Numbers 23

In the film Ratatouille, directed by the incredible Brad Bird, a Parisian rat named Remy has a zeal for cooking. Needless to say, the last thing any respectable restaurant wants is a rat in its kitchen, so Remy is initially limited in how he can manifest his culinary ardor. A series of wooly vicissitudes give Remy a chance to pursue his passion by teaming up with a hapless chef named Linguini (whose first name, of course, is Alfredo). By pulling on the chef's hair, Remy can control Linguini like a puppet. (Given all the harebrained notions of the film, it's a supreme testament to Bird's consummate storytelling skill that he made the film not just believable, but also sublime).

I wonder if Balaam felt similar to Linguini as God gave him messages that he was forced to utter. Although Balak wants Balaam to curse Israel, God puts "a word in Balaam's mouth" that ends up being a blessing (verse 5). Rather amusingly, after the first blessing, Balak tells Balaam to move further away so that he can see "only the outskirts of the camp" (verse 13), as if location and distance had anything to do with God's influence. Then again, maybe Balak was used to worshipping idols with limited "power."

Balaam probably was ambivalent about Balak's request; his first message, although it comes from God, contains a smattering of Balaam's own voice from which we can discover his point of view. In verse 8, he seems to be speaking to Balak, asking if he can curse or denounce those who have God's favor. He even says in verse 10, "Let me die the death of the righteous / and may my final end be like theirs!" Even this foreign diviner discerns that God has set apart the Israelites for a holy purpose, a purpose of which Balaam wishes to partake himself. OK, maybe he had selfish reasons for wanting to have God's favor, but he does recognize God's sovereign will for the Israelites.

The second message has fewer of Balaam's own interjections and more of God's voice. He stresses God's steadfast nature in verse 19 and in verse 21 uses the wonderfully evocative image of "the shout of the King." God's stentorian, authoritative voice is not one to be disdained or spurned. Verse 24 says, "The people rise like a lioness; / they rouse themselves like a lion." The specific diction used in these paired lines is marvelously apt. Lionesses do all the hunting (as anyone who's seen The Lion King knows); they "rise" out of the savanna to find sustenance for the pride. Lions in general sleep for about 20 hours a day, but when "roused" out of their slumber, they can prove ferocious (and visually formidable, if nothing else). The vampiric line that closes verse 24 is an oddity, though--I can accept that lions drink blood, but the Israelites themselves are specifically forbidden to do so. Such dissonance may betray the tension between God's message and the attitude of the messenger, Balaam. Or I could be overanalyzing it, as English majors are wont to do.

Numbers 22

I admit that I was never much of a fan of the Shrek films, but I do think Eddie Murphy did an admirable job voicing the ingeniously-named Donkey. In fact, I'd say that his voice work, along with the musical scores by Harry Gregson-Williams (with the score for the first film co-written with John Powell), remains the high point of the series. (The low point? Well, many of the forced pop-culture jokes, dance parties, and dated references are cringeworthy, but the abominable design and animation of the human characters make Andy from the first Toy Story look downright cuddly.) Pacific Data Images, which was since been subsumed by DreamWorks Animation, actually based Donkey's design on a trio of donkeys that resided in a park behind my high school. Every now and then, I'd bike over to take a gander at these fine creatures.

The donkey belonging to Balaam, the Biblical equivalent of a quack psychic (are there any other kind?), actually proves rather astute even before he opens his mouth. Three times the angel of the Lord blocks Balaam's way, and each time, the perceptive donkey moves out of the way, causing his oblivious owner to beat the poor beast. When the animal does start talking, Balaam responds to it as if it were perfectly natural to hold conversation with a donkey. The donkey even uses rational logic to shut down Balaam's hotheaded expostulations, saying, "Am I not your own donkey, which you have always ridden, to this day? Have I been in the habit of doing this to you?" (verse 30). Balaam's response is merely a terse "No." You can almost imagine him seething, trying to think of another argument to hurl but totally stumped by his steed's sound reasoning. It's safe to say that God or an angel was speaking through this donkey, but it still must be embarrassing to be outwitted by a heretofore "-dumb" animal.

