Our God is a consuming fire
Mediation in the Pentateuch
As the old materialism wanes, an older desire is reborn: to transcend the limits of our finite existence and reach its infinite and absolute source. But modernity has left us skeptical of the traditional doctrines and practices that claim to mediate contact with the divine, transmitted from one generation to the next through ancient hierarchical institutions. The tension between these two dimensions of religion tempts us to posit a radical opposition between them, as if the mystics and the priests have always formed two warring camps. This opposition clearly fails to capture the internal experience of any of the monotheistic religions, not to mention the ancient mystery cults (although it may apply to the state religions of ancient empires, which tended to be suspicious of both categories). But the synthesis of these two poles remains difficult for us to comprehend. How did the great mystics of these traditions experience the mediation of ritual? And how did they deal with the inherent fallibility of the institutional structures necessary for its maintenance and transmission?
Within the Christian tradition, the two greatest mystics are undoubtedly Moses and Paul. The literary corpus attributed to each of these two saints provides the language with which all the main figures in Christian mysticism describe their own experience. But these same writings also serve as the principal point of reference for the whole institutional structure of ancient Judaism and of Christianity. These two men are presented as institutional architects, responsible for the enduring exterior form of their respective religious communities, but also as inhabitants of the “darkness in which God dwells” (Ex. 20:21), graced with overwhelming and incommunicable experiences of divine intimacy (2 Cor. 12). The widespread opposition of modern Biblical scholars to the internal unity of the Pentateuch and of the Corpus Paulinum stems in large part from the apparent contradiction between these two dimensions. From our modern perspective, it seems more plausible that the original pure mysticism was tamed and corrupted by the rise of oppressive institutions, whose proponents manipulated and expanded the original texts to justify their schemes.
More recent scholarship has demonstrated the futility of the 19th-century quest to separate the original pure core from the later corruptions. If we want to study these texts seriously, our only option is to accept them as they are transmitted to us, and look for what the final redactor (whether or not he is literally Moses or Paul) is trying to communicate with his selection and synthesis of source materials. Within this approach, it is clear that the Mosaic and Pauline redactors think that personal mysticism and ritual/hierarchical mediation belong together. And they may have something important to teach us, who have such a hard time entertaining the possibility of this synthesis.
Today, we’ll take a look at what Moses has to say.
The first of the Five Books of Moses begins with an account of the creation of the world, culminating in man and woman, who are made “in the image and likeness” of God (Gen. 1:26). “Image” is a paradigmatic form of mediation, and Hebrew word used here (צלם) is the same one that describes the idols that serve as supposed mediators in polytheistic worship. The implication is that man and woman are themselves the principal mediators of God’s presence in the visible cosmos: governing the earth in his name and giving voice to all creatures in worship. They live in close contact and friendship with God, but this does not separate them from the corruptible material world. Rather, it associates them with God’s concern and his providence for what he has made. Their love for him is expressed not only in silent admiration, but also in active cooperation with his work. The second creation account (Gen. 2:4ff.) elaborates on this theme, introducing the term עבד, which can refer both to priestly service and to agricultural labor, and which will serve in both senses as a central motif in the book of Exodus. The “work” of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden is thus already a form of ritual, a concrete external activity commanded by God and directed towards him. But their status as “image” makes this activity a consequence and manifestation of their mystical union with the divine, not a dialectical alternative in opposition to it.
So far, mediation in Genesis is entirely positive, a fundamental aspect of God’s gratuitous design for creation. But the rupture of the original divine friendship immediately complicates the picture. By listening to the serpent and violating the command of God, Adam and Eve spoil the purity of their receptivity to the divine presence. Suddenly God becomes something dangerous: they feel naked and helpless before him, and try to hide themselves (Gen. 3:8). To take an analogy from physics, the situation is a bit like the coils of a superconducting electromagnet, carrying thousands of amps of electrical current. As long as the coils remain cold enough to stay in the superconducting phase, they present no resistance whatsoever to the current, and can carry such immense loads with no trouble. But this quantity of current is extremely dangerous for a normal conductor, and if the coils leave the superconducting phase for any reason, the whole apparatus will heat up and explode. For the rest of the Pentateuch, God is consistently described as this sort of intense energy, a “consuming fire” (Dt. 4:24), which proves deadly to anyone who carries too much internal resistance. It is no longer possible for him to dwell among his people without annihilating them by the sheer magnitude of his holiness (Ex. 33:1-6). The gates of Eden are barred by the fire of God (Gen. 3:24), and man cannot return without being consumed by the flame.
The central narrative of the rest of the Bible is driven forward by this tension between God’s desire to dwell among his people and the mortal danger this now implies. Given the defective state of humanity, the only way to re-establish contact is through separation. The expulsion from Eden is not merely a punishment; it also provides the necessary distance that allows man to relate to God without being destroyed. This protective barrier is also symbolized by God’s first gift to man after sin: the skin loincloths that cover their nakedness (Gen. 3:21). The successive layers of religious mediation built up in the subsequent books follow this same logic, as mechanisms for “protecting” the people from God, and thereby making it possible for him to continue dwelling among them. In his final discourses to the people, summarizing the whole journey up to this point, Moses gives a succinct and dramatic description of this process (Dt. 5:23-28):
And you, what thoughts were yours, when you listened to this voice that came out of the darkness, saw the mountain all aflame? You came to me, elders and chieftains of the tribes, and pleaded with me: “The Lord our God has given us sight, now, of the splendour and the greatness that is his, we have been able to listen to his voice coming out of the heart of the flames; to-day has proved to us that a man may see God and live to tell of it. Must we court death, with this raging fire ever ready to devour us? Die we surely must, if we hear the voice of the Lord God again. Frail mortality cannot listen, as we have listened, to the voice of the living God speaking from the heart of the flames, without incurring death at last. Do thou go near, and listen to all the commands the Lord thy God has for thee; thou shalt proclaim it to us, and we will obey.” Hearing this, the Lord said to me, I have listened to the plea this people of mine has made to thee, and all they have said is well said.
