Lectionary Commentaries for June 29, 2025
Third Sunday after Pentecost

In this week’s lectionary text, the story begins in a Samaritan village. In my initial read, I noted how easy it would be for a reader to create a “them versus them” framework, as if there are only all good or all bad in the different communities represented. We know from the Gospels that tensions existed between Jewish and Samaritan communities. Jesus sends people ahead to prepare a place for him, seemingly expecting a welcome—but he doesn’t receive one.

It’s tempting to interpret this as the Samaritan village doing something wrong, because our assumption is that, of course, they should have invited Jesus to stay. However, that assumes that the snippet of the story we get is even close to the whole, which we know it is not. There are always multiple versions. In addition, focusing on that assumption would distract us from the deeper message. The real invitation here is to observe how Jesus responds, even when inconvenienced, and to reflect on what it means to follow him in such moments.

Allowing agency as an act of love

Those in the village did not receive him in the way that was expected or for which the disciples and Jesus had prepared. In short, the Samaritan village said no and set a boundary in that moment for where Jesus and his group of disciples could lay their heads. Two of the disciples get angry immediately, and in their anger, they ask, “Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?” (verse 54).

This is a wild question. First, if Jesus wanted that to happen, I imagine he could have done it for himself (and it still would not have been right). Second, their immediate response to a boundary or a no was violence toward an entire town. It would not have been the entire town’s decision, yet they were quick to conflate all people—including the elders, the children, those on the margins—with whoever had the power to say no. Finally, their response shows that they didn’t know that no was an option.

Jesus’ response gives us a beautiful insight here. Allowing others to have agency is an act of love. Even though clearly the ideal would have been for Jesus to be invited to rest in the town, as that was what he prepared for, Jesus does not punish their no. He instead rebukes James and John for deeming it appropriate to cause harm because they were inconvenienced. Then they go to another village.

Jesus reminds us that allowing agency and choice is a crucial practice of love. He wanted to go there, and yet their boundary was honored and respected. What was not celebrated and seen as a good choice? The choice to punish, to harm, to destroy in the name of Jesus because the disciples were inconvenienced or thought another choice should have been made. Jesus shows us that allowing space for another to have agency is crucial to a life of love.

It takes more than a click to follow

As the text continues, we become privy to a series of back-and-forth conversations with those naming something about how they want to or will follow Jesus. Jesus responds to these inquiries and declarations that following him will cost them something.

In an age of social media, when following takes no more than a click to see someone and have access to all they have offered for you to follow, we can easily forget that to follow Jesus is not a spectator sport. To follow Jesus requires more than scrolling, and it will cost something. Now naturally, Jesus could let them do these things that feel so crucial and necessary. I would also want to bury my parent or tell my people at home that I was leaving. However, the reason these were recorded was to show that this following is costly and time-sensitive.

I don’t know that I would suggest we should not bury those we have lost in honor or take time to be with family and friends. Yet, thinking that following Jesus and living in a radically loving and wholly inclusive way won’t cost us something is misguided. Jesus is saying, “Do you truly want to follow me in practice, or do you want to be seen following me as perception?”

The work is ahead

“No one who puts their hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God” (verse 62).

As one who loves history, I have often rejected and/or skipped this verse. History and looking back are crucial, in my opinion, to any work going forward. The very study of the Bible is a looking back. The root of liturgical practice through anamnesis is literally an invitation to look back and move ahead. The Sankofa bird quite literally looks back as it moves ahead, so certainly it is possible and important—especially to groups whose history is often erased. So, what is Jesus saying here?

I think this is an invitation to remember that when your hand is on the plow, it’s time to work and move forward. I don’t know that Jesus would say that looking back, particularly under the lens of historical reference and lineage, was wrong and makes anyone ill-equipped to do the work of the kin-dom of God that looks like love, which always looks like justice. I do wonder, however, if Jesus is suggesting that to hold the tools to move forward, while wanting all the benefits of a life you had before this choice, is probably inaccessible. As it takes more than a click to follow, so it takes more than holding the tool to do the work. 

