In Hebrew, a disciple is called a talmid, which means student or learner. When a group of talmid followed a rabbi, it would be called talmidim, the process of making disciples. The objective of the disciple was to be like the rabbi. A disciple did not follow a rabbi alone but was part of a larger group, a learning community called yeshiva. It was in the context of the yeshiva community that a disciple would be formed. A disciple would engage in life’s activities along with the rabbi (we see this with Jesus and his disciples throughout the gospels) with keen observance of how the rabbi lived out the interpretation of the Scriptures. Out of this teaching method a well-known saying emerged, “covering yourself in his dust.” You should follow the rabbi so closely as he lived and taught that the dust of his sandals would stick to your body. Brady Young observes:
In rabbinic literature the disciples of the sages neglect their business and sacrifice much to acquire Torah learning. The disciple is expected to serve his master teacher in caring for personal needs. By serving the master the disciple learns how to conduct his affairs in everyday life situations. He listens to his master’s teaching while doing menial chores to assist his mentor. Because a disciple should have broad knowledge, he would usually study with one rabbi for a number of years and then go study under another sage. The master teacher was a mentor whose purpose was to raise up disciples who would not only memorize his teaching but also to live out the teachings in practical ways.[1]
Walking with the rabbi was not just about literally following him, though it was that too; “your walk” refers to the totality of your lifestyle becoming like the rabbi who was interpreting the Torah in word and deed.[2] For a disciple, to be accepted by a rabbi meant they agreed to follow the rabbi, submit fully to the rabbi’s authority and become like him. This included not just his teaching but also imitating how the rabbi ate, his mannerisms, preferences and prejudices. A disciple was eager to endure any hardship for the sake of learning from the rabbi. One did not commit to be a disciple unless the commitment was made to literally be like the rabbi. The choice to become a disciple of Rabbi Jesus was one that required self-sacrifice, difficulty, and risk. When it came to the rich ruler in Luke 18:18-23, he was not willing to go all the way in his followership of Jesus:
A certain ruler asked him, “Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
“Why do you call me good?” Jesus answered. “No one is good—except God alone. You know the commandments: ‘You shall not commit adultery, you shall not murder, you shall not steal, you shall not give false testimony, honor your father and mother.’”
“All these I have kept since I was a boy,” he said.
When Jesus heard this, he said to him, “You still lack one thing. Sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”
When he heard this, he became very sad, because he was very wealthy.
His wealth was his personal barrier to truly being a disciple of the Rabbi Jesus. The commitment of a disciple to his rabbi was so great that the love of parents seemed like hatred, comparatively. This is in part what Jesus was saying in Luke 14:26:
“If anyone comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters—yes, even their own life—such a person cannot be my disciple.”
A rabbi-and-disciple relationship was a clear mimetic relationship on every level.
Understanding the Hebrew view of knowledge is of great importance to break with the Hellenistic thinking of our modern-day discipleship models. In modern society, knowledge is generally understood to be information that is cognitively known. You “know” a person in society if you can tell someone their name, address, vocation, family size and what kind of car they drive. If we “know” the Bible, we assume that means we can articulate the 66 books, 4 gospels and find the location of the flood narrative. However, in Hebrew thinking, to “know” something was to experience it, not just to intellectualize it. To “know” someone was to share in an intimate relationship with them. The Hebrew word yada, “to know,” means to encounter, experience, and share in an intimate way.[3] When the Bible says that a man may know a woman, it is speaking about sexual intercourse, not just cognitive information. To know something is fully experiential and highly intimate (though not necessarily sexual).
“We think of knowledge in terms of facts – used towards proving or disproving. That sort of knowledge runs into problems quickly in Scripture. There is no concern with disproving or proving the fact of – or the existence of God. God simply is. The Bible’s concern is with relationship – knowing God deeply – even intimately. 'The Hebrew view is that “knowledge of God” (da’at elohim) is having a life in relationship with him.'”[4]
The Hebrew understanding of knowing intersects with the philosophy of rabbi and disciple. The word yada, on seven occasions, is translated “to teach,” “to instruct,” or “to lead.” In the Old Testament, on two occasions, the word yada is specifically connected to the physical actions of flailing and using or playing a musical instrument.[5] It would not even be considered that a disciple just intellectually knew what the rabbi knew and therefore was “a disciple.” Learning, being, and doing for the disciple are always fused together in the intimate experiential relationship between rabbi, disciple and the yeshiva.
If we are going to be authentic disciples of Jesus Christ, then our relationship with Christ must permeate every aspect of our life from our finances, to our relationships, to our time; how we perform our vocation and entertain ourselves on the weekends. To be Christian is to put every aspect of our lives into the hands of our Rabbi Jesus.
Jason Esposito,
Lead Pastor
[1] Brad H. Young, Meet the Rabbis, 30.
[2] Lois Tverberg, Walking in the Dust of Rabbi Jesus. (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2012), 28.
[3] Marvin R. Wilson, Our Father Abraham, 287-288.
[4] Lois Tverberg and Bruce Okkema, Listening to the Language of the Bible. (Holland, MI: En-Gedi Resource Center, 2004), 5.
[5] Marvin R. Wilson, Our Father Abraham, 288.
No comments:
Post a Comment