What's in a Number?

Reflecting back on some past posts I think I could come across as one of those people who are currently getting lost in the significance of particular numbers in scripture, even taken outside the influence of the prompts of promise given by the Spirit. But I think this morning I disproved that, at least for myself.



I do pay attention to numbers, and God does lead me with the way they appear in my life. For instance, I taught 7 7th graders 7th period last year and took that set of 3 7's as a pointer of import, especially so when an 8th player, a 6th grader and my own son, often came in for rehearsals because he was our only trumpet--7 being a number of perfection and 8 a number of regeneration, renewal and new beginnings...these said things to me about that group and my work with them, and those things proved to be true. Likewise, this year, my junior high group started as 13 members and after Christmas went to 12 members, and this, too, says something to me. But I am not a slave of the numbers; rather I see the numbers as servant to God, I believe firmly He manipulates them and not the opposite. My interactions with the numbers this morning was a good case in point.





We are out of school on a snow day today, not that it mattered so much for me as I'm out on an extended leave due to health issues. But it makes a difference for the children, and for my own morning as I had time to leisurely watch the news and read my Bible without morning "prep work" getting in the way. One thing I noticed as unusual was the fact that everywhere on the weather map read the same temperature: 19 degrees. I've never seen that happen before...always there is a degree or two of variance, but not so today as snow is falling, snow on snow...to quote an old Christmas carol. So I googled the meaning of 19 in the Bible and elsewhere and found interesting information.



On the secular or extra-Christian side--I found such things as claims that the number 19 supports the Quran's predictions that the theory of evolution would rise up in the 19th century. I found that among tarot cards, 19 represents the sun card, where two children in a walled garden play a musical instruments together under the sun in perpetual bliss and harmony. I saw atomic number 19, a light metallic element that "oxidizes rapidly in air and reacts violently with water."





But looking to scripture, numerologists talk of 19 as a combination of 10 and 9 noting their meanings which are divine order and judgment. A deeper search into these numbers showed all sorts of lists of things that "prove" the given interpretation of these numbers in scripture, things that could make your head spin after an initial sense of mild interest. But one thing turned me away from these lists--as I chased rabbits through that website. I came to a list of 12 judges given to "prove" the numbers 8 and 13, by claiming that every righteous line God recognizes with their having names that "add up" to 8 while the unrighteous lines add up to 13. Many lists or lineages are offered, but one gave me pause: this list of 12 judges and their relationships with both 8 and 13 as they were raised up to save Israel in a time of apostasy. My problem was that this list of judges struck me as odd--because Deborah was notably absent. I re-read the list and realized that Barak, the warrior she called to action, was listed in her stead--presumably to make the numbers work, proving that the list of judges names "added up" to 3848, which is to say 8 x 13 x 37. But scripture plainly says "Now Deborah, a prophetess, the wife of Lapidoth, was judging Israel at that time." I guess the numbers didn't "work" with her name, or else her being female was the problem...either way, a manipulation of the truth of the list was made to "prove" the validity of the numerology, an adjustment to any utter accuracy made for the sake of what was apparently perceived as a greater good. Or else, the words of the verses themselves are wrong, but ironically, to say that would topple this numerology concept in its entirety like some great house of cards.



On a personal note, that I'd recognize such a manipulation is a very good thing, as I have been prone in the past to such a "sin" myself--but now I can see it for what it is when it is put before me: it is in its barest form a statement that God's work/word needs human interpretation, human improvement in a way, a restatement in a way that "fits" our needs better. Such is a prevailing attitude I find right now in many fronts and ask that God reveal if it be any influence in me, that secret sin that the Psalmist begs God to reveal that it might be rectified. I think of how deceptive this practice can be, because it parades as an angel of light, like is found in the changing of the lyrics of great historic hymns: changing "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me" to ..."that saved a soul like me" as I found it sung in a church recently. Frankly, that which was changed so as to not offend me was the very thing that did offend me.