I would wager that most of you who choose to preach on an Old Testament text this week are more likely to choose 2 Kings 2—the passing of Elijah’s mantle—than these final verses of 1 Kings 19. That’s all right, 2 Kings 2 is a fascinating text. But these do share themes, and we benefit from reading them together. On the whole, the lectionary texts for the week deal with leadership and discipleship. What do these look like? What do they demand? The preponderance of commentaries suggests that both leadership and discipleship demand nothing less than everything we have. But what I see in 1 Kings 19 that is particularly valuable are small acts of kindness that make the challenges of leadership just a little bit more bearable.

The reading comes in two parts, two short scenes. The first is right on the heels of one of the more famous episodes in Elijah’s life. It is in 1 Kings 19:11–14 that Elijah—bracing for an experience of God that would split mountains, crack the earth open, and consume with fire—hears the qol d’mamah daqah: a “still, small voice” or (probably better) “the sound of sheer silence.” Elijah reaffirms his commitment to his mission (“I have been intensely zealous for the LORD”), and God responds by sending him on his way with a command to anoint two kings and his own replacement, and with a reminder that his zeal is no guarantee of success.

Note that Mr. Zealous-for-the-LORD seems to drag his heels now. Elijah is commanded to anoint Jehu, which he does not do until 2 Kings 9, and Hazael, which he apparently never does. He does search out his successor, Elisha ben Shaphat. At any rate, what this signifies is a complete turnover in leadership, the results of which will not become visible until the second book of Kings. The seeds are planted here for the overthrow of the Omride dynasty (2 Kings 9–10), of which Ahab is a member.

A transition in leadership

Any human leader, good or bad, is only for a time. From Moses to Samson, Elijah, David, Solomon, Jeroboam, and down to Ahab and Jezebel—great and wicked leaders alike come and go. (Two verses are omitted from the reading in the lectionary here, 1 Kings 19:17–18, and they reinforce the ephemeral nature of human leadership.) When Elijah shows up at Elisha’s house, Elisha seems to be living out his regular, private agrarian life—we meet him plowing with a herd of oxen. This could be a sign of his family’s wealth, or it could mean he is working alongside others from his community—the text does not say—but it seems intended to show that his life was comfortable, peaceful. Without a word, Elijah throws his mantle over Elisha’s shoulders, and Elisha springs into action.

Looking back

Interpreters have been looking back to these stories about Elijah and Elisha with questions about the demands of discipleship since … well, always. Elisha’s resolve needs to be tested, and Elijah’s harshness is how it will be done. I see where this reading comes from. I see that Elisha’s first act as a prophet is to slaughter and cook the oxen with which he was plowing and to feed them to the people (although it might have been helpful for him to leave the yoke for his neighbors…). That’s a pretty definitive sign that he knows his path has shifted permanently. And I see how Jesus refers to this story directly in Luke 9: putting a hand to the plow and looking back.

At the same time, I find the notion that Elisha hesitates to be a bizarre one. After all, Elijah shows up, says nothing, performs a symbolic act—you can get the impression he barely even slows down (he passed by Elisha and threw his cloak over him). The very next word is the verb of which Elisha is the subject: “he left, he forsook.” Elisha runs after Elijah and says, “Just let me say goodbye to my parents, and I’ll follow you.” That’s hardly hesitating; it’s just being a human being. And Elijah’s response is “Lekh shuv”—“Go back” or “Turn and go.” While many read this as dismissive or disgusted, it is equally possible that he is giving Elisha permission.

Elijah’s next word is possibly a bit more dismissive: “Ki meh asiti lakh”—literally, “For what have I done to you?”—is widely interpreted as a rebuke of Elisha, as if he should not even say goodbye to his parents before taking off. Think of your own children, your own parents—can you really commend this reading? And remember that Elijah is not easy to follow. Either he knows this and his response means “What I have done to you is pretty big,” or he is bitterly swiping at his new protege, “What do I care?”

