Lectionary Commentaries for August 2, 2026
Tenth Sunday after Pentecost

Fortunately, the people who passed along their memories of Jesus were better at storytelling than they were at counting. Because it sounds like someone wasn’t trying hard when they included this line: “Those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children” (Matthew 14:21). So, let’s rename this story to “The Feeding of Many More Than 5000.”

Matthew’s account goes beyond preserving details of the event. This passage tells readers a good deal about Jesus, the priorities of his ministry, his reputation and appeal, his connections to John the Baptizer, and the sociopolitical climate of his time and place. When preachers attend to those aspects of the passage and sketch a fuller picture of the story, beyond simply marveling over a miracle of abundant sustenance, congregations get a better sense of what it means to be a follower of Jesus. Fulfilling his commission to promote obedience to his way (Matthew 28:20) requires us to make mercy, healing, empowering, and feeding as central to our efforts as they were to Jesus’s.

Earlier in Matthew, Jesus launches his public ministry when he learns that John—his forerunner, his baptizer, and likely also his teacher—has been arrested (4:12–17). More recently in the narrative, John reaches out from his incarceration to seek clarity from Jesus. In that scene (11:2–19), Jesus calls attention to ministry he has done to benefit those who are poor and those who contend with physical ailments that usually contribute to poverty and powerlessness. Now, in the passage before us, Jesus attempts to sail to a deserted area alone because he has learned about John’s execution at the order of Herod Antipas (14:1–12).

Repeated references to the persecution of John provide regular reminders of the danger that comes with prophetic action and speech. If it’s politically expedient to slay John because of his popularity (according to Josephus, Antiquities 18.116–19) or his vocal criticisms of the corruption among the leadership class (according to Matthew 14:4), it could be the same for Jesus, who keeps spreading hope and joy among those who suffer and live in poverty.

Jesus has good reason, therefore, to seek to lay low for a while, or at least to tend to his own spirit in solitude.

He’s too deep into his ministry, however. The plan fails. Crowds pursue him, with some even gathering at his destination before he can come ashore. Maybe some who follow him mean to protect him from the authorities by their presence. Others, it appears, have come to be healed of a range of sicknesses. The sheer volume of human need always outweighs other concerns, and so Jesus’s compassion seizes his guts (see the great verb splagchnizomai in 14:14) and prompts him to heal. So much for carving out some inconspicuousness during this risky time.

Since returning to Matthew during the season after Pentecost, the Revised Common Lectionary has given significant attention to Jesus’s teachings in Matthew 9–13; the stories of his healings and exorcisms in that part of the gospel (and also in chapter 8) have been largely passed over. Preachers do well to remind congregations that Jesus’s ministry in Matthew up to this point has involved many acts of mercy. 

The crowds know him as a healer, so they come to him for healing, not conversion. In the passage in front of us, he is not forgiving sins or teaching about finding belonging within a new kinship group. These crowds of Jews who seek him don’t appear to be religiously marginalized or dissatisfied in any way. Preaching that assumes they are risks reasserting, even implicitly, the long and lethal history of Christian anti-Judaism.

At last, the disciples arrive on the scene once nightfall nears. Their desire to dismiss the now-healed crowds has a veneer of compassion. The desert brings real practical challenges for staying alive, unless you’re planning for manna and quail to fall from the sky or something extraordinary like that.

Jesus has his own compassionate idea. He knows a thing or two about God’s delight in providing sustenance—food given “without price,” as Isaiah 55:1 puts it. He also knows about enlisting others in the toil and joy of offering food to people who are hungry. Tonight’s meal isn’t going to descend from the heavens; it’s going to be passed around by human hands.

Earlier I mentioned the verb splagchnizomai (“to have compassion”). Matthew has used that word once already, back in 9:36: “When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” 

Jesus aches over the oppression and neglect the masses suffer because of neglectful or exploitative leaders (shepherds). In that previous scene, his compassion spurs him to call his disciples into action, as he empowers the Twelve to heal those who are sick and liberate those who are hounded by demonic powers (10:1, 7–8). Something similar happens in the passage in front of us, when Jesus commissions the Twelve as the waitstaff for his impromptu repast on the grass.

