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The God of the Hebrews is revealed as a God of
compassion, who forgives far more
easily, deeply and broadly than he condemns.
The reality of
divine compassion
By W. Patrick Cunningham
Jesus was a Palestinian Jew, and the early followers of the Risen Lord were all Palestinian Jews. Before three decades had passed, however, it became obvious to most of those who followed “The New Way” that the vast majority of Jews were not about to throw over their prejudices and believe that the God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and Moses had revealed himself in flesh and blood as a Galilean carpenter who was executed for sedition. And so, gradually at first, but more rapidly after the diaspora that followed the first century Jewish Wars, the Christian religion became the property of non-Jews, and a faith that was born speaking Aramaic became one that used mostly Greek and Latin.
The Bible read in the ekklesia of these Greek Christians was the Septuagint (LXX), and so the rhythms and sounds of that version of the Jewish Scriptures spread throughout the Roman world, along with the newer letters of Paul and some of the other apostles. Prominent in the liturgies of Baptism and Eucharist was the story of Moses, the redemption from Egypt, the crossing of the sea as a type of Baptism, the manna in the wilderness and first Passover as a type of the Eucharist, and the giving of the covenant and Law. The centerpieces of that story were the twin revelations of the identity of the God of Abraham as “Yah” or “Yahweh” in Hebrew, translated in Exod. 3:14 as “I am” or, in Greek, ego eimi. But to understand more fully the meaning of that phrase, we have to go to the theophany in Exod. 34:6, where God passes before Moses and reveals to mankind his “core existence.” He speaks the Name and its meaning in one sentence: “The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, but who will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children and the children’s children, to the third and fourth generation.” That is, the God of the Hebrews is revealed as, fundamentally, a God of compassion, of hesed, who forgives far more easily, deeply and broadly than he condemns.
The meaning of the great “I am” of Exodus 3:14, then can be interpreted as “Yahweh of compassion” or “Yah of great and compassionate acts toward his beloved people.” It’s as if God says, “stand back and watch me show you my identity through my loving actions.” The early Christians experienced these actions through the Holy Spirit ministering in the community. There were works of mercy, such as almsgiving, and care for widows and orphans, and miracles of healing and conversion. Most of all there was the encouragement of the daily adding of converts, who witnessed to the reality of Christ in a time of great ferment in the Roman empire.
As the Christians began to write down the story of Jesus, then, we should expect to see a reflection of this core identity of Yah in the words and works of Jesus.
Although we most often associate the ego eimi phrases with St. John, the first appearance of the phrase is in the three Synoptic Gospels. Jesus says “I am” only on two occasions in the Synoptic accounts. The first time is the theophany on the Sea of Galilee, when Jesus is seen by the Twelve walking on the waters, like the God of the psalms, and he calms both their terrors and the roaring sea by the words “Take heart, have no fear, I Am.” Again, as in the Septuagint, the divine compassion is revealed in words and works.
The second Synoptic occasion is, of course, in the trial before the Sanhedrin. Jesus is challenged to admit or deny his Messiahship. He does so in dramatic fashion, sealing his fate by the claim to divine sonship, and even an identity with the God of Abraham, “I am, and you will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of the Power—[God Almighty].” Ironically, it is the very words of divine identity that both cost Jesus his life and guaranteed that we would be redeemed. They therefore show forth the divine compassion in a unique way.
It is in St. John’s Gospel, however, that we find an elaboration of the divine identity, the ego eimi, in a fashion that helps us understand its relationship to the individual Christian’s life, the life of the Church, the collective and individual costs of discipleship, and the final destiny of all creation in Christ. The appearances of the phrase ego eimi are like mirrors that reflect a tiny facet of the divine reality, but collectively build up a picture of the divine compassion that can literally occupy our minds and hearts through a lifetime of contemplation.
It is in the scene of Jesus with the Samaritan woman (4:26) at the well of Jacob that Jesus first utters the words “I am.” The needfulness of the woman, who is a type of all Gentile Christianity, is clear from her victimization at the hands of multiple men. He promises her the living water of Baptism and of the Holy Spirit, and she wonders if he might be the promised one. He answers her straightforwardly: “I am.” God’s compassion extends especially to the rejected of society.
The same words are used in 6:20 to mirror the Synoptic theophany on the lake. But the miracle is somewhat different in John. As soon as Jesus becomes one with the disciples, they arrive at their journey’s goal. Does this not say that with Jesus, the only worthwhile destination is already at hand? “Fear not, I am!”