So I put aside my google run with a sigh and went to my regular Bible reading for the day, feeling a little sheepish for how easily the distraction of the weather had pulled me off my daily reading. My mind returned to the things that plague me before God now, as I find it wise to allow the concerns of my heart regarding life in this world to be bathed in the Word I read. So my mind laid my concerns in one tray of the balance and I looked for what You'd lay in the other: what do You want for me work wise? Is my failing health a sign I am to make a career move? Will you open doors for me to do something else? Part of me wants to go back to finish this year and part of me doesn't, but I lean toward wanting to return--especially for my children's sake, who would like to finish the year as students at the school where I teach. (My youngest even prayed to go back to school yesterday as he's recovering from his own bout with mono.)

All these questions swirl up as fears every time I get my eyes off You, but this time, I find it is easier to return to my remembrances of unfailing leadership and provision for me, I find my peace again even before I collapse into fears of impending days spent comfortless. It is I hope one of the testimonies that I walk a more mature walk with You as I approach days of change again after this long season of sameness. So, as I read and came across this verse in Psalm 94 I felt a glow of commonality between the heart of King David and my own heart, and I felt You confirm my feeling that if I were to look over my shoulder, I'd see the road stretch out a long way behind me:



In the multitude of my anxious thoughts, within me Thy comforts delight my soul.


And to bring it full circle, guess which verse number classifies those words...

You can tune a piano but...

...you can't tuna fish. This music and fish metaphor comes to mind as I mull over another pairing of music and fish that was brought to my attention yesterday.

One of my flute students is moving on to study with the recommended instructor for the high school (elite music program there) she'll be attending. Her mom is also my son's piano teacher and our younger sons play baseball together. They have been good friends of ours these last few years; enough so that their daughter I teach, J., feels somewhat guilty for leaving me and going to a more accomplished instructor. How do I tell her not to feel bad about the change? For her right now the music hall of the future is still a bare stage. She doesn't know much yet about the parade of personalities she'll meet as she begins to "swim" in that world.

Very general, one-lesson reflections she and her mother made of the man offered the following information:
he's arrogant
he's arrogant because he has so much weighty stuff on his resume--a music ed from Berkley after having been trained by musicians from Julliard followed by a lifetime of performance work
his weighty resume is the result of a high level of skills--with technical mastery of clarinet, saxophone and flute on his slate.

I was told that he had her play very little at her first lesson, but he did talk a lot. He talked of how he teaches flute from the same perspective that prompts this metaphor: give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day, but teach a man to fish and he'll fish for a lifetime. As best I understood it, this was his reasoning for why he extracts technical instruction from actual "music" and teaches physical skills isolated unto themselves. I may be misinterpreting his priorities in pedagogy or they may only be getting to hear the rationale behind the first stage of his instruction, but my reflections on that approach throw me back to my own days of being "taught" to play the flute.

When I was J.'s same age, my junior high band director referred me on to a "higher level" instructor, too. Another girl, A., (who was a year older than me in the same school system) had been referred to higher level instruction the prior year, so I expected to be sent to the same teacher that was teaching her, but Mr. C. referred me to a different teacher. Why? I wondered. Why send me to B., of whom I've never heard and who lives farther away? Why not send me to E. who had already impressed me simply because I could hear how A. played. Why?

Mr. C.'s answer was given with a rather strange look in his eyes: because A. plays only from her body, while you play from your soul. He considered that to be answer enough. It took a long time for it to be answer enough, but eventually his wisdom shone sun-bright because I did study with B. She taught me whatever degree of musical facility I had in the context of experiencing the heart of some of the greatest historical works available for my instrument. Mr. C was right, if I hadn't had the music itself as the underlying driving force, I'd not have cared two cents about the development of my physical skills. Those skills had to become "necessary" to me because I needed them to perform the music, because doing the piece "justice" deserved it. I had to have that context of application for the effort required to be worthwhile to me.