In other words, whenever Jesus feels compassion for those who are disadvantaged and in harm’s way, he calls the church into action.

Like I said earlier, addressing the sheer volume of human need always outweighs other concerns. It’s the most essential piece of Christian ministry.

We would have a different story if Jesus were to instruct the crowds to come forward and take their loaves and fish from a central distribution point. More different still if a full plate magically materialized in front of each person. Instead, the disciples distribute the food, looking again and again into hopeful and delighted eyes as they move from one hungry body to the next. What a different banquet this is, in contrast to the macabre celebration of Herod Antipas’s birthday in 14:6–11.

The meal in the desert is about more than survival. It’s a feast. Everyone eats until “filled” (chortazō in 14:20). Afterward, each of the Twelve gets a basket to collect the scraps—12 individual reminders of the plenitude. How fortunate many of us are to be able to eat our meals until we are “full” or “stuffed.” We can reasonably suppose that such an experience is rare for many of the Galileans Jesus feeds.

The abundance speaks to the depth of Jesus’s compassion and also to his courage in the face of the dangers that stalk people like him and John. Localized food shortages were common within the Roman Empire, and officials knew the political value of grain giveaways and circulating propaganda that trumpeted Rome’s ability to feed its people. Someone who’s able to feed the masses in a desolate place can give hope to the masses who reside in the empire’s periphery.

This passage must remind us that hungry people are not metaphors. Hunger is persistent. It always returns, as we are reminded by “The Feeding of Many More Than 4000,” which comes in Matthew 15:32–39. Compassion must not grow tired. God summons the church to mercy, generosity, and problem-solving.

That work will often be criticized, if not criminalized. In some settings, compassion is dangerous.

“You pray for the hungry. Then you feed them. This is how prayer works.” (This statement is widely attributed to Pope Francis, but apparently it’s more a paraphrase of his teachings than an actual quotation.)

The exilic and postexilic sections of Isaiah, beginning in chapter 40, reckon with questions of the ongoing message of a religious tradition in the face of questions of divine justice and divine reliability.¹ In other words, what do words of abundance and promise, of covenant and loyalty, mean after the destruction of the holy city of Jerusalem and the scattering of God’s holy people? How shall the strong and sure tradition be interpreted into a new situation?

Isaiah 55:1–5 speaks words of hope, likely to a people returning to Jerusalem. These verses, rich in imagery and tradition, communicate themes of divine invitation, renewal and restoration, and vocation. These verses are both a reaffirmation of God’s presence in their midst and a reinterpretation of what God’s presence means when God’s people find themselves in a new time and place.

Come to the water

The call for the thirsty to come to the water is a reversal of earlier verses in Isaiah that described Judah as a garden without water (Isaiah 1:30) and the Lord as withholding water from Jerusalem (Isaiah 3:1). Beginning in Isaiah 40, water becomes a sign of life as the Lord once more pours water on a thirsty land (see Isaiah 41:18; 43:20; 44:34; 49:10). Isaiah 55:1 joins this theme of renewal and restoration. Much-needed water will be available for all who thirst, and grain will be available without cost of silver. A season of abundance and satiation has arrived.

The images of water and silver in Isaiah 55:1 may also recall Isaiah 1:22, where silver dross (basically, silver scum) and beer mixed with water are part of a series of images that describe Jerusalem’s descent from a righteous and prosperous city on a hill to the very opposite. In Isaiah 55 the people are not in need of silver, scummy or otherwise, and their water is for refreshment rather than for diluting their drink, whether for personal use or to increase profit. These images that once signified their weakness and sinfulness are now symbols of salvation. Jerusalem will be welcomed with a feast to delight in what is good.

