The King’s Cure

Identifying Isaiah’s suffering servant with the promised Messiah is unthinkable for a Jew because it combines the offices of humble priest and victorious king.

While it is frustrating that Jews refuse to see the sufferings of Christ in Isaiah 53, the reluctance of Christians to interpret the passage in its historical context only bolsters the objections of the rabbis.

Origen tells us that the consensus among the Jews in his time was that Isaiah 53 “bore reference to the whole [Jewish] people, regarded as one individual, and as being in a state of dispersion and suffering, in order that many proselytes might be gained, on account of the dispersion of the Jews among numerous heathen nations.”¹Origen, Contra Celsum, Chadwick, Henry; Cambridge Press, book 1, chapter 55, page 50.

And, within the bounds of Isaiah’s purpose, the Jews were correct. Although Isaiah is comprised of diverse parts, these sections are meticulously arranged in a theological—indeed, a covenantal—order. Due to the length of the book, however, the reader is prone to treat its many episodes as standalone installments, a practice that results in a fragmented comprehension of its contents. The book is treated like a grab bag of predictions fired at random points in the future, both near and far, like indiscriminate birdshot. If that is how we treat the text, we do the Bible and its authors a disservice. The texts are carefully aimed; it is our approach to them that is scattershot.

When rightly identified and considered as a single, curated work—a prophetic Gesamtkunstwerk—the thematic threads become more obvious, and in the case of the Suffering Servant, the Jews are vindicated. If we have made our way steadily, and cumulatively, through the book, by the time we get to this prophecy (Isaiah 52:13-53:12) the identity of this servant has already been made plain.

But you, Israel, my servant, Jacob, whom I have chosen, the offspring of Abraham, my friend; you whom I took from the ends of the earth, and called from its farthest corners, saying to you, “You are my servant, I have chosen you and not cast you off.” (Isaiah 41:8-9)

But now hear, O Jacob my servant, Israel whom I have chosen! (Isaiah 44:1)

Remember these things, O Jacob, and Israel, for you are my servant; I formed you; you are my servant; O Israel, you will not be forgotten by me. (Isaiah 44:21)

For the sake of my servant Jacob, and Israel my chosen, I called you by your name, I name you, though you do not know me. (Isaiah 45:4)

Go out from Babylon, flee from Chaldea, declare this with a shout of joy, proclaim it, send it out to the end of the earth; say, “The Lord has redeemed his servant Jacob!” (Isaiah 48:20)

And he said to me, “You are my servant, Israel, in whom I will be glorified.” (Isaiah 49:3)

The structure of this sequence in the book of Isaiah backs up this claim: the prophet has arranged his oracles according to the divine calendar of harvest festivals prescribed for Israel in Leviticus 23. The same pattern is found in the pattern of sacrifice and also in the Heptateuch (Genesis to Judges).

The climax of this liturgical year was the Day of Coverings (Atonement). Having circumcised the hearts of Israel through the seasons, culminating in a little season of mourning and mercy, God could fulfill the “all nations” blessing promised to Abraham. This threshing and purification of Israel would result not only in reconciliation between heaven and earth, but also between brother and brother. Israel’s peace with God was intended to be poured out from an overrunning cup as healing and celebration for all nations at the Feast of Booths. As reconciled “Abels and Cains,” the priestly and kingly peoples would all beat their swords into plowshares.

The same pattern is found in Israel’s history as a whole, which culminated in the death and resurrection of Christ, and the removal of the Jew-Gentile demarcation in AD70.²For more discussion, see Michael Bull, The End of Israel: Jesus, Paul & AD70. Jesus’ “blessed are those who mourn” heralded the final Day of Coverings and the fulfillment of the Feast of Booths.

After signifying the “sacrificial carnage” suffered by the Firstfruits Church and the subsequent destruction of Judea (as foretold plainly by Jesus), the Book of Revelation then describes the outflow of the “all nations” priest-kingdom of Christ as a harvest of reconciliation—first between Jew and Gentile, then between all nations of the earth. Jesus, the torn veil, is the door through which the entire world now enters into God’s rest.

Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. (Revelation 22:2)

With that in mind, it is crucial for the reader to observe that the “Suffering Servant” sectio has been deliberately placed at the Atonement step of the annual liturgical “week” that governs this sequence. This feast also expounded upon Day 6 of the first week, when God covered the sins, and the flesh, of Adam and Eve. So the subsequent “marriage and fertility” of Israel in Isaiah 54 (Booths) then corresponds to the curses upon the Land and the womb in Genesis 3, or more correctly, the promise of their reversal through the faith of Abraham in Genesis 15. In context, chapter 54 describes the time after the exile when the once-divided kingdom was restored to the faith as a united people, and given a miraculous (and undeserved) longevity among the nations. The climax of this process was the victory of the Jews recorded in the Book of Esther.

This means the Jewish insistence that corporate “Jacob” is the Suffering Servant described here has a solid basis. Israelites understood that their nation was set apart to mediate for all nations in the same way that Levi, the tribe of Moses and Aaron, was set apart from the other tribes to mediate for Israel. Just as the Israelite “Land” mediated for the Gentile “World”—