So if I were to give any parting words to my young student, just in case they apply--because I believe she, too, may be a player from the soul--the words would be a follow-up to her new teacher's metaphor: If the fish are your skills, then don't forget to consider why you're going after those fish in the first place. Are you learning fly-casting and deep sea fishing because you want something exotic to mount on the living room wall for all to see? Or, do you simply love the taste of fish, and you don't really care who knows or sees what you catch, as long as you get to eat it. I believe it goes a little deeper than simply learning fishing skills. Mr. C. may have left performing (fishing) behind years before he taught me, but I'm incredibly grateful for the wisdom of old music teachers like him. They're people often hidden and hard to find, more so even now than when I was a kid. If you find such a teacher count him or her as a gift from God, because what that teacher wants for you, the performer, is that you learn to make the music alive for its own sake, and not for yours. They know that you as a performer can take great joy in a technically perfect performance, but they also know that you're greatest joy comes not from a perfect technical performance alone. You're greatest joy as a performer comes from seeing tears in the eyes of a listener. Only then have you presented the soul of a piece of music with purity, and nothing matches the magic of such a moment for a performer, or for a listener! And that is where the wisdom for the moment stops being about J.'s flute instruction and starts being about my own relationship with God and the purpose for Man's use of the Law, so I'll conclude and go off to study these things further on my own.

My final word is this: I believe these rare ones in the world of pedagogy would tell you their favorite fishing work transforms this "fish" metaphor from being one about feeding yourself to one on a much higher plane. They'd tell you they fish to throw the loveliest ones back. They'd say they don't fish because they need a reminder of their skills, nor do they need accolades from others who see the rare breeds they've caught, and fasting doesn't scare them if they catch a really beautiful one. They throw out a line because they love the sea, and the fish, in part, make the sea what it is.

So just remember, J., that every type of fisherman has his place. The important thing is discovering which type you are going to be and staying true to that. Mr. C. always said to our band, "The piece isn't ready until you give me goosebumps when you play it." If he didn't get the goosebumps, we didn't perform it. With him, it was always about the music. If the music is "larger" than you, J., you'll never be able to settle for anything less than what it demands. It wants more than glibness, and it deserves it.
Blessings, Child!

On Happily Being a Small Oyster

The Walrus and the Carpentera poem by Lewis Carroll

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might;
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright—
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done—
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky;
No birds were flying overhead—
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand.
"If this were only cleared away,
"They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!
"The Walrus did beseech."
A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach;
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.

"The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said;
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head—
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat;
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat—
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more—
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low;
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
And cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need;
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed—
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said,
"Do you admire the view?"

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice.
I wish you were not quite so deaf—
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said;
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none—
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

Morning Prayer & Evening One

MORNING PRAYER
When the snow in the air is a remnant
of a former, flying glory--
When the snow on the ground is crusty and old,
or melted and refrozen hoary.
When the mist laying over the top of it all is new,
masking everything's story--

That morning,
Maker of All Things,
make me ready.

EVENING PRAYER
When the snow that is left hugs the base of the tree,
and every winged creature but the crow does flee,
When yellow and blue
Stripe the ground, two by two
Shadow and light,
For the trees can't take flight--

That evening,
FInisher of All Things,
give me rest.

Looking Back

I've been looking back over the entries I've made in here over the last few years. My how they've changed! Life is filled up with attending to needs that need action where talk would be cheap, so I reserve this spot for answering the writing itch--the creative itch, that is--and all the typical "journaling" has fallen by the wayside. This day, however, moves at a slower pace. I have mono, and as of yesterday, it looks like so do my husband and youngest son. So we're all skidding to a stop in our tracks. Rest becomes the byword none of us stops to hear until this day. This Sunday (for the first time in a blue moon of Sundays) we really will rest!

Tales of the Warrior: A Covenant Renewed

When summer’s brilliant green
First embraced an autumn coloring,
Dappled lightly across the wood,
These were the days
When the warrior recalled a forest and
a long-ago sacrifice.
Deep in his soul he sighed.
He went forth to find the maid
In her garden.
Much was lost to her.
Gone was the brittle whiteness
Of her throne-room finery,
But also gone was the supple leather
Tanned methodically under spiced oils:
Her garb in their days of courtship.
No, now she knelt in sackcloth,
Thin and worn.
She hovered over a fruit-laden plank
Where a knife in her hand pierced the skins
And made the fruit blood run.

“Is your brow so devoured by grief you do not know me, Woman?
Is this your legacy from that Son of Terror?”
He whispered, for dread was settled upon him.
He was prepared to follow
many threads of possibility when they should speak once more,
but ne'er anticipated this thread.
He'd not foreseen this girl,
one who sat in a pool of over-ripe juice
spilling out.