Anyway, the whole reason for Balaam's little jaunt is that the comically frantic Balak, king of the Moabites, is worried that the Israelites will attack him, causing him to ask Balaam to curse the Israelites. Although Balaam is far from a role model, his attitude toward God is more complex than you'd expect from a diviner. Even before the donkey incident, he acknowledges God's authority to some extent; after God tells him not to go to Balak, he says to the king's messengers, "Even if Balak gave me all the silver and gold in his palace, I could not do anything great or small to go beyond the command of the LORD my God" (verse 18).

God does end up allowing Balaam to go, but why does He get so ticked off at Balaam for following His instructions? I suspect that Balaam saw God as just one of an innumerable number of deities--and as long as he stayed in the good graces of a particular deity, he could take advantage of the "power" of that "god." However, God, as we'll soon see, has other plans for Balaam.

Numbers 21

In the Indiana Jones and the Temple of the Forbidden Eye ride at Disneyland, the story is that Indy has uncovered a temple where a being known as Mara chills all day, granting gifts of eternal youth, endless riches, or prescience--as long as you don't look into its eyes. If you do, you're doomed to the wretched, inconceivable torment of experiencing one of the best, most thrilling theme park rides extant.

Anyway, Indy has gone missing in the bowels of the temple, causing his trusty friend Sallah to open up the temple to all and sundry in hopes that they'll blunder into the intrepid archaeologist. The ride starts with you running right into Mara's fiberglass countenance. Irked that you made eye contact, the misanthropic Mara sends you on a wild and wooly adventure that represents the height of Disney Imagineering. Of course, this is a ride; Mara, who isn't a real being, let alone a god, gets ticked off at you whether you look at its eyes or not. In fact, Mara blusters just as much at an empty ride vehicle as one filled with slack-jawed tourists.

This chapter features a bronze snake that is the antithesis of Mara. When the Israelites complain yet again--at this point, it's more surprising when they don't complain--God sends a den of poisonous snakes to nip at the heels of His recalcitrant people. When they repent, God tells Moses to make a bronze snake on a pole; "anyone who was bitten by a snake and looked at the bronze snake, they lived" (verse 9). While Mara dooms all those who don't avert their eyes, the bronze snake saves all those who gaze upon its lustrous form. One wonders how Indy himself, with his ophidiophobia, would have fared.

I wrote that it's surprising when the Israelites don't act like querulous brats, but they actually act relatively admirably for the balance of this chapter. They rely on God's provision--which He grants--to defeat the king of Arad (verses 1-3), which foreshadows the further victories against the Amorites and the wondrously named King Og of Bashan. See? It's not all doom and gloom. With these victories, why were the Israelites so afraid of conquering Canaan some 40 years prior?

Some fears are justified, but many turn out to be unfounded. Anyone who knows me knows that I stink at math, and yet I somehow managed to get into AB Calculus AP in 12th grade. I was dreading the AP test, especially as I found the class a struggle. As it turned out, the class was much more rigorous than the actual AP test; I finished the test with confidence and sure enough, I got a 5. (If you gave the test to me now, though, I'm pretty sure I'd flunk it.) I don't remember being especially prayerful about the test, but I still did well. How much more, then, will God provide and make me grow spiritually if I continuously place my trust in Him--especially in issues more eternally consequential than an AP test?

Numbers 20

Remember those "true or false" questions on exams and how the teacher told you to write out the complete words "True" or "False"? The reason, as any self-respecting student will tell you, is because it's all too easy to write "Ts" and "Fs" that look like each other. Shrewder teachers use Scantron bubble forms--no room for ambiguity or arguments about misread handwriting there. Scantrons certainly would have kept this genius delinquent from flunking the test for the sake of showing off his or her shenanigans (or trolling skills, to use the common parlance):

(Image from http://i.imgur.com/ONFRysx.jpg)