Either way, how much more faithful could Elisha possibly have been? Note that God does not seem to mind, and that the people do not try to get Elisha to stay—yet so many commentaries suggest that these would both be the case. In fact, it is Elijah whose words and actions are cryptic, suggesting that he is not yet ready to be succeeded. In this resistance, he is delaying the fulfillment of a direct command from God.¹ By contrast, Elisha gets a puzzle and responds with readiness to serve, making one simple, reasonable request.

We could make a terrible object lesson for public leaders out of this text: Your calling supersedes your humanity. When God calls, you don’t even say goodbye to your family; you just go. What a monstrous recommendation that is, especially when we understand our roles within the family to be an aspect of vocation. What is widely overlooked in commentaries is that Elijah recently received this exact same word from God just a few verses above (verse 15). Elijah proclaims that he has been “extremely zealous” for God’s sake and it hasn’t made an impact—the people are still engaged in illicit worship, slaughtering prophets, and coming after him. To this lament, God responds, “Lekh shuv le-darkhekha”—“Go, return to your path…” (19:15). And so perhaps Elijah is, in fact, showing kindness to Elisha here in repeating that word.

Perhaps Elijah remembers the sting of God’s response to his own anxious heart, and he echoes God’s words but changes the intention. “Lekh shuv.” Rather than “Get back to your work,” he says, “Go.” He knows the stakes are high—remember that, fearing for his own life, he left his former servant behind in verse 3. He thought he understood the gravity of his own calling, and then he encountered God in the most surprising, mysterious way. Shaken to the core and still trying to make sense of this “sound of sheer silence,” he is sent to commission Elisha.

He is commanded to pass on this bewildering mantle, but perhaps he has come to realize he doesn’t ultimately understand a lot about this work. There’s no way to explain this calling he has or how he will survive it. And so Elijah turns his suffering into mercy for the young man whose life he is now claiming. That’s what a good teacher does—rather than “I did it; so must you,” I think it’s possible to read Elijah as allowing his heart to be softened with sympathy, making it just a little bit easier for the one who will follow him.

Notes

1. As Gina Hens-Piazza notes, God and the prophet are on opposite sides of the narrative here. 1–2 Kings (Abingdon: Nashville, 2006), 195.

In the second chapter of 2 Kings, the biblical writers recount the ascension of the prophet Elijah to heaven and the succession of his protégé, Elisha. Interestingly, although Elisha is named as Elijah’s successor in 1 Kings 19, the transfer of prophetic authority and responsibility does not occur until 2 Kings 2:13. After accompanying Elijah to Samaria, where the prophet pronounces the death of King Ahaziah, Elisha refuses to leave Elijah’s side and accompanies him as he travels across the Jordan River to Gilgal; from Gilgal, further west to Bethel; from Bethel, southeast to Jericho; and from Jericho, eastward to the Jordan River again (2 Kings 2:3–8).

In the final stages of their time together, Elijah and Elisha find themselves on the other side of the Jordan River. Once there, Elisha famously asks to inherit a double share of Elijah’s spirit, and the prophet assures Elisha that if he witnesses his “being taken” (verse 10), he will receive his double portion. In the climax of the Elijah–Elisha narrative, suddenly a chariot of fire and horses of fire separate Elisha from Elijah, and the prophet ascends to heaven in a whirlwind. After picking up Elijah’s discarded mantle, Elisha begins his ministry as a prophet.

The entire second chapter of 2 Kings contains Elisha-centered stories. Our focal text details the beginning of Elisha’s prophetic ministry (verses 6–14), but after he crosses back over the Jordan River, the prophetic community affirms him as Elijah’s successor (verses 15–18). Then, while still in Jericho, Elisha performs a miracle involving unhealthy water (verses 19–22) before cursing some young boys for teasing him while he is on his way to Bethel (verses 23–25).