“At least it is only grief devouring my brow,”
She muttered—to herself, as though the stranger
were an imagined phantom, not at all a lost love.

“So your wisdom has abandoned you utterly,” he sighed.
“Oh, Sweet Water, if I came as a grape-gatherer
To find again the promise locked in your unripe days,
Would any partof you remain for the harvesting?”

Her captive eyes made a squint
--just for a moment--
Searching for some memory worth touching
In her ravaged mind.
Daring only a faint glance there.
“I remember the name Sweet Water…”

“Yes,” he coaxed. “To remember
It is the first weapon of our warfare.”

She glanced at him, though still not seeing…”And to thirst,”
she dared a whispered touch of communion.

“And to grieve…” he took her cheek in his palm as he sang
this song of spoken words with her.

Like muddy water settling, her eyes cleared.
“Oh, but no! To remember you…my heart would wail,
I have no strength. I cannot bear it!
I am utterly broken. You would have me see myself? No,
for I can be naught but a reflection of derision and dismay in your eyes.
Better to forget—“ and she
Began her drift again,
Her gaze dropping to a pomegranate
Hard in her hand as it’s blood ran through her fingers.

He thought.
And, he prayed.
Then he cupped her hand of mangled fruit
In his own hand.
“How many seeds do you see, Sweet Water?”

She did not look at him; she looked at the fruit.
Still, she answered.
“Many.”

“And will each bear a new plant?”
She frowned. “Of course not. Maybe only one. Maybe not even that.”

“Yet God put all those seeds why?
Possibility, rampant
In that one fruit.
Amazing is it not?
Of all the fruit dropped by the mother plant,
And of all the seeds in each piece of fruit.
How many, love, how many actually take root
Becoming a new era in the life of the plant’s
Eternal thrusting forward?”

Bemused, she listened still.

“My beloved, don’t you see.
If the Creator of all things thought it none too wasteful
To hide the one called to bear forward amongst so many,
How important it is for that One to find soil and fulfill.
How important, for to bear
Is even to give purpose to all those whose call
Was to serve as decoy, that call among others yet unseen.
How much more hopeless their loss if the One is lost, too?
But what dignity their sacrifice if the one is planted?
What if you, my love, are that one seed?”

And though his words of encouragement
Cost his last farthing of pride,
The death and burial of it did plant that seed in the good soil,
And hope began to sprout again
--for both of them.

What do you call leadership?

Through a strange progression, God has brought me round to considering this topic, and specifically to considering how we revere our leaders, whether we should, how we recognize the hierarchy of leaders, if we ever allow ourselves to test their motives even as we're told to "test the spirits" or if we blindly follow a leader simply because we're told: this is simply what a good citizen does. If we're shown a cup's clean exterior, does it make us unduly divisive to pause and consider what might be the state of cleanliness inside that cup? In many arenas I know, to ask such a question is to be labeled insubordinate.

For instance, as I read about Paul's days of being led to defend the faith in that realm where religious leaders move and shake alongside leaders of heathen but strong political influence--the arena where likewise Christ met the end of his earthly walk--there again in Paul's day corruption, injustice and evil favor-garnering at near incomprehensible levels, these presume to reign secretly and supremely!


Act 25:1
Three days after arriving in the province, Festus went up from Caesarea to Jerusalem,
Act 25:2
where the chief priests and Jewish leaders appeared before him and presented the charges against Paul.
Act 25:3
They urgently requested Festus, as a favor to them, to have Paul transferred to Jerusalem, for they were preparing an ambush to kill him along the way.
Act 25:4
Festus answered, “Paul is being held at Caesarea, and I myself am going there soon.
Act 25:5
Let some of your leaders come with me and press charges against the man there, if he has done anything wrong.”

Killing in the name of God is not a new thing in Biblical history at this point in the progression of scripture, but this deceitful, secretive attempt at manipulation of a foreign power in order to kill one of their own, this amazes me every time I come across it again. I keep forgetting this little nugget in the Bible, in part I think because I don't want to believe that religious leaders can look so good, yet stoop so low and not be called out for such atrocity and ousted from power.

That God deals with it by giving more savvy to the heathen political leaders is poetic justice at its finest, and if we believe the prophets, a thing we'll see in high form in the latter days. Eventually these circumstances led to Paul getting an audience with the highest of leaders, opening doors unimaginable in a larger timeline and power line. What will we see when this scenario recycles?