Just as a couple tiny lines separate a "T" from an "F," a seemingly insignificant indiscretion keeps Moses from entering the Promised Land. After the Israelites complain yet again about the lack of water, God tells Moses to speak to a rock, which will apparently be so startled at having a human talk to it that it will gush out water in response. (Biblical scholars believe that this chapter occurs near the end of the 40 years of wandering, which would make these complainers the kids of the folks who have been bleating ever since they left Egypt. Like parents, like children.) Moses, exasperated at the Israelites' inveterate grousing and haggard from walking in circles in the desert for 40 years, instead beats the poor, innocent rock with his staff (verse 11). This impetuous action earns a censure from God: "Because you did not trust in me enough to honor me as holy in the sight of the Israelites, you will not bring this community into the land I give them" (verse 12).

From a human perspective, this seems just a wee bit petty, which indeed it would be if this statement were coming from a human. But Moses has a larger responsibility as God's representative--God has never spoken to the Israelites collectively; all His commandments from Exodus to now have been spoken to Moses, who in turn relays them to the Israelites. By not trusting God completely, Moses evinces his contempt for God in front of everyone. Still, I wonder if Moses regretted his lashing out right after he'd done it, realizing his mistake before God told him. I've sometimes acted or spoken in ways that I've immediately regretted afterward. Does that merit condemnation, or does God's grace cover such infelicities if I ask for His forgiveness? In the end, though, Moses did get his ultimate reward by getting to spend eternity with God, even if he was deprived of some worldly pleasures.

After this unsavory weeping boulder affair, the Israelites ask the Edomites if they can pass through their territory. The Edomites, basically acting like jerks, refuse. Knowing that the Edomites are descendants of Esau, who reconciled with his brother Jacob, makes this incident especially disappointing.

Finally, Moses's siblings, Miriam and Aaron, both perish in the desert, as God said they would. Miriam's death, however, earns only a perfunctory mention, almost an aside that takes up less than half a verse (verse 1). By contrast, Aaron gets a whopping eight verses on his death, complete with a dignified, almost mystical ceremony on the top of the mountain (what else?) as he passes his mantle on to his son. I get that Aaron is the high priest and his death thus warrants more ceremony, but the fleeting mention of Miriam's death still strikes me as a tad inequitable.

Numbers 19

I know that holy water is made such by God's intervention rather than any actual physical ingredient. Still, I'd have said that holy water consisted of something like the water from Old Faithful mixed with the seventh branch of a bonsai plant and chocolate rum pudding. I would never have guessed that it would consist of the ashes of an incinerated cow. When I think of flaming cows, I can't help recalling the opening scene of Tim Burton's wonderfully nutty film Mars Attacks!, which features a whole herd of blazing bovines:

We never find out what happens to that burning stampede, although we do get to witness a panoply of celebrities (including Danny DeVito, who gets above-the-line billing for about 10 minutes of screen time) get zapped, liquidated, startled, or flattened by Martians with big brains. Basically, it's an absurd piss-take of Independence Day, which was released earlier that same year.

Although God tells His people to burn only certain parts of sacrificial offerings, He makes no stipulation with the Holy Water Heifers. (How's that for a band name?) He says, "the heifer is to be burned--its hide, flesh, blood, and intestines" (verse 5). While the radiant ruminant is burning to a lovely crisp, the priest must fling some wood, minty hyssop, and red wool on top of the whole conflagration. I'm mildly curious about whether it did smell like BBQ, as the Burton film suggests. However, I'm nowhere near curious enough to obtain a whole cow carcass and set in ablaze in a bonfire on my front lawn just to find out. I'm sure that would break some kind of city ordinance, for one.

But from such humble beginnings springs the cure to uncleanliness. Such uncleanliness doesn't just result from peccadilloes, felonies, immorality, and general naughtiness--God is so unrelentingly holy that an act as seemingly innocuous as accidentally touching a dead body makes one unclean. But God knows that sometimes, s*** happens (to take an aphorism from Forrest Gump), and He magnanimously makes provisions for such lapses. Luckily for us, we don't have to take a match to poor Bessie to atone for our uncleanliness, but we still must keep in mind God's unalloyed holiness matched only by His loving grace.