Commentary

As a successor to Elijah, Elisha travels extensively. For Elisha, the Jordan River and the crossing of the river figure prominently in his ministry. Elisha crosses the Jordan River seemingly to receive Elijah’s prophetic mantle and then crosses back over the Jordan to begin his own ministry. As a result of crossing the Jordan River, Elisha becomes a prophet. But Elisha is not the only prominent biblical character for whom crossing the Jordan River is transformative.

Jacob crosses the Jabbok (an eastern tributary of the Jordan River), wrestles with a man through the night (Genesis 32:22–32), and limps away with his hip out of its socket. Because of that crossing, Jacob becomes Israel. Joshua and the Israelites cross the Jordan River and occupy the land of Canaan (Joshua 3–5). As a result of crossing the Jordan River, the Israelites become the beneficiaries of the promise made to Abraham in Genesis (see Genesis 15:18–21; 17:8).

It seems there is something transformative about crossing the Jordan River in the biblical text. Moreover, the biblical writers may not have been the only ones who recognized the power of the Jordan. The Songs of Zion, a modern collection of hymns and other liturgical pieces (in other words, hymns, spirituals, and chants) that reflect the music of diverse African American heritages, traditions, and worship experiences, contains the song “I Stood on the River of Jordan.” The lyrics of this song portray the singer watching ships sail on “de ribber ob Jerdon” and encouraging their listeners to rejoice and be ready to see the ship pass by. It appears the listeners should celebrate and prepare themselves because the ship on the Jordan River represents transport from the oppressive world of slavery to a place of eternal freedom. As a result of traversing the Jordan River, the oppressed become free.

In his book The Spirituals and the Blues, theologian James Cone offers two basic meanings of the Jordan River as a symbol in African American spirituals. First, the Jordan represents death—a death that was typically seen as liberation from the harsh realities of slave life. Thus, “crossing Jordan” was a theme of going home to restore a community lost in oppression and slavery.¹

To that end, in the arrangement of the spiritual by American composer and arranger of choral music Moses Hogan, the singer witnesses loved ones being taken away on ships sailing the Jordan River. Instead of mourning the loss that comes with death, the spiritualist celebrates—“Glory Hallelujah!”—that the loved one is being taken away from the oppression of life as an enslaved person. To others, the caution is to be ready when the ship sails by, such that they, too, will die and experience freedom from their state on earth.

Later, the a cappella gospel group Take 6 speaks to the Jordan River, directing the river to “get back,” as if it is a barrier between them and Jesus. The goal is to cross the river to be with Jesus. In both instances, the Jordan River represents the boundary between earth and heaven; one must cross the Jordan, either on a ship or via human conveyance, to experience the elation—“My soul got happy”—of heaven.

For modern-day readers, the meaning of the Jordan River in our focal passage may not be the most relevant concern. Modern readers should concern themselves with the identification of the metaphorical Jordan Rivers in their lives. What situation do we need to “cross over” or resolve in order to move into the next phase of our life? What hard thing must we confront to live fully and freely in our ministry? Following Elisha’s example, there is a pragmatic need to cross the metaphorical Jordans in our lives.

When we cross our Jordan Rivers, we should possess something different—something that will help us in our earthly ministry. We should also understand aspects of our ministry because we will have witnessed someone else doing something similar. The move here may be around being confident that we can do the thing. Elisha’s confidence came from having journeyed alongside Elijah and from learning as he acted in the role of prophet. Elisha’s confidence may also have been emboldened by the mantle he wore.

Finally, when we cross the Jordan Rivers in our lives, others should notice a difference. Allowing Elisha to be a cautionary tale, when we cross the Jordan River in our lives, we should be careful with how we use our new power and status. Just because we can cause harm, it does not mean we should cause harm.

Notes

1. James H. Cone, The Spirituals and the Blues, 50^th Anniversary ed. (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2022). Also, see Daniel L. Smith-Christopher, “The River Jordan in Early African American Spirituals,” Bible Odyssey, June 20, 2017, https://bibleodyssey.com/articles/the-river-jordan-in-early-african-american-spirituals.