Not any time before this, Peter raised Dorcas from the dead as a disciple of this same "new" faith that Paul professed and that so threatened their status quo. How does a leader seek to kill representatives of such a faith unless he really believes the faith to be anti-God? How does God change such a disposition? Take away the power? Allow it to prove its extremes?

In her early days, Israel had a deliverer that translated the people's perception of leadership from an Egyptian model (Pharaoh is part-God) to a Hebrew model (man may appear to lead, but God ultimately leads) when they built the golden calf. My Bible's side notes comment in Exodus 32 that the people believed a man (Moses) led them out of Egypt. When that man disappeared for so long on the mountain, they begged Aaron: "make us [rather] gods to go before us." When Moses first went to God on behalf of the people, when God wanted to hit the "reset button" by starting again with the family of Moses, Moses reminded God of His promises to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. But when Moses learned how the people had fallen, he prayed that he be included with those "abandoned" by God as the chosen people, I think maybe because he saw that he could have done more to emphasize that the deliverance came from God and not from him. (Later, this became an issue for him again, ultimately preventing his access to the actual promised land when the gates were opened to the Hebrews at last.)

Part of me can't help but wonder where we are now? What should we make of our religious leaders venturing into politics, putting their tax exempt status at risk as they continually seek to have a voice in secular government, looking for offices of power to accompany their religious offices, or at least looking for non-religious backs to exchange pats with...what does it all say about our capacity for prioritization of the realm of God's kingdom. How far have we drifted from Jesus Christ's claims that His kingdom is not of this world. The religious leaders of His day had lost sight of that truth about their Messiah in all their volumes of dogma and power mongering. Are we sliding there as well? God save!

The Warrior's Quest Defined

“So, Warrior. What has the unrelenting voice of truth told you
about your quest?”
What quest has e’er begun and ended
Likewise?
Pondered the warrior.

He watched the flames spread wide,
now die to a caressing blue.
“Days I spent seeking apprenticeship
To some great warrior,”
His voice went gliding
Through a trance-like view of many days
In rapid succession.
“And, I have put myself some distance
From that search: a choice
For something nobler,
or so I thought.
How is it I only now see
I have been apprenticed—
All along
--to you!
You! Are you not
the least of this house?
You who seemingly cooks for that cockatrice
Perched like a puppet
On a dragon’s throne—
Yet do you not here before me
burn up his expectations?
All I know to say now is this:
What do you make of my quest?”

Then the ancient eyes blinked hard once,
No longer rheumy, they suddenly glittered
Like twin bows in a rain-washed sky;
And the old man smiled
--was it a wistful one?
T'is hard to say
Exactly what lay beneath
the fearsome knowing
Of that visage.

“This place is broken in pieces,”
Said the old man.
Breath-taking, thought the warrior,
To hear the voice of whispered nudges all these years
Transform to the voice of revelation.
“This palace has given its hand to desolation.
Look well, for the sight of these chambers will soon perish.
Even now, the storehouses are being ravaged.”
Then that rainbow gaze pierced the questing man.
“If I give you strength
To access the armory of my indignation,
How will you use my weaponry?
You must prepare for a challenge and a strain
If you should will to raise the weapons in my store.
Indeed, I see you may even yet expect
To wield a certain type of sword,
To kindle a certain type of fire
Answering to this city’s need.
But you’ll destroy no ostrich here,
Nor slay any jackals.
As for burning…”
The voice trailed off, revealing
a door still partially closed,
For the warrior’s partial knowledge,
Could trek no further into
The future’s stores.

“Then how shall I plead your cause?”
Cried the warrior, and his heart was undivided.
So the old man lifted his voice in strength once more,
And he said:
“Give honor to your Bride.
Give rest to the land.
Give strength to those made feeble.
For a power arrogantly bloated grows
Transparent, no longer hiding the injustice
writhing beneath its surface.”

But the man stumbled over the first command,
Hardly hearing those following.
“Honor to my bride?
She would chase that charlatan even to an eagle’s nest
If he so lured her, never believing
He took her there to hurl her out and merely
For sport alone.
Futile venture!
And so I am no match,
For even your first commission.”

