingly contradicting Paul’s justification by faith doctrine. Luther called it an “epistle of straw”, implying that James was less worthy of canonship than Paul’s epistles (Elwell and Yarbrough 353). As a mix of wisdom reminiscent of Proverbs and doctrine, James definitely stands out amongst all other New Testament writings. Taking a closer look at the book reveals that James carries as much weight as the rest of the New Testament. James is a book full of wisdom and imperative commands that speak truth into all times and cultures. The epistle of James is a message to all Christians on how to handle trials that life throws out way.

            James defines the theme of trials right away in 1:1-4. This particular passage in the Bible has proven encouraging to generations after generations of Christian who have found comfort in James’ words. According to James, trials are tests that all go through in life that develop character and lead to being complete and mature. This truth is once again repeated in 1:12-15, but James goes further and addresses temptations that test and build up perseverance.

            Nestled in between these two introductory paragraphs is a small section on wisdom (1:5-8). It is no coincidence that James pairs life’s trials with wisdom, which is pertinent to struggling through hard times. Christians cannot face difficulties in life without Godly wisdom. God’s presence commands a sense of peace that quells the stress of life. Only in that peace will Christians find the strength to stand tall in the darkest of storms.

            James is a book that’s tied very nicely together. Each theme in this book relates perfectly to one another. Godly wisdom, James says, comes through prayer (1:5-6) and is a gift “coming down from the Father of lights” (17). Prayers are to be made in faith and without doubt, “for the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind” (1:6). The theme of prayer runs throughout the entirety of James, but its strongest appearance is made at the end of James in 5:13-18. In the midst of difficulties, the righteous person can be assured that his prayers have “great power” (1:16).

            Therefore all of James’ teaching on trials can be summed up by: Trials, temptations, and hardships in life are only faced through Godly wisdom which is granted to Christians through the power of faithful prayer. Instead of stressing out and worrying about what life may bring, Christians can be assured that God’s wisdom will guide them through each and every storm. Also, Christians and non-Christians alike can be comforted in the fact that God does not tempt nor act as the cause of evil (1:13). The great apologetic debate regarding God and evil has been going on for ages. Sin is ultimately the root of all evil, not God.

            James is a tight book that packs a lot into its few pages, and the book focuses on withstanding trials and temptations. James concurs with the rest of the Bible and presents Christ as the answer to difficult times. Unfortunately, during hardships it can be easy to lose sight of God and his care. James is just another constant reminder that, through prayer, God will grant us the wisdom and strength we need to face hard circumstances. 

__________________________________________________________________________ 

WORKS CITED

Elwell, Walter A., and Robert M. Yarbrough. Encountering the New Testament: A Historical and Theological Survey with CDROM. Edition Unstated. Baker Academic, 1998. Print.

Assyria, a short story about Assyrian religion.

Recently did a paper on ancient Assyrian religion and had to write a short creative writing piece on it as well. Here's the creative writing bit:

The knife glinted in the sunlight as it hung suspended in space. The hand wrapped around the hilt was stained crimson, the fingers locked in an unshakable grip. Dirt and a few stray animal hairs clung to the skin held fast by the drying blood. Dormara brought the knife down with a tremendous force, burying it deep into the thick neck of the ox. The billowing of the beast fell on ears that were all too accustomed to the sound. At first the clamor had been eerie and more than a few new priests had their nerves shaken. However, years of the ritual sacrifices had dulled the impact. The ropes holding the animal quivered and stretched, threatening to break underneath the weight of their captive. Only twice in Dormara’s three years of service had an animal broken free from its bonds. Both times had resulted in a gruesomely violent affair as the bleeding animal limbered off in an attempt to escape the priest. The oxen never really got too far before they bled out. But instead of the blood being somewhat collected and confined to one space it was spattered around the stone temple walls and floor creating a macabre scene.

