THE New Testament reading begins mid-argument, with the word “And”. That is a signal: we’d like some context to know Paul’s argument. One of its key words is “ministry” (which will also be translated “service”). Paul speaks of a double ministry of death and condemnation, and a double ministry of the Spirit and justification (3.7-10). He explores his own vocation to ministry under the brand new covenant, and the old covenant that must give solution to it. This ministry (diakonia in Greek) shows how he sees himself as a servant of Christians greater than as a frontrunner.
Knowledge is power, Francis Bacon said. Paul would agree. Both men saw knowledge not as an acquisition of knowledge, but as a strategy of discernment. Through his ministry to God’s people, Paul has recognised that “knowledge” is just not to be desired since it confers status and wins respect; somewhat, it’s a present from the Spirit, which “blows where it’ll” (John 3.8; with Isaiah 11).
Whatever the unique significance of the Law consigned to stone tablets, or the later significance of that Law within the lives of Jewish people, a change has taken place as some people have responded to the excellent news of Jesus. Paul has himself experienced that change. He has been transformed, and so has begun to tread the “latest and living way” (Hebrews 10.20). He is given a revelation, a voice — but just for a moment (Acts 9). The remainder of his life is labour and endurance for the sake of the gospel (1 Corinthians 9.23).
Likewise, when Jesus is transfigured, Peter, James, and John momentarily see him in glory. But they usually are not permitted to abide within the glory of that vision. Like Jesus himself, they need to let it go awhile.
If we climb an actual mountain, we may accomplish that alone, or as a part of a gaggle. When we reach the highest, there could also be others there already. But, alone or in company, we are able to reach a spot of peace, even communion, there. That can also be true of the metaphorical mountains that we climb in life: relationships, families, careers, funds. Every summit reached confers each pride and relief.
But all of the mountains that we ever climb, whether real or metaphorical, take no less than as much effort on the descent as on the ascent. The last time I climbed a mountain, my knees throbbed for every week. Going back down, we’re drained, we now have had our moment of peace, or communion, and even exaltation; but there is no such thing as a abiding home for us on the mountain top. We — not Jesus, Moses, and Elijah — would wish those shelters (Mark v.5) if there have been.
On the descent, we learn what happens when gospel ecstasy gives solution to every day discipleship; when the fun of a vocation to follow Christ begins to be worked out in the small print of a rule of life: worshipping, praying, serving, self-denial, and the like. Now we must draw on that hard-won experience on the summit.
Moses’s face needed to be veiled since it shone with divine light. Now, Paul transfigures the veil of Exodus 34.33-35. He applies the term “veil” (kalumma) to an obstacle in the best way of religion: a covering lying over the mind, blocking the sunshine of the gospel. Other New Testament writings use a unique word (katapetasma). But the Jewish author Philo is useful here: he records that, within the tabernacle (the model for the Temple), there have been two veils (or curtains). And he uses those two words to confer with them (Moses 2.21.101).
To Paul, a veil shuts out the sunshine of religion. Its removal means illumination. The curtain within the temple stood for the division between things earthly and heavenly. The death of Jesus tore it apart: Mark (15.38), Matthew (27.50-51), and Luke (23.45) all say the identical.
Veils and curtains look like barriers, but in point of fact are mere flimsy fabric, easily parted, or “rent in twain” (AV). Here is our encouragement as Lent begins. What divides us from God, nevertheless solid it seems, is, in actual fact, insubstantial. Light is already leaking through and around it, like a bedroom curtain on a sunny morning. If it weren’t, we could don’t have any conception in any respect of God, and will not seek, never mind find, him. As it’s, we discover reassurance: our Saviour, Jesus Christ, is “the sunshine of the knowledge of the glory of God”.