Numbers 18

Jaws, the seminal shark film directed by Steven Spielberg, ushered in the blockbuster era when it chomped up its box office competition in 1975. But unlike certain recent cash cows (Transformers, Twilight), Jaws was a supremely well-crafted film, featuring masterful direction, committed performances from Roy Scheider, Robert Shaw, and Richard Dreyfuss, a lean, efficient screenplay, and a sublime musical score by John Williams. Sadly, the same can't be said about its sequels, though the Jaws 2 did have another fantastic score by Williams as well as one of the most effective poster tag lines: "Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water…"

Well, just when you thought it was safe to assume that you'd never have to read a bunch of Israelite laws and regulations again, Numbers reverts to Leviticus mode for a couple of chapters. However, these regulations in Numbers 18 about the duties and offerings of the priests and Levites connect thematically with the proceeding story. Remember how Kohath and his band of not-so-merry-men wanted to usurp the priests' duties? Well, now God reminds His people how real priests should act.

This chapter basically codifies laws we've already read in Leviticus, but the major point of interest is that much of the offerings and tithes made by the Israelites are consecrated for the priests' use. Lest you suspect that the priests wrote these directives just so they could eat as much tasty veal, bread, and wine as they could, the law goes on to state that the priests don't receive any inheritance or share of the Promised Land (verse 20). The tithes and offerings take the place of the priests' inheritance instead of augmenting it. Still, it's pretty terrific to get first crack at all the first fruits of your fellow Israelites' harvest.

Although priests receive tithes, they aren't exempt from tithing themselves (verse 28). I've written a bit about tithing before, but I still need to work on being more mindful about giving my first and best to God. Is it enough for me to mindlessly drop a check in the offering basket? Recently, I believe God has been nudging me about particular social issues that I could be devoting my resources or even my time into fixing. Said issues of injustice make me mortifyingly emotional--is that a sign that God wants me to get involved? Probably, so I pray for the motivation to actually do something about it.

Numbers 17

I wonder why more people (in Western culture, at least) don't carry staffs around. They help you walk, they help you look more authoritative even if all you're doing is standing there, and you can use them to thwack people. Wizards certainly know the power of staffs; you rarely see Gandalf without one, do you? And when he confronts Saruman after taking his mantle, what does he do? He breaks the treacherous wizard's staff, of course. In the books, at least, Saruman continues his perfidy for a little longer, but he's nowhere near as magically powerful. And in video games like, I don't know, Diablo, the wizards and mages get to run around shooting lightning bolts and other computer-generated special effects out of their staffs.

The leaders of the 12 tribes of Israelites also have staffs, though since this is real life, they can't perform any magic with them. When staffs do exhibit miraculous properties (as Moses's did), they do so with the power of God. To demonstrate His authority and confirm those consecrated as priests, God imbues another staff with His power. After Moses collects the staffs of the 12 tribal leaders, God turns Aaron's staff into a botanist's delight--it "not only sprouted but had budded, blossomed and produced almonds" (verse 8). OK, the almonds aren't such good news for me since I'm allergic to them, but a legume-bearing staff is a specimen any kid would be thrilled to bring to show-and-tell.

For some reason, the blooming staff is what finally makes the Israelites realize the folly of their supercilious impertinence. Not the plague, not the fireballs coming out of God's presence, not even the bloody earth opening up and munching a throng of people--but a staff with almonds on it. When I first read this passage, I couldn't fathom why the staff was apparently more potent to the Israelites than the preceding disasters. But then I had a thought: What makes people respond better--constructive criticism or caustic derision? How do you form a strong, loyal team--though tyranny or through respect? The pure (if offbeat) beauty of a budding staff may have evoked feelings of wonder at God's majesty, and then shame at having spurned that majesty. On the other hand, all a catastrophe does is instill fear. Of course, God still deserves to be "feared" in the sense that we should respect Him. But God, like Huey Lewis, knows the power of love as manifested in the ultimate sacrifice of His son.