            Dormara finished the ox with a swift upward motion as he severed the spinal cord. The animal shook as it gave up the last ounces of strength before letting out one last breath. The whole process had taken less than a minute, but it was a minute that was painted in red droplets on the bottom of Dormara’s cloak, steadily becoming greater as they descended and finally pooling at his feet. In another matter of minutes he had swiftly gutted the animal and removed the entrails, placing the heap in a large clay bowl that was resting on the floor a few feet away. The first five minutes after death were vital to divination.

At Dormara’s command, one of the guards at the door left to bring the king to the sacrificial courtyard. Dormara closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. It wasn’t necessary for the priests to wait for the king’s presence before starting their ritualistic worship. His mind drained of thought, opening the door for the gods to enter. His hands lifted in an upward motion, palms up and open to offer up his sacrifice and receive instruction. His lips moved in a whispered prayer.

            “Oh, great Ninurta, hear our prayer. Show us the path and light the way for our feet. We need your direction”.

            He finished his prayer with an incantation that had been handed down through generations of priests. His eyes opened and he squinted at the bloody mass of bodily organs that lay before him. As he inspected the stomach he noticed a full belly of wheat and oats. This animal had been well fed and healthy. His probing hand shifted through the pile and his trained eyes darted about, seeking a sign. As he came across the intestine he noticed it had been stretched. Gluttony. This animal had dined well, truly the gods were smiling down. His hand dug deeper searching, searching, searching for another sign to present to the king. His fingers wrapped around something warm and firm. What was this? He lifted his treasure and his eyes widened in surprise. A fetus! This ox had been in the first month of pregnancy. It was rare that a sacrifice was pregnant, but it was an exceptional sign that the gods were favoring the nation.

            The king strode in, his long robes gently swishing along the sunbaked and bloody stone. His height made Dormara’s short stature seem even shorter. Two guards flanked each side, their swords concealed within the folds of their cloaks.

            “Greetings, Oh King Sennacherib. All praise and honor to you for your generous rule over the nation. You are worthy of worship,” Dormara spouted forth the typical Assyrian greeting.

            “Yes, well? What way do the gods direct us to go?”

            “Here, I will show you.” Dormara motioned for the king to approach the altar where he had set aside the full stomach and stretched intestine. Hoping to surprise and gain the favor of the king, he had kept the fetus hidden in the clay pot along with the rest of the discarded organs. Dormara gave him a rundown of his discoveries.

            “As you can see, oh king, we have a fine and full stomach here, albeit it doesn’t smell very appetizing. The oats and the vegetation that fill this animal’s stomach signify a blessing from the gods. They have given us permission to proceed with the conquest as planned.”

            “Mmm. Yes, I see. Very good, priest. Very good.” Sennacherib’s tan brow furrowed as his eyes roved over the altar.

            “Next, oh king, we have an intestine from this ox. Notice the stretching here and here,” Dormara pointed them out. “These signify success from the gods. The conflict will be one of success and all nations on earth will come to fear you through your military prowess.”

            “Good, good, yes, I see.” The king nodded his head and muttered agreement as the priest explained the importance of the two bits of entrails. For the past several months, Sennacherib had been planning an intensive and concentrated invasion of the nation of Israel. Israel controlled some of the best portions of the land, and Assyria had much to gain from eradicating the scum from their midst. Sennacherib knew that a meeting with his military advisors was due next. If the gods were smiling down on them, there was nothing that could stop the power of the Assyrian empire.

            “And this last piece, oh king, I think you’ll be especially pleased about,” Dormara continued. Sennacherib followed the short priest over to the clay bowl that held the mass of entrails that were left over from the sacrifice. A bean-shaped object lay on the top that immediately captured the king’s focus. He knew what it was and the meaning it held.

            “It seems that this sacrifice was unexpectedly pregnant, oh king. I’m sure you know what this means, sire,” Dormara spoke happily as he handed the fetus over to the king.

            “Marvelous! Riches beyond comparison will soon be mine as I wipe that Israelite infestation off of the face of the earth. Their puny Yahweh cannot stand a chance against the all-mighty power of our gods, priest.”

            The king handed the dripping object back to the priest before turning and walking out of the temple courtyard; his guards followed. He walked up the steps of his palace and threw open the door to his council chamber.