If we remember that in Exodus the people constantly misunderstood the divine identity and grumbled about his very compassion, we will understand more clearly the departure of many disciples after the revelations in chapter 6. After the miracle of multiplication, there was a very real danger that the people would see Jesus as another cheap thaumaturge, a free meal ticket and secular redeemer. Jesus answers by pointing to the fundamental meaning of the miracle—the divine hesed, which the Hebrews had experienced as manna that left them hungry (and griping), is now incarnate in the person of Jesus, and he will become their eternal and totally satisfying bread, the bread “of life.” This, in turn, is the means by which Christians will be incorporated into the Resurrection of Christ, by sharing his body. Thus “I am the living bread” elaborates one facet of the divine compassion.
In 8:12, Jesus uses the Feast of Lights as a way of telling the individual disciple and the collective Church that by remaining united with Jesus, the light, they will avoid walking in darkness, which is evil and error. But Jesus at the same time says “I am witness” or in Greek, martyr, which reflects the reality of persecution in the life of the Church.
In 8:24, 28 and 58, we find a verbal altercation in which Jesus clearly sets out the fatherhood problem. There was in the first century a calumny about the parentage of Jesus making its way around the Jewish community. Jesus turns a catty comment into a discussion of parentage in general, and the claim of the Judaizers that they are children of Abraham in particular. The very uncharitable cracks about Jesus’ parentage prove that the makers are not children of Abraham, the father of faith, but rather of the devil. So it is not Jesus’ parentage that is in question, but that of his accusers. Three times he uses the term “I am” without qualifier, and by the end of the exchange, his enemies are furious.
In chapter 10, John begins to relate the “I am” to the church collectively. The church is the divine sheepfold, and is protected by the divine “gate” and the divine “shepherd” or Jesus himself. Jesus is not a hireling, but is a good shepherd, that is one who would and did execute a suicide charge into the wolf pack in order to save each and every sheep entrusted to him.
The story of the raising of Lazarus in 11:25 is revealed by John as the precipitating event that brought the Pharisees and Sadducees together in the plot to kill Jesus. Jesus reveals in the course of the miracle of resuscitating Lazarus that in his own person would be revealed the resurrection looked forward to by all pious Jews, and of course the Church herself. Because Lazarus believed in Jesus, he would not be subject to (eternal) death, or eternal burial in Sheol. Mary reproves Jesus with the same words as Martha, “If you’d been here he would not have died,” but without the practical “even now I know that God will do whatever You ask of Him.” Her response is pure grief, and Jesus catches it. It’s one of the few times Scripture reports him to be “troubled.” The Greek word is identical to that used in Lamentations for a pathway that has been destroyed.
When John records that Jesus, in 14:6, calls himself “the way, the truth and the life,” he may be alluding to the third chapter of Genesis. The words used are identical. The way to the tree of life is blocked by divine power in the Fall, the response of divine justice to the series of lies that set up the Fall of mankind. But Jesus, through the new tree of life, the cross, becomes the way to life. He is the Truth that vanquishes forever the ancient lie that man can become “as a god.”
Jesus calls himself “the vine,” and speaks of the Church as extensions of the vine in the world, but extensions subject to pruning by the Father. Useless segments will be cast into the fire, and healthy ones will be pruned so as to bear more fruit. The entire history of the Church can be read in these few lines.
Finally, the consummation of Jesus’ life is shown in his own pruning. John gives us a Passion theophany as a literary subtlety. He turns a simple act of betrayal into a revelation of Messianic glory. Judas and the arresting party come to Jesus in the garden, but Jesus takes charge. “Whom do you seek?” he asks. When they answer, Jesus speaks the words of divine identity, “I am,” leading to a reversal of the scene on the lake of Galilee. Judas and his henchmen, filled with malice, do not embrace the divine compassion and find themselves at their final destination. The divine compassion to them has become a terror, and they fall to the ground. This shows not only the active pursuit of God’s will that Jesus has adopted, but his mastery of all the events of redemption. Far from being a passive victim of a Roman executioner, Jesus is seen as the architect of the salvific act, indeed, just as Yahweh was the architect of the redemption from Egypt. This is the Lamb of Revelation, standing, though slain. This prepares us for the final act of the divine drama of compassion, the scene on Golgotha, in which Jesus, priest of the New Covenant, gives his Mother —the new Eve—to the Church as their Mother, and gives his Spirit to the Church as its vitalizing principle of existence.
Mr. W. Patrick Cunningham received his B.A. and M.A. in theology from St. Mary’s University in Texas. He also earned an M.A. in education from Stanford University. He has taught business ethics at Incarnate Word College and is now on the adjunct faculty of the University of Texas at San Antonio. His last article in HPR appeared in February 2000.
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