Outside the book of Isaiah, Woman Wisdom in Proverbs 9:1–6 also invites hearers to a banquet table where they may eat of her food and drink of her wine. As in Isaiah 55, those feasting at this meal will find life. In both these texts, the one extending the invitation matters as much as the food itself, for it is the host who offers life. In Proverbs 9 that host is Woman Wisdom, a figure connected intimately with God, who is the host offering a divine invitation in Isaiah 55. 

An eternal covenant

Isaiah 55:3–4 recalls the so-called Davidic covenant: that David’s house and descendants would rule in Jerusalem (2 Samuel 7, though the word “covenant” does not actually appear in that chapter). The end of the Davidic dynasty, along with the destruction of God’s own temple residence on Mount Zion, had raised questions for those who trusted that the Davidic monarchy and the temple on Mount Zion signaled security and safety for the holy city. The declaration had been that God would build David’s descendants into a house that would rule forever (‘olam), yet the Babylonians had succeeded in conquering it. 

That word “forever,” or “everlasting”—as the New Revised Standard Version translates—returns in Isaiah 55:3. This time, though, the covenant is not with an individual but with the whole people as an extension of God’s steadfast love of David. The New Revised Standard Version translation, “I will make with you an everlasting covenant,” is somewhat more declarative than the Hebrew, which is cohortative and better translated as “Let me make with you … ,” continuing the invitational tone begun in verse 1.

Surely a reference to the Davidic tradition, the phrase “everlasting covenant” further recalls the covenant with Noah (Genesis 9:16) and the covenant with Abraham (Genesis 17:13) as inherited by Isaac (Genesis 17:19), and Sabbath practices as described in Exodus 31:16. This pronouncement of an everlasting covenant is fully aligned with the practice of Judah’s God, and its restatement here is yet another sign of a renewed relationship. 

Verse 4 further describes David and his vocation before transitioning into verse 5, which describes the future vocation of the people called to this feast. David, claims verse 4, was a witness to the peoples, even as he was a ruler and commander of peoples. While it is easy to see the words “ruler” and “commander” associated with David, the king and military hero, the word “witness” is surprising here. The word shows up nowhere in the Davidic narratives in 1–2 Samuel, but military strength would have been a sign of a strong god, as were peace and prosperity in a land.

Your God glorifies you

Verse 5 is linked with verse 4, with the introductory word “behold” (hen). As David had been a witness and commander to peoples, so now the people of this new covenant will be called upon for that same purpose. It is challenging to know exactly what it means for nations to call upon this people in the process of being renewed, but it aligns with images such as Isaiah 2 that describe many peoples streaming to Zion, the mountain of the Lord (Isaiah 2:2–5). Isaiah 55:5 sets Israel once more as an earthly sign of the Lord God of Israel and as a people to whom other nations will turn. This reflection of God’s glory out into the world is their purpose and their calling, what we might call their vocation.

These three themes are present throughout scripture, and their confluence in these five short verses offers preachers a chance to think with congregations about how these themes might be reinterpreted for yet another time and another place. Divine invitation and a promise and experience of renewal and restoration are surely necessary ingredients as congregations continue to discern their vocations and callings for the sake of God’s world.

Notes

1. Commentary previously published on this website for August 6, 2023.

Preachers face a temptation to emphasize everything good about the life of faith. We shouldn’t forget these good things, but sometimes faith is marked by struggle, difficulty, and wrestling.

Building to this moment

Jacob faces danger all around. He has just made promises never to go north again (Genesis 31:43–53). Forced south, he learns that his brother Esau—whom Jacob treated horribly in the past (25:29–34; 27:1–45)—approaches with 400 men. With Cain and Abel’s ghosts lurking in the background, Jacob divides his camp into two, accepting the reality that Esau may easily strike down one of them (32:7–8). He prays a desperate prayer (32:9–12). He lines up gifts to assuage Esau’s anger (32:13–21). Then, at the outset of our passage, under the cover of darkness, he sends his family and belongings across the Jabbok River (which in Hebrew sounds like Jacob; 32:22–23).