            “Call the military commanders and officers. I want them here right away; we have no time to lose.” The messenger standing at attention by the door bowed low and turned to exit.  

            “One more thing. Run by the temple and escort one of the temple prostitutes to my sleeping quarters. The gods need to be worshiped tonight.” The messenger once again bowed low and left the king alone.

            Sennacherib pored over the maps that were flattened on a wooden table. The map bore markings and troop movements of battles and conquests of olden days. His heart burned inside of him with a hatred for the Israelites. This conquest would be something the world had not seen up to this point. Even the acclaimed Israelite king Hezekiah would have no chance of standing up against the mighty power of Sennacherib.

            Pretty soon the military commanders, officials, and Sennacherib’s sons entered the room and amidst the planning and organization a military strategy was set forth that would turn out quite differently than Sennacherib expected.

Joppa, a short story about the city during the Second Temple period

For Old Testament Backgrounds class I had to write a paper researching the ancient city of Joppa. I also had to do a short creative writing exercise on daily life in Joppa, which I chose to take place during the second temple period. Here it is:

The sun was hovering over the waters as Jeriah made his way home.  Casting myriads of orange and purple hues on the shimmering coastal water of the Mediterranean, the sunsets of Joppa were a spectacular site. The clamor and bellows of dockhands began to fade with time as the workers all left their posts at one of the many docks on the water and began the daily travels home to be with their families. It was the end of another sweltering day, and Jeriah rubbed the life back into his sore, rough hands. He had the grizzled hands of a working man with scars and ridges that told stories of day after day of unloading crates and shipments of wheat and barley.  The toned muscles that snaked down his tan arms came from days of hard work and heavy lifting and made his 6’3” figure look even more threatening. A statue of him would fit right alongside a Greek god.

            Jeriah squinted out over the sea one last time as he turned inland down towards the market district of Joppa. His pace quickened as he saw shopkeepers packing up their wares and closing down wooden stalls before heading inside for the evening. The recent riots between several of the Jews and non-Jews were becoming more frequent and violent and an unfamiliar tension had settled over the city. The merchants felt the effects of the violence and had been packing up and going home earlier in the afternoon to escape the dangers lurking in the streets at night. Jeriah hurried up to one of the bread stalls that hadn’t completely closed down and picked up two of the elongated loaves.

“2 drachma. You’re lucky, I was just starting to close down,” the shopkeeper held out his hand to accept the coins.

“Thank you much. My family is thankful. Have a safe evening,” Jeriah took out two drachma from his small pouch of coins and dropped them into the merchant’s hand. The two loaves had lost the fresh scent of bread from sitting outside all day and felt stale. His son and wife would be grateful anyway.

Jeriah hurried through the rest of the small gathering of merchants and continued down a side street towards his home. A small group of men having a hushed discussion caught his eye, but as Jeriah neared, the conversation drifted into silence. He shifted the bread into his left hand, freeing his right hand in case he needed to show the small knife attached to his left hip. The group of men, clearly non-Jewish in dress, eyed him with contempt as he passed and Jeriah heard the discussion resume as he rounded the corner and opened the door to his modest home.

            “Abba!” Jeriah’s son Armon squealed with delight when his father walked through the door. Jeriah tussled his son’s curly brown hair and bent down to kiss the boy who was now wrapped around his leg in embrace. Abigail, Jeriah’s wife, glided smoothly up to her husband and sidled up to his right side, embracing him and pecking his cheek.

            “My husband, the bread-bearer,” she quipped as she grabbed the loaves out of his hands. She felt the rough texture of the stale bread and looked quizzically at Jeriah.    “These were baked this morning. Have the riots been scaring the bakers away early?”

            “Yes, everyone’s nervous about the violence. I barely made it to the shops before it was too late. I’m sure there have been robberies that have forced the bakers to close their ovens earlier and stay inside.”

            A mixture of concern and fear flashed across Abigail’s beautiful face. Maybe the tension was worse than she imagined. News of the Maccabean rebellion reached Joppa within the past month, and Jews had suddenly become targets of aggression. She trusted Yahweh’s protection over the family, but even good people like Job faced oppression and she couldn’t help but worry about the violence reaching their home.

