Teaching for Commitment
October 21, 2012 | Edna Froese | Deuteronomy 6: 1- 25

All of us, at various points in our adult lives, are expected to commit ourselves to some daunting and long-term responsibilities. A medical student, for example, arrives at graduation, hears the Hippocratic Oath, and dedicates herself to serve humanity, with integrity. New parents hold a wee one in their arms, and in their hearts are already committed to a relationship that will last a lifetime, with no opting out clause.

Back when I was in Bible School, we called the book of Deuteronomy “do not run away.” That lovely pun on the sound of the name is doubly apt for a book that is mostly one long, repetitive speech from which we might want to run, that admonishes its readers not to run away, not from their identity based on their loyalty to God, and not from their obligation to pass on both identity and loyalty to their children.

Actually, “do not run away” is triply apt for Deuteronomy because it is set in a time in Israel’s history when literal running away was very much on the minds of Moses and his listeners. The nomadic tribes of Israel are still “east of Jordan,” the narrator explains. They still have to cross the Jordan and then, before they can inhabit the Promised Land, flowing with milk and honey, they will have to deal with the people who already live there. What makes this moment at the border crossing particularly momentous is the backstory with which Moses begins: the Israelites had been here before. Just over 40 years ago, they had left Egypt, traveled into the desert, received the Ten Commandments, experienced God’s miraculous guidance and provisions, and then, on the very shores of the Jordan River, where they now stand again, they had, because of cowardice and unbelief, been turned back to begin that 40-year stint of desert existence. Moses, who has led and quarreled with and prayed over these people for so long, might well ask, “so are you going to obey God’s direction this time or will you run away again?”

For us, as we think about what it might mean to teach these commands to our children, it is helpful to consider another context. The book of Deuteronomy was, according to biblical scholars, written and collected over a period of time, beginning in the reign of Josiah during relative prosperity in the Promised Land, and then taking its final shape during the exile in Babylon, when all that prosperity and independence had been lost completely (Miller 4). In both the internal setting of the story (Moses preparing Israel to enter the land) and the external setting of the writers and editors (living in the land of exile, still hoping to return to their own land), the Israelites face tough questions about how to stay faithful to God in the midst of other cultures and other ways of worshipping other gods. This is a problem we can identify with, a problem that might tempt us to run away, just as our Mennonite forebears sometimes did run away, first from persecution and then from the threat of assimilation, from the Netherlands to Prussia, from Prussia to Ukraine, from Ukraine to Canada, from Canada to Mexico. Just how do we keep our faith and our identity? Without running away, because running away is not a workable option for long—not in Moses’ world and certainly not in our global village.

In Chapter 6 of Deuteronomy, Moses reminds his people that they are to obey the laws and commands that God has given, if they expect to live well and long in the Promised Land. And he speaks the words that have become the Jewish confession of faith: “Hear, O Israel: The LORD our God, the LORD is one.” Later Judaism established this statement as its essential prayer, called the Shema. It is to be recited twice daily, morning and evening. With its call to pay attention – “Hear, O Israel” – and its claim to a relationship – “The LORD our God, the LORD is one” it lays the foundation for all subsequent commands and instructions, the first and foremost of which is “ Love the LORD your God with all your heart and soul and strength.” This brief statement of identity and loyalty stands between Moses’ brief overview of the Exodus including the giving of the Ten Commandments, and his further instructions about how to live out those commandments and how to live among peoples who have not submitted themselves to this relationship to God or to his commands.

Interestingly, the book acts out two of its main recommendations for teaching for commitment: the first and most obvious is repetition. The NIV translates Verses 6 and 7: “These commandments that I give you today are to be upon your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.” The Good News Bible translation says: “Never forget these commands that I am giving you today. Teach them to your children. Repeat them when you are at home and when you are away, when you are resting and when you are working.” Teach them; repeat them. Repeat them again. Precisely what the Book of Deuteronomy does. As Moses rehearses the story of the flight from Egypt and their desert wanderings, he repeats variations of the loyalty statement – “the LORD your God” – and the admonition to obey the commandments. Ultimately, he instructs the people that when they have entered the Promised Land, they are to gather at Mount Gerizim and Mount Ebal, half of the tribes on each mountain. Then, in a formal ritual, the tribes on Mount Ebal shall recite all the curses that will fall on those who dishonor and disobey God, while the tribes on Mount Gerizim shall recite all the blessings that will come to those “fully obey the LORD [their] God and carefully follow all his commands” (Deut. 28). If we follow what Deuteronomy itself demonstrates, we will repeat the basics of our faith, the foundations of our identity as Christians, over and over again, as part of our daily living and conversation, and as part of our formal, collective worship.

But we’re not just admonished to repeat, verbally, the core of our faith. Moses also instructs the people to use visual symbols of their identity: “Tie them [i.e., the commandments] as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Write them on the door frames of your houses and on your gates” (6: 8-9). When I first read these verses, in a moment of naughty irreverence, I visualized the Ten Commandments literally tattooed on my arms and my forehead. Or what if I printed portions of the Law on my T-shirts and engraved the Law on the sides of my sneakers? I couldn’t help but realize that advertising departments of corporations were way ahead of us on this one, imprinting their logos on clothing, shoes, backpacks, water bottles, and developing symbols like the Golden Arches, everywhere visible, reminding us that our primary purpose in living is consumption.