Confusion and uncertainty

Jacob remains by himself, and out of nowhere, someone wrestles with him (32:24). The text is slow to reveal who this assailant is, meaning readers face the confusion that Jacob undoubtedly experienced.

At first glance, the opponent seems to be a human. The wrestler is described as “a man” (32:24), cannot overpower Jacob, and may resort to a cheap shot (32:25). The wrestler doesn’t want to be seen by daylight (32:26), and he refuses to reveal his name (32:29). Perhaps it’s a robber? Or maybe Esau went to scout things out, attacked under darkness, couldn’t win, and now doesn’t want to reveal who he is away from his 400 men.

But Jacob’s opponent renames him Israel, here meaning, “He wrestles with God” (32:28). And Jacob even says, “I have seen God face to face” (32:30). Genesis 35:9–10 confirms that God is present here.

Nevertheless, the story may be less about having just one opponent. After all, while renaming Jacob, the assailant says, “You have striven with God and with humans” (32:28). The point may be that Israel’s existence was marked by struggle. Here in Genesis, Jacob/Israel struggles against:

• Esau in the womb (25:22),
• Esau at birth (25:26),
• Esau when he was famished (25:29–34),
• Esau and Isaac when Isaac wanted to bless Esau (27:1–45),
• Rachel (30:1–2), and
• Laban (31:1–55).

Reflecting on these struggles, Julie Galambush writes, “Mysterious as it is, Jacob’s night of wrestling seems to symbolize his entire lifetime.”¹ The same could be said about not just the character now named Israel, but also the people of Israel. Outside of Genesis, they struggle against:

• the Egyptians,
• neighboring peoples like the Philistines,
• the Assyrians, and
• the Babylonians, just to name a few.

Forsaking piety for realism

The name “Israel” is obviously central to the Bible. The original Hebrew letters behind this name could have been interpreted as meaning “God’s righteous one,” “God is righteous,” “God is exalted,” “God shines,” “God heals,” or “God rules.”² Genesis avoids these pious-sounding explanations of the name, preferring one having to do with struggle. Here, as mentioned, Israel means “He wrestles with God” (32:28).

Genesis doesn’t favor what sounds most inspiring. Its goal isn’t to move readers into some other-worldly religion where all that matters is passive submission. It insists that at the very heart of Israel’s identity is struggle, and this struggle can involve God. Reflecting on this text, Hemchand Gossai writes, “If we do not struggle or wrestle with God, our faith remains at a very basic level, untested and unexamined.”³

Sometimes, people in the Bible struggle against God because of their own selfish choices. Other times, it’s as though God attacks out of nowhere. Life feels unfair, and God seems uncooperative. Jacob has these sorts of experiences, second-born in his family and later deceived repeatedly by his uncle Laban.

The Bible’s prayers record the struggles of people like Jacob. One of the most popular types of psalms grieves that the world is as difficult as it is, often complaining that God hasn’t made things better (for example, Psalms 6; 13).⁴ They’re the words of people wrestling with God. Within the community of faith, space is made for people disappointed and even angry with God.

People sometimes feel like they need to be at peace with God before entering a church. But the Bible welcomes those struggling with the divine—seeing this struggle as central to Israel’s identity.

Blessing

All that mattered to Jacob was that his nighttime attacker blessed him (32:26). To bless someone is to lay aside all hostilities and affirm the goodness in that person. Good things often accompany blessings, like generous gifts. When God blesses someone, it means that their needs are met. They’re made whole and surrounded by peace. They even thrive.