Life comes with the blessing of choices, although some philosophers have endeavored to make us think of them as a curse.¹

Our psalm selection reports the blissful choice that the psalmist made to recognize God as the Lord, without whom there is nothing good or lasting. It echoes the first lesson from 1 Kings 19, in which Elisha chooses to follow Elijah in the walk of God’s prophet. The epistle lesson from Galatians 5 celebrates the freedom Christ made possible so that we may bear the manifold fruit of the Spirit in life. The gospel lesson from Luke 9 completes the picture of a servant of the Lord, who takes the path of service single-heartedly and with trust.

The psalmist, who will turn to none but God, presents his petition for protection (literally “keep me,” verse 1). In the Hebrew Bible, the word “keep” (shamar) almost always comes with God as the subject when the object of the verb is a human being (for example, Psalm 121:4; 145:20). Counting on that which God is well known for doing, the psalmist asks God to shield him.

The psalmist’s prayer is followed by a declaration of trust with a language that recalls the rite of covenant-making or renewal (Psalm 16:2). The first part of the statement (“You are my Lord”) sets the parameters of the pact. As a term of the covenant, the psalmist says that he cannot conceptualize what is good apart from God. He has nowhere else to turn in times of need. God’s deliverance, for which he petitioned in verse 1, is no longer something merely desired; it is an absolute necessity.

Whereas the New Revised Standard Version presents the psalmist making the vow of fidelity concurrently with his petition, the Hebrew text offers an alternative way to imagine the scene, in that verse 2 can be translated, “I said [or, I have said] to the LORD.” In other words, the psalmist has trusted in God in the past and in a consistent manner.

His adoration of God has an implication for the way he deals with others, whom he introduces as “holy ones” (verse 3). The “holy ones” may elsewhere refer to angels or other divine beings, but in verse 3, they are “in the land,” which makes it clear that he refers to the community of the faithful people. He accords paramount value to “the holy ones in the land,” whom he calls “noble” (verse 3). Their lofty status, however, is not predicated on their pedigree or power. Their worthiness lies solely in their dedication to God, and their commitment constitutes the basis of the psalmist’s utmost joy. He would place them in sharp contrast to those who are eager to “choose another god” (verse 4)—those who are caricatured in the King James Version as hastening in their folly of unfaithfulness.

They not only bring pain upon themselves but also cause harm to others, as implied in the image of their “drink offerings of blood” (verse 4a). The ghastly image hints at the facade of worship that conceals the violent acts they are engaged in behind a pretense of piety. The psalmist unequivocally refuses to join their false worship. In contrast to them, the psalmist would expound the blessing he recognizes in sticking with God. He adds that he would not “take their names upon my lips” (verse 4b). While the sentence can refer to a number of contexts, the psalmist clearly declines to keep them company. The New Revised Standard Version’s translation in verses 4–5 is clever, juxtaposing those who “choose” another god and the psalmist who has “chosen” the Lord. Although the latter case involves a different Hebrew word, the New Revised Standard Version renders a picture of God as the choice portion of inheritance.

The idea of inheritance is paired with the portrayal of God who maintains the psalmist’s “lot,” which may refer to his physical property or to his destiny (verse 5). While the basic tenor is clear, curiously the two halves of the verse display different sentence structures. The first half reports the psalmist’s declaration in the third person (“The LORD is my chosen portion”). By contrast, in the second half of the verse, the psalmist switches to the second person: “You hold my lot.” The shift simulates a scene in which, upon making a public statement concerning God’s sovereign care, the psalmist turns to address God directly with his confession of faith.

We continue to receive his personalized reflection on God in verse 6. He regards the Lord as his inheritance that was handed down to him; in turn, he will hand down his faith to later generations. He describes what he has received as something that has “fallen” to him, acknowledging that it came to him as a gift of grace that he can neither claim credit for nor take for granted. The word “heritage” presupposes changing generations, and the word “fallen” may, albeit obliquely, refer to dying, but death will not end the legacy of his faithfulness.