The people themselves recognize the danger to “frail mortality” of proximity to the living God, and beg for Moses to act as mediator, permitting them to keep their distance. And God approves of their request: “all they have said is well said.” But this separation is always understood as being at the service of communication. This is forcefully underlined by the placement of the initial description of the ritual worship in the Tent of Meeting within the context of Moses’ 40-day mystical experience on Mount Sinai. Initially presented as an apophatic immersion in the “deep darkness, where God is,” the “content” of Moses’ experience is cast as an extensive and precise description of the place and instruments for sacrificial worship (Ex. 25-31). The implication is that these rites are a path for the whole people to participate in Moses’ own experience, even if they are not interiorly prepared to handle it directly.
But this mediation, even in the definitive form given in the Fifth Book, is not the final word. The text itself calls attention to the ambiguities and risks inherent in the use of finite mediators. Despite his extraordinary experiences and the profound purity of soul that makes them possible, Moses remains a fallible human being, and is forbidden from entering the Promised Land due to a (small) act of disobedience (Num. 20:12-13). Awareness of this fallibility periodically drives some of the leaders among the people to challenge Moses’ authority, questioning the uniqueness of his mediation (Num. 12, 16-17, 25). If he is just a man like us, why do we need to rely on him instead of dealing with God directly? What is so special about him, that gives him the right to be in charge? These rebellions usually end in mass casualties, as the people get what they ask for and are exposed to a tiny part of God’s energy, with total annihilation prevented only by a renewed intervention of Moses (and sometimes of subordinate mediators). But the underlying motive is not totally unreasonable, and these episodes serve to highlight the inherent instability of finite mediation, subject to corruption from within and rebellion from without.
Alongside this self-critique, the text provides glimpses of something greater, towards which the current phase of mediation is just one step on the way. The main symbol is the burning bush on Mount Sinai, which is the origin and source of Moses’ own mediation (Ex. 3). Although it is rooted in the earth, and remains a terrestrial plant, the bush is somehow rendered capable of being immersed in the flame while maintaining its internal integrity. Moses himself approaches this status, experiencing an intimacy with God that leaves his face radiant, and seems to enhance his physical vigor as a distinct human individual, rather than annihilating it (Ex. 34:29, Dt. 34:7). This intimacy with the divine flame is described in several places as a “face-to-face” dialogue (Ex. 33:11, Num. 12:8, Dt. 34:10). But at the climatic moment of Moses’ mystical journey, we are told that even he is no exception to the rule that “no mortal” can see the face of God and live (Ex. 33:20). Even Moses himself lives on a lower plane than the burning bush, and this imperfection in his union seems to be the root cause of the imperfection of his mediation. The burning bush stays shrouded in mystery, and we are left wondering what it would look like for a prophet to fully live up to this image (cf. Dt. 34:10).
A serious encounter with the Five Books of Moses is a powerful remedy for the cramped inheritance of the Enlightenment, which still blocks our access to so much of the wisdom of the past. These books shatter the comfortable set of categories that shield us from the excitement as well as the terror of the world we really inhabit. Modernity reduced the material cosmos to a set of interchangeable particles governed by unchanging mathematical rules, in which time itself becomes just another spatial dimension. But Moses reveals it to us as something dynamic and open-ended, a rich web of relationships among distinct individuals and processes, in which man is called to a special role as privileged mediator of the divine presence. The modern cosmovision puts God himself in a box, reducing him to an abstract principle, or to a personal opinion. We are startled and shocked by the “consuming fire” that Moses encounters on Mount Sinai, and by the epic devastation this divine energy can wreak at a moment’s notice. But this shock gives way to a profound joy of “waking up,” of coming home to a world where we and our actions are relevant. These traumatic displays of divine holiness are just the flip side of the desire of God — the one true God who created and rules the cosmos — to live among his people.
Moses opens our eyes to the shallow presumptuousness of an individualistic spirituality by which we try to make contact with God on our own terms. As we learn to appreciate the grandeur of the cosmos, the corresponding greatness of its God, and the sublimity of our own vocation within its history, we find ourselves hungry for mediation. We need someone to introduce us to God little by little, to purify us of the interior resistance that makes his presence dangerous. And we need to find our place in the cosmic story, recognizing and integrating our relationship with the rest of humanity – past, present and future – and with the material world. We need not close our eyes to the potential for corruption inherent in these mediations: the manifestation and resolution of these problems is in fact one of the central threads of the story. The point is to insert ourselves into the narrative, realizing that the risk is worth running, and that our participation matters.
Thanks dear Robert! A really usefull post to better understand the misunderstood and great role of mediation and all its implications such as the liturgy, tradition and relationships