Snake on a stick - Living by the Word - Numbers 21:4-9; John 3:13-21 - Column

Christian Century, March 2, 1994 by Patrick J. Willson

THE ACCOUNT of the plague of snakes visited upon the Israelites on their wilderness journey does not cause us much discomfort. At least not the way T. E. Lawrence's memoirs raise the hair on our necks in describing a visit to "snake-devoted Sirban": "The valley seemed creeping with horned vipers and puff-adders, cobras and black snakes. By night movement was dangerous; and at last we found it necessary to walk with sticks, beating the bushes each side... A strange thing was the snake's habit, at night, of lying beside us, probably for warmth, under or on the blanket."

But the biblical plague of snakes does seem out of proportion to the crime. The people were only grumbling about the food: manna yesterday, manna today and more manna tomorrow. We can understand their weariness with the menu; we can't understand this feast of snakes.

Where did all snakes come from? Philo thought they were the descendants of the serpent in the garden the snakes symbolizing the venomous seductions of passions and worldly pleasures. That reading, however, seems heavy-handed. The people were only asking for a little variety in the menu.

Snakes are the ironic retribution, explain the Targumim. From the very beginning of creation, the rabbis expounded, the snake has eaten only dust, and yet it has done so without a word of complaint. Therefore, says the Targum Neofiti, the divine voice declares: "Let the serpent which does not murmur concerning its food come and rule over the people which has murmured concerning their food."

The snake comes to teach humility and patience. The problem with this pedagogical strategy is that we cannot cease squirming. There is something about a snake that demands our full attention. When someone mentions that a snake is nearby, we don't ask what lessons can be learned. Instead we climb on furniture or over one another to get away.

In order to teach the people, God did not cancel the plague of snakes but commanded Moses to craft a bronze (or copper) snake. Forget for the time being that divine injunction against making idols "in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath" (Exod. 20:4). Sure, an image of a snake will inevitably pose all manner of difficulties in years to come. We will no doubt regret our theological laxity, but let King Hezekiah contend with the problem later (2 Kings 18:4). When you're up to your ankles in adders, it is not a time for qualms about theological niceties and deliberations on religious aesthetics. If the problem is a plague of snakes, then the cure is another snake, a snake hoisted on a standard for all to see. The equation is simple: when someone is bitten by a snake, he is to lift his eyes to the elevated bronze snake so as not to die from the bite. We cannot help worrying, however, about this solution. At best it seems like cheap grace: one glance at a snake on a stick and all is restored. At worst it reminds us of magic or of those healing idols of winged serpents that were left behind in Egypt.

The rabbis shared our uneasiness. It is not the snake, they declared, but rather what looking at the raised snake causes us to do. The Mishnah Rosh Hashanah explains: "Does the serpent either kill or sustain life? Rather whenever Israel looked upward and submitted their heart to their Father in heaven, they were healed." The Wisdom of Solomon chants its agreement, praising God and clarifying that "the one who turned toward [the snake] was saved, not by the thing that was beheld, but by you, the Savior of all."

Looking upward, we discover the source of our healing. The cursed snake, however, so demands our attention that we can scarcely see beyond it to recognize the work of God.

In the same way, intimates the Gospel of John, the Son of Man is lifted up so that we can see the passionate love of God. The sight is so loathsome, however, that we have difficulty recognizing that this is how the glory of God appears in our world. Nothing less can heal us.

The simple equation endures: the cure for snakes is a snake; the cure for human life is one man's life; the cure for death is death. Nothing less will do. Those whose eyes follow the Son of man as he is lifted up see God's healing of the world. In the Gospel of John it is not the cross itself but the transactions behind the cross that restore us to wholeness. Hidden in the crucifixion is the exaltation of the Son of Man and God's desire to heal the world. The Wisdom of Solomon speaks of this: "Neither herb nor poultice cured them, but it was your word, O Lord, that heals all people." Your logos, O God.

The author is Patrick J. Willson, pastor of St. Stephen Presbyterian Church in Fort Worth, Texas.