Jacob’s blessing from God doesn’t come when he’s achieved superstar status as a saint. It comes when he’s made a mess of his life, feels trapped, is all alone, and has nowhere to go. He’s in the middle of a wrestling match. But there amid darkness and confusion, God gives him goodness. Gossai has additional words worth repeating:

Some of us have come to points in our lives where we imagine that we are beyond redemption; yet from this narrative and from others in the Bible, it is clear that one does not seek redemption when one is whole; rather redemption comes most notably in a state of brokenness—often surrounded by a quality of fear and uncertainty.⁵

Kathleen O’Connor makes a similar point:

These stories of Jacob’s struggles tell people of faith how we might begin again after our own losses, wounds, broken hearts, and broken lives. They tell us to cling to God no matter the struggle, for our God is on the side of life, the side of the poor and the broken.⁶

The great hope of this passage is that even amid our struggles, God has good things in store for us.

Notes

1. Julie Galambush, Reading Genesis: A Literary and Theological Commentary (Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys, 2018), 115.
2. Gordon Wenham, Genesis 16–50, Word Biblical Commentary (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1994), 296–297.
3. Hemchand Gossai, Barrenness and Blessing: Abraham, Sarah, and the Journey of Faith (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2008), 44.
4. Roland E. Murphy, The Gift of the Psalms (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2000), 12–13.
5. Gossai, Barrenness and Blessing, 61.
6. Kathleen M. O’Connor, Genesis 25b–50, Smyth & Helwys Bible Commentary (Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys, 2020), 106.

The scriptures often describe people and things in absolute terms, with a rhetorical flair I advise my students to avoid.¹

I tell them that critical thinking requires us to seek precision in our language and shun generalities that make reality look simpler than it actually is. This Psalm 145 selection, therefore, makes it challenging for interpreters readily to embrace the exuberant declaration that “The LORD is good to all” (verse 9).

On one level, the language of Psalm 145 is straightforward and simple. The words “The LORD is” occur five times, and their object is usually “all” or “every” of some category—for example, “all who are falling” (verse 14). Another type of statement predicates actions of the Lord, such as “raises,” “gives,” “fulfills,” “hears,” and “watches.” In other words, it is the theology we first learned at the dinner table: “God is great. God is good.” What is there not to understand?

On another level, however, human history and personal experience prompt us to wonder just how the Lord’s goodness becomes active and effective for all creation. Whatever our theological convictions may declare, sometimes it’s just difficult to feel that goodness at work in the midst of suffering and loss.

So, can we profess with the poet that “the LORD is good to all”? In our congregations there will be situations in which this statement brings confusion and pain instead of joy and peace. The fact is that there’s no way to argue someone into this affirmation of faith, but the reason we keep leading in worship and stepping into the pulpit is that we know the Holy Spirit works within—and the fellowship of believers surrounds—the brokenhearted. It’s with that confident hope that I make the following observations.

First, let’s start with the obvious: Our selection is about one-half of the entire psalm, whose acrostic structure and consistent style require that the parts of the psalm should be understood in light of the whole.² The verb “to bless” at the beginning (verse 1), middle (verse 10), and end (verse 21), and the key Hebrew word kol (“all, every”) 17 times in the poem are two other signs of its unity.³ Parallel panels move from praise (verses 1–2, 10) to greatness (verses 3–6, 11–13a) and goodness (verses 7–9, 13b–20).⁴

So, while this Sunday’s selection concentrates on the goodness of God, it passes over verses 10–13, wherein the poet extols the kingship of God. We must be careful, therefore, not to sever the positive theology in our verses from its source in God’s royal power. As James Luther Mays writes of verses 4–7, “God’s power is good and God’s goodness is powerful.”⁵

The choice to pass over verses 10–13 isn’t based on the avoidance of monarchic language for Israel’s God, since those verses appeared when Psalm 145 was used in the lectionary just three Sundays ago. Still, we don’t want short-term liturgical memory to fail us when it comes to interpreting the rest of the psalm.

Second, we need to understand just how the Hebrew word kol (“all, every”) functions in this psalm. Instead of leaping into philosophical and theological conundrums, we would do well to ask whether kol must be taken here as “all” in the sense of an absolute, numerical comprehensiveness. To be sure, there are places where an author seems to intend this: “God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good” (Genesis 1:31).