Then I did a little research and regretted my silly response to the command “tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads.” Practicing Jews do follow that literally by tying on the tefillin (small black boxes with parchments inside), first on the left arm, and then on the forehead, before reciting the daily morning prayers. The placement of the tefillin signifies the connection of strength (the arm) and heart (it is in line with the heart) and head. The box on the arm is tied on first because faith in God is expressed through action, although the intellect should also be bound to God, as the numerous windings of the straps around the arm and hand indicate. The entire process includes spoken blessings at particular points and requires complete concentration. There is something very powerful about making our faith tangible, personal, and concrete through visual symbols and symbolic rituals.

Now, granted, both verbal repetitions and visual reminders can become so routine and familiar that we no longer hear or see them, and we might argue that they have then lost their purpose. Nevertheless, there are good reasons for such teaching methods. Moses’ repetitive instructions to repeat the commands of LORD while walking and eating and working, were intended, I think, to make a certain way of thinking about themselves in relation to God and to their neighbor so natural, that when the Israelites encountered other peoples with other ways of thinking and behaving, they would respond out of a solid, secure sense of who they were and where they had come from. They were not supposed to forget, for example, that because they had been brought out of slavery in Egypt, they were called to treat each other with equality and aliens with compassion. That was supposed to be their default reaction. Once in the Promised Land, rich with cities and houses and crops that the Israelites had not built or planted or in any way earned, they were not supposed to forget that God had rescued them from oppression and guided them through the wilderness. They were not supposed to return to the oppressive ways of Egypt, this time as oppressors themselves.

The problem, of course, is how do you remember what you haven’t lived? Those who had actually experienced the Exodus were already dead; none of those who crossed the Jordan had crossed the Red Sea. They would still remember the conquest of Canaan, if not the Exodus, but what about their children, the third generation away from slavery in Egypt? Moses therefore recommends a third method of passing on faith and identity, which Deuteronomy also acts out for us: telling stories: “In the future, when your son asks you, ‘What is the meaning of the stipulations, decrees and laws the LORD our God has commanded you?’ tell him: ‘We were slaves of Pharaoh in Egypt, but the LORD brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand” and so on (6:20-22, 24). How do we teach our children the faith that has shaped us, the loyalty and love that define us, tell us who we are and why we are here? Not just by insisting that this is how they are to think and behave, but by telling stories.

What the Israelites were to pass on was not just the commandments, but also the primary story of who they were and how they had come to be the people of God. When we encounter people who do not share our identity, a story is a more compelling answer than a list of “thou shalt’s” to the inevitable questions that arise—Why do you behave this way? Why do you keep this ritual? It is our grand narrative, our shaping story, that tells us, in a way that is easy to remember and easy to identify with, what our place in the world is. This is who I am and who I belong to.

Let me illustrate with a story. I don’t remember asking my father precisely why he gave money and time to MCC, but he told his story many times, always with deep emotion: he had been so very close to starvation, yet he lived because MCC had sent food. And he came to Canada because someone sponsored him. Years later, he discovered that one of his older sisters had actually died of starvation in the Stalinist years, after he was safe in Canada. I was not a participant in that story, not really, yet even as a child, had I asked him, “why am I here? Why am I who I am?” the answer would have been, “because Mennonites, in obedience to God, sent food to us in Ukraine.” If asked about my reasons for supporting MCC, I will likely reply, “let me tell you a story.”

According to Alasdair MacIntrye, a moral philosopher, we create our sense of what matters, and how we should act, by referring consciously or unconsciously to the stories we have learned. MacIntyre says, “I can only answer the question ‘What am I to do?’ if I can answer the prior question, ‘Of what story or stories do I find myself a part?’ Children grow into adults by learning stories, so do nations and communities” (quoted in Fulford 33). That is, indeed, what we see in Deuteronomy. The commands that Israel is instructed to obey are based in the character of the LORD their God who has brought them out of Egypt, a particular story of rescue from slavery that can become for us as well, a powerful story of liberation from the selfish principles of empire (as exemplified in Egypt and Babylon and perhaps current nations--liberation into a life lived according to the principles of love, principles that lead naturally to the good and decent life that Moses promises his people.

How then do we keep our faith and pass it on to the next generations in a context of pluralism and diversity? By teaching the doctrines and ways of living through repetition (and I think that includes repeated behavior as well as words), by using visual symbols to remind us of who we are, and above all, by telling our stories, the ones that have built our faith in God, as well as the ones that have challenged our faith. Stories of when we have run away, so to speak, and stories of when we have stood firm. Not all stories have happy endings; some stories have had more to do with captivity and empire than with liberation and love. Those too are a part of who we are and who we are becoming, on the journey to which the LORD our God has called us.
~ Edna Froese

Sources:

• Fretheim, Terence E. Deuteronomic History: Interpreting Biblical Texts. Nashville, Tennessee: Abingdon Press, 1983.
• Fulford, Robert. The Triumph of Narrative. Massey Lecture Series. Toronto: House of Anansi Press, 1999.
• Miller, Patrick D. Interpretation: Deuteronomy. Louisville, Kentucky: John Knox Press, 1990.
  Thiessen, Elmer John. Teaching for Commitment. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1993.