The old man waited for the man to conclude his lament.
His strange eyes were on the rag he took up,
and so he wiped the soot from the flame-scoured pot
While he waited for the silence,
For the resignation that bespoke a new readiness in the warrior.
And when he lifted his voice again his words were simple--
his eyes remaining on his work,
On his work of slowly polishing now inside the pot.
“You are nevertheless the chosen man; he that I appoint
Over her.
Behold, she turns to flee him,
Even as fear and sorrow seize her.
The evil one has already turned on her elder sister
--cutting off her nose and ears.
So your love now sees how
He’ll surely turn on her as well, in time.
Alone,
She weeps with continual weeping.
She finds a small measure of balm for her sore heart
By working in her vegetable gardens.
She grows food for him and for his subjects,
Until she chooses to know little else anymore.
And yet, she longs for something.”

“And I should care for what this harlot longs?” spat the warrior.

“In truth, you should, for despite all your industry
she knows to long for the one thing you seem to blindly lack…
She longs for hope.”


The old man left the room,
but the warrior heard those final words
Echoing within him until the last of the fire’s embers
Ashed to grey.

What Do You Call the End of the Story?

There are in scripture two tellings of the life of a king who was named Manasseh. Often we look at discrepancies in the alternate tellings of things as a stumbling block rather than as a profound cornerstone teaching tool in the hand of God. Such could be done here, for there are two tellings of the life of this king, and all of us are called to revisit his story according to one telling or the other or both, if we're really prepared to stand in the strong wind.

In II Kings, we learn of this king's downfall...his great pride and depravity by which he led the people astray into sorcery and witchcraft and idolatry beyond that even of the people who had inhabited the land earlier, the ones the Lord "cast out before the children of Israel." He seduced the people of Israel into "more evil than did the nations whom the Lord destroyed before the children of Israel." So God decided to "forsake the remnant of [His] inheritance, and deliver them into the hands of their enemies." "Moreover, Manasseh shed innocent blood very much till he had filled Jerusalem from one end to another; beside his sin wherewith he made Judah to sin, in doing that which was evil in the sight of the Lord. Now the rest of the acts of Manasseh, and all that he did, and his sin that he sinned, are they not written in the book of the chronicles of the kings of Judah?" A King recognized as evil through and through, and put on record for his evil.

But if one digs deep enough to go to the book of the Chronicles, an amazing and unexpected conclusion to the story is found. Indeed, the chronicler agrees that "Manasseh made Judah and the inhabitants of Jerusalem to err, and to do worse than the heathen whom the Lord had destroyed before the children of Israel." And it tells that this king was indeed carried in fetters to Babylon. But in this telling, the story does not end with the horrific results of his erring. This telling relates that "when he was in affliction, he besought the Lord his God, and humbled himself greatly before the God of his fathers. And prayed unto him: and he was entreated of him, and heard his supplication, and brought him again to Jerusalem into his kingdom. Then Manasseh knew that the Lord he was God...the people did sacrifice still in the places for pagan worship, but yet unto the Lord their God only. Now the rest of the acts of Manasseh and his prayer unto his God and the words of the seers that spake to him in the name of the Lord God of Israel, behold they are written in the words of the kings of Israel." This telling not only visits his trespass, his sin, his offerings to false gods, but also his humbling and his prayer and the generous and gracious response of the "God who was entreated of him." The one telling is in II Kings 21, the other is in II Chronicles 33.

Both versions are offered to both the student and the teacher. All scripture is given to edify and to instruct, so my pondering over these discrepancies goes like this: why do some choose to tell history with its points of restoration intact and others choose to leave the restoration out,choosing to stop scanning the horizon at the peak of sin's consequences and lock the gaze there?

Both versions have the hand of God inspiring their composition, so how are we to understand His purpose in giving us this seemingly gross censorship of the most hopeful and beautiful part of the story in the one version? Is it to be our mirror, a plumb line of deep reflection when taken alongside its brother-telling? Or--even more disturbing to the heart that would know the heart of God as fully as possible--is it telling of a schism between the God-driven end-times prophetic interpretation and the monetarily-rewarding and self-aggrandizing interpretations so popular right now?