In other places, an author intends to express a representative comprehensiveness, as when “David assembled all Israel in Jerusalem” (1 Chronicles 15:3). There were certainly some Israelites who didn’t make it to Jerusalem for that celebration.

The poetic style and imagery of Psalm 145 intend us to see the goodness of God in “successively broader circles,”⁶ so that nature and history point to the complete goodness of God’s nature, rather than to a human moral assessment about each and every event in the cosmos. Paul’s thinking in Romans 8:28 runs parallel to this truth—namely, that it is the experience of God’s people that “all things work together for good,” not that all things are morally good in themselves.

Third, the major portion of this Sunday’s lection (verses 14–21) interprets the goodness of God primarily in terms of God’s faithfulness (verse 13b) to and for the people of God. Psalm 145 invites those who sing and pray it into a circle of trust, a place where we begin to see God’s relation to the world not in terms of our own needs but in terms of the larger stage of divine purpose and action.

Thus, in spite of the fact that this psalm begins with the first-person singular, it soon moves well beyond any single individual to all times and places. Seeing Psalm 145 as a “community” praise psalm helps us realize that its theology transcends its personal application to one’s own spiritual growth, and certainly beyond praying for the next nice thing God can do for me.⁸

Moreover, regular corporate praise becomes, as Walter Brueggemann suggests, “an evangelical act that invites a deep departure from the greed system of self-securing.”⁷ A community that praises in this way must also pray boldly, dependent for each day’s good gifts from God above (Matthew 6:11).⁹

Notes

1. Commentary first published on this site on August 3, 2014.
2. On the structure see Gerald H. Wilson, “The Qumran Psalms Scroll Reconsidered: Analysis of the Debate,” CBQ 47 (1985): 624–642.
3. Leon J. Liebreich, “Psalms 34 and 145 in Light of Their Key Words,” HUCA 27 (1956): 181–192.
4. Craig C. Broyles, Psalms (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 1999), 506.
5. James Luther Mays, Psalms (Louisville: John Knox Press, 1994), 439.
6. Reuven Kimelmann, “Psalm 145: Theme, Structure, and Impact,” JBL 113 (1994): 53.
7. Artur Weiser, The Psalms: A Commentary, trans. Herbert Hartwell (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1962), 827.
8. Walter Brueggemann, “Praise and the Psalms: A Politics of Glad Abandonment, Part II,” Hymn 43 (1992): 14–15.
9. Frank-Lothar Hossfeld and Erich Zenger, Psalms 3, Hermeneia, trans. L. M. Maloney (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2011), 602–603.

Paul closes Romans 8 with the triumphal declaration that nothing “in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord” (8:39), which makes his dire tone in 9:1 an abrupt shift in attitude from his previous rhetorical heights. The abrupt shift in tone and subject between chapter 8 and chapter 9 has even led to many commentators dismissing Romans 9–11 as a digression, insisting that Paul’s discussion of Israel was not integral to the message of the letter as a whole. Most commentaries written in recent years, however, have recognized Paul’s discussion of Israel as essential to his wider theological project in Romans; what is at stake is not a peripheral issue of how Israel relates to “the church.”

Rather, Paul in these chapters insists that God’s very character is on the line. In fact, it is worth noticing that Paul never mentions “the church” (ekklēsia) in Romans 9–11. Instead, Paul is concerned to show that God’s promises are trustworthy, and that God is faithful and merciful to his people. Within these three chapters, Paul is concerned to address how God demonstrates faithfulness to Israel (for example, 9:6, 14; 11:1), how God is at work in both Jews and gentiles to bring salvation (9:16–18, 24–26; 10:4, 12–13; 11:11–12, 25–32), and therefore how gentiles ought to relate to Jews (11:17–34).