            “Daddy, I’m hungry. Can we eat now?” Armon’s smile took over his tiny face as he stared up at his father. Jeriah laughed as he scooped his son up and carried him over to the mat on the floor. He set the boy down before returning his wife’s kiss and reclining at table.

            “Armon, can you say the prayer, please?”

            The four-year old clasped his hands together and squeezed his eyes shut as he began, “Yahweh is God. Yahweh alone…”

*****

            Jeriah’s eyes shot open as he awoke to screaming. He bolted upright in bed and looked out the window towards the street. Fire raged out of the house down the street as people frantically ran towards the docks.

            “Jeriah? What’s going on?” Abigail wrapped herself in her shawl and picked up Armon, who was still fast asleep, before joining her husband by his side.

            “Another riot. This one looks fairly bad, we need to go.”

            “What? Go where? What are you talking about?” Abigail searched her husband’s face with a fear she had never known. She told herself the riots wouldn’t escalate to this, but she knew it was only a matter of time.

            “Your family in Lydda. We need to leave Joppa and go to Lydda because it’s too dangerous here and Lydda will be much safer. Grab what you need for a few days of travel. We need to leave now.”

Frantic, Abigail silently set Armon back down and began hurrying around the house trying to think clearly enough to pack what their family would need. A scream from outside shattered her thinking and she lost her concentration as tears silently filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She ran around the small two-room house throwing things together and whispering prayers of deliverance and safety to Yahweh, who she was convinced had forgotten them. Armon had awoken to the scream and was sobbing as he ran to his mother’s legs and wrapped himself in the folds of her garment for protection.

“Momma, what’s happening?” His tear-stained face peeked out underneath her robe as she firmly pushed him aside and rushed past him.

“We’re leaving, baby. Get your blanket and your toy camel daddy carved for you.” Armon was scared to go back into the other room, but the sternness of Abigail’s voice told him it was better not to disobey.

“Abigail, now!” Jeriah had brought the donkey from the stable down the road and it stood outside the door braying and stamping in fright at the sight of the orange flames consuming the neighbor’s door. Jeriah ran into his house to grab his wife and son, but was suddenly shoved from behind and sprawled on the floor. Abigail screamed and ran to protect her son.

Jeriah rolled over and saw a brute of a man standing over him, raising a club ready to strike. His legs instantly shot out like a spring and thudded into the man’s chest knocking him backwards through the door and spilling him onto the street.

“Grab the donkey and go, I’ll be right behind you!” Jeriah yelled to Abigail who clutched a screaming Armon on one hip and traveling gear in a sack over her other shoulder. Jeriah ran outside and pounced on his attacker. He swung his elbow into the man’s chest knocking the wind out of him and dragged the man over to the door where Abigail had just untied the donkey.  The rope that had once tied the beast of burden had been haphazardly forgotten on the ground and Jeriah, seeing his opportunity, grabbed the rope and looped it through the window and back out the door before tying it around the dazed man’s hands.

            “I’ll kill you, Jew!” The man spat vehemently into Jeriah’s face as Jeriah finished his knot and stood to catch up to his terrified wife and son. As he ran down the street away from the docks and towards the desert he heard the man’s murderous threats.

            “I’ll kill you, scum! I’ll kill you!”

*****

            Jeriah and Abigail walked in silence as they left Joppa behind. They had made it two miles from the city before they finally slowed to a relaxed pace and let the donkey rest. Armon, who was sitting on the donkey along with the family’s belongings, was exhausted from crying and  had been rocked to sleep by the donkey’s gentle plodding in the sand. The stars filled the night sky as the moon cast their long, skinny shadows faintly across the tan landscape.

            Abigail was too shocked to speak and she walked alongside the donkey staring numbly straight ahead. All she had known of her life with Jeriah had been left behind and destroyed in the blink of an eye. The memories, the places, the names, and the faces—all of them—were gone. She glanced over to her husband who stared silently up at the night sky. He hadn’t said a word since they left the outskirts of the city.