“The boundary lines” (verse 6) may also be a metaphor for God’s way that guides his path in life—the kind of counsel that he talks about in verse 7, and the teaching of the Lord that keeps him up in the night (see also Psalm 119:55, 148). Alternatively, the psalmist of Psalm 16 may refer to the dark moments in life. Even then he is not left without confidence. In a steadfast manner he is led by the Lord instead of being like one “who puts a hand to the plow and looks back” (Luke 9:62a). Jesus says such a person is not fit for the reign of God (verse 62b).

The psalmist will stay with the Lord instead of being moved (literally “will not totter”; Psalm 16:8b). He is confident that this is the formula for security as well as for happiness (verse 9). This verse contains a catalogue of organs that often symbolize the center or entirety of one’s being, constructing a picture of exuberance that permeates his body and soul.

The psalmist trusts that God will deliver him from death (verse 10). He anticipates that God will show him “the path of life” (verse 11). No wonder Peter on the day of Pentecost finds this psalm pertinent when he is compelled to present to the crowd his testimony to the resurrection of Jesus Christ (Acts 2:27). God ensures the life of the faithful consistently from the Old to the New.

Notes

1. Commentary previously published on this site for June 26, 2016.

If Galatians 3:23–29 talks about baptism as liberation from the binary prison of domination, warfare, and exclusion, chapter 5 starts with a passionate plea to stay within this precious realm of baptismal freedom and to not submit again to a yoke of slavery (5:1). In several iterations our text hammers in Paul’s ethics of liberation as the imperative to preserve the contra-factual reality of freedom by staying in line (stoichōmen; 5:25) with the Spirit rather than the Flesh and its binary law (5:13–15, 16, 18, 24–26). Spirit/pneuma is the matrix of freedom, Flesh/sarx the antagonistic sphere of (re-)enslavement. The political and spiritual, the individual and collective, are inseparably intertwined in this.

What is Flesh then?

The term Flesh is, next to law, one of the most misunderstood words in Paul’s theological vocabulary that needs to be extracted from deeply ingrained patterns of anti-body, anti-women, and anti-Earth interpretations. Paul himself describes the works of the Flesh in his list of “vices” with a clear focus on enmities, feuds, jealousy, anger, selfishness, divisions, et cetera (5:20). He mentions deadly infighting (5:15) and self-centered rivalries and competitive behavior (5:26). The New Revised Standard Version in 5:13 translates Flesh as self-indulgence (although it afterwards unfortunately reverts to “flesh”).

For this is what Flesh means: Not the physical body and its lusts (5:16–17; New King James Version) that all too often are still connected with “lower nature,” female bodies, and sexuality in particular, nor the material world and earthbound existence of humanity in a Platonic-type dualism. Rather, Flesh is the ego-driven impulse, the passions and desires (5:24) of relentless self-promotion and self-interest at the expense of or in disregard of the other/s (5:26). This is what Paul declares the Flesh crucified for those who belong to Christ (5:24; see also 2:19–20).

Closely aligned with the law of a binary hierarchical world order, Flesh as the sin-producing force of selfishness is certainly not more at home in human bodies than in human minds. To distinguish it from flesh as human physicality (or even the flesh of circumcision; for example, 6:8a, 13), I choose to capitalize “Flesh” here, parallel to the Spirit as its antagonist that transforms spirits, souls, and bodies from Flesh-driven egomania and other-obliviousness toward egalitarian community-building across binary borders and boundaries.

How to be free?

Galatians 5:13 takes up the programmatic imperative of 5:1 and reminds the Galatians of their call to freedom that is, in fact, already the new reality of their being one in Christ, together with Jews and Greeks (3:28). But what does liberation mean, if the cages of the binary law are fortified by an ironclad system of imperial control and a law that safeguards freedom as the privilege of the strong, on the backs of the weak destined to be subservient?