Romans 9:1–5 is Paul’s introduction to the three chapters in which he addresses these important questions, and these five verses pick up themes he has already introduced elsewhere in the letter (1:16–17; 3:1–3, 21–26; 7:1–6, 7–13; 8:12–17). He begins this portion of the letter by expressing his deep and heartfelt anguish for his “kinsfolk according to the flesh,” even going so far as to wish he could cut himself off from Christ for their sake (9:1–3). When Paul speaks about his “kinsfolk according to the flesh,” he is speaking about his own religio-ethnic identity as a Jew.

Paul’s kinsfolk according to the flesh

Preachers would do well to notice that for Paul, Judaism is an ethnic identity and a religious worldview. Even as a follower of Christ, Paul’s worldview remains essentially Jewish, and this is clear even in this short excerpt from Romans 9. Here are some of the ways in which a preacher might notice Paul’s Jewish worldview:

1. Paul divides the world into “Jews” and “gentiles,” and “gentile” is not an ethnic self-designation, but rather a Jewish way of labeling someone a “non-Jew.”
2. Paul’s Christology (which is a Jewish category) is in line with Jews’ Messianic expectations of a ruler arising from the “seed of David” (Romans 1:3) and the “root of Jesse” (15:12). In Romans 9:5, Paul glosses the more particular lineage of the Messiah with the inclusive assertion that the Messiah comes from the Israelites according to the flesh.
3. Even more fundamentally, Paul affirms here that the God of Israel is “God over all” (9:5), and that the God of Israel blessed Israel with adoption, the covenants, the law, worship, promises, and the patriarchs (9:4–5).

The danger of supersessionist theology

Gentile Christian interpreters of this passage are sometimes quick to gloss over the privileges of Israel, or to adopt a supersessionist theology that affirms that God has passed over Israel and that these blessings now belong to the (gentile) church. However, this attitude is precisely what Paul is attempting to counter in these three chapters.

Paul asks three different times whether God has reneged on his promises to Israel (9:14; 11:1, 11), and admonishes the gentiles not to boast over the “natural branches”—in other words, Israel—because the gentiles have been grafted into God’s cultivated olive tree by God’s power and God’s kindness (11:22–23).

In post-Holocaust Christian interpretation, and with antisemitism on the rise globally, Christian theology’s indebtedness to Judaism is still an important reminder. For the preacher, this ought to at least temper the Christian tendency to caricature Judaism or to speak about it as a foil to Christianity.

The danger of Christian Zionism

Conversely, at this political moment, it will also not do for Christians to co-opt Paul’s words in Romans 9:1–5 in order to uncritically support the modern state of Israel. As seen in many contemporary geopolitical contexts, the use of religion to justify a state’s actions most often results in a domestication of that religion’s ideals in service of a nationalist ideology.

In the case of Christian Zionism, this entails a theological framework that rationalizes support for the modern state of Israel no matter what. This harmful theological lens blinds Christians to any injustices perpetrated by the state of Israel; Christian Zionism allows little room for Christians to imagine the flourishing of non-Jews in Israel and Palestine. Munther Isaac, an Evangelical Lutheran pastor in Bethlehem, argues that Christian Zionism is rooted in fear, promotes fear, and dehumanizes Palestinians. Isaac writes, “In the theology of Christian Zionism, Palestinians are often viewed as an irrelevant after-thought.”¹

So if Christian Zionism is not a helpful antidote to antisemitism, how ought gentile Christians to understand Paul’s promises to the Israelites in Romans 9:1–5? Taking a leaf from Paul’s book, we ought first to seek to embody the kindness and justice of God, who works through both Jew and gentile to show mercy (11:32). The people of God in all times and places are called to be agents of justice and mercy. In so doing, we bring the message of the God of Israel to our neighbors—both Jew and gentile.

Notes

1. Munther Isaac, “Christian Ziionism Through Palestinian Eyes,” Kairos Palestine, accessed June 26, 2026, https://www.kairospalestine.ps/index.php/resources/around-the-web/christian-zionism-through-palestinian-eyes.