            Jeriah was pensive as he looked up at the night sky. His life was shattered and a new life would have to be formed in Lydda with Abigail’s parents. Unanswered questions swirled around his head. Even if his questions had answers he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear them. What new life was waiting for them in Lydda? He sent silent prayers up to the heavens hoping they would reach the ears of a God he thought had disappeared.

            Yahweh, where are you? Where’s your promised Messiah? Have you forgotten your people? Send us your peace, Lord. Send us your peace.

            Little did he know that 160 years later a Savior would be born in Bethlehem that would forever change the course of human history.

Gunner, a short story

The last few drops of drink splashed on the cold, hard ground. I turned the cup over silently praying that a miracle would happen and the cup would suddenly be filled, but nothing happened. My mouth pleaded for more. The thick saliva that had been built up all day was only temporarily washed down with the cup of water. I knew it would only be a matter of time before it returned. My head pounded as dehydration racked my bones. I cursed as I threw the paper cup to the ground beside me. It bounced before rolling to a stop a few feet from where I was sitting. The clamor of the busy street passed by me as I despairingly let my head fall onto my knees as I pulled them closer to my chest. I wrapped my arms around me trying to keep the cold from warring against my body.

My name is Gunner, and I’m homeless. My story starts out normally, I was raised in downtown Chicago by a mother who did all she could to give me the world. My mom worked in a machine shop during the day. At night she was a whore, selling her body to satisfy men’s temporal pleasures that they think needed filled. That’s where I came from. And when my real father found out my mom was pregnant with me he split town. As in, he got scared so badly that he moved his real family out of Chicago. I never met him. When I was 13, I was introduced to Mary Jane. She gave me a high that no one could match. I soon found myself spending every waking minute with her, letting her lead me to all the places that I knew I shouldn’t go. Eventually, her friends Heroine and Meth became part of the picture. At 18, the four of us left my mother’s good graces and I took up the spot where I am now—on the street. I would give everything I have to go back to my mother, but I never wanted her to see me like this. I haven’t seen her in five years, and the grip my three friends have on my life has made me quite repulsive. I’ve come to accept this lifestyle. Until I break out of my addictions, there’s no way to get off the streets and into a normal life.

My thoughts were interrupted by a sound I wasn’t expecting to hear. The paper cup I had tossed haphazardly to the side had been set upright next to me. I quickly looked up to see who was trying to steal one of the few belongings I possessed. A man was bending over me, dropping a few bills in my cup. He looked at me and silently smiled. As I looked into his face, I could see the Middle Eastern descent in his tan skin. Some stubble proudly sprouted out from his chin and his shaggy dark hair was going berserk in the piercing Chicago wind. He couldn’t have been any more than 32. I looked up at him and smiled. “Oh, wow. Thank you so much, sir. That will go a long way.”

“You’re welcome, friend. One more thing…”

He pulled out a thermos from his messenger bag that was slung over his shoulder and opened it up. I saw the steam clouding his face as he looked into the thermos and smiled. He closed it back up tightly before bending down and setting it next to me.

“I hope you like coffee. I don’t really need it considering I can just grab some at the office. You can keep the thermos too, it might come in handy.” He patted me on the arm before standing back up and continuing his trek to work. I sat in silence staring at the $5 bill that lie folded in the bottom of my cup. I knew exactly who’s hands that piece of paper needed to pass through in order to get my fix. It had been days since I had a smoke and my slight shaking betrayed my cravings. Yet something about that man burned in my mind. He had to have known where that money was going. Surely he saw my shaking. Surely he saw the yellow film coating my teeth, and the black that was appearing on my fingernails. Yet he gave me money anyway. He wasn’t feeding my addiction, he was giving me a choice. That $5 could go towards my drug fund, or it could go towards a hot meal or shower. It was his way of saying that my lifestyle was my choice. He believed I would make the right choice and make something of myself. For once, someone believed in me, how could I let them down?

I crumpled up the bill and shoved it into my coat pocket.