Paul’s approach is mind-boggling in its paradoxical power. Freedom defies the uninhibited self-indulgence of the Flesh (5:13). It is not the freedom of the slave masters above that is contingent on mass enslavement below as normalcy of the Roman world; it is not even the act of setting individual slaves free while the system of bondage persists for their less-fortunate fellow slaves. Instead, the messianic transformation in a movement of cruciform “downward mobility” goes to the very root of the binary slave–free by practicing freedom as mutual slave-li service.

“Through love become slaves to one another” (5:13): This upside-down version of freedom is tantamount to a nonviolent rebellion, an abolition movement from within. It subverts the master–slave order in a deep-reaching way from the inside out as it continuously blocks and mocks the selfish impulse that craves superiority and privilege on the back of the other. If the free do service as slaves to slaves, they become slaves and other themselves; if the slaves are served, they are, in fact, free—there then is indeed no more slave and free (3:28).

This movement from oneself to other and other to oneself makes high low and low high in a steady flow of mutuality; it is the “circulation system” of the body of Christ propelled by the Spirit as its life force. As it de-binarizes the polarities and horizontalizes the hierarchies of the existing order, it creates a diverse and dynamic One-an(d)-Otherness that constitutes the baptismal Oneness in Christ (3:28).

The law of love

Paul doesn’t speak explicitly about the political implications of messianic freedom, but his discourse on freedom versus slavery that permeates the entire letter confronts the freedom of the Roman overlords and their law throughout. The law that enables humanity truly to become free is not the metaphysical law of hierarchical binaries, nor its political implementation as the law of Caesar, but the law of a conquered and enslaved nation that was forged on their exodus-way out of another slave-house, namely Egypt (Exodus 20:1–2).

The law of Torah is fulfilled in one single commandment (en heni logo): “You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (5:14; see also Leviticus 19:8). This is the ultimate invalidation of the binary law and its polarizing antagonisms between me/self and you/other. It also liberates Torah itself from the binary prison and its abusive slave role as a disciplinarian under Roman rule (3:23–25).

The love of God is not listed separately here (see also Mark 12:28–30) but coincides with the commandment and practice of neighbor-love. The cruciform God is encountered in the human other, far away from the presumptions and arrogance of imperial religion as worship of power, the supreme form of idolatry. Love as the one commandment that fulfills the entire law/Torah (5:14; also Romans 13:8) is thus the first item and common denominator in a list of concrete “ground rules” in 5:22–23 that Paul calls “fruit of the Spirit.” Followed by patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control, it is first and foremost love, joy, and peace that define this catalogue of messianic “virtues” and civic code of the kingdom of God (5:21).

The contrast to the divisive and adversarial works of the Flesh in 5:19–21 could not be more obvious. Love as co-dying with Christ to the old binary-addicted self (see also 2:19–20) gives access to a new kind of joy and peace diametrically opposed both to the Roman-provided “fun” and thrill of the arena games and to the “peace” of the Pax Romana based on war and oppression.¹

The last binary

The irresolvable antithesis of Flesh/slavery versus Spirit/freedom and Paul’s polarizing language have often been misread as his reinforcement of the binary law and have kept Pauline interpretation caught in the “binary trap,” Galatians 3:28 notwithstanding. Yet for the time being, the Flesh–Spirit antithesis reflects the unavoidable coexistence and clash between the still powerful old binary world order of domination and the already present trans-binary new creation. This is the last binary that Louis Martyn called the “apocalyptic antinomy” and that eventually is meant to end the rule of the binary altogether.²

Notes

1. For a most insightful reflection on Paul’s cruciform ethics in Galatians, see Roger J. Gench, The Cross Examen: A Spirituality for Activists (Cascade Books, 2020).
2. J. Louis Martyn, ed., Galatians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, 1st ed., The Anchor Bible 33A (New York: Doubleday, 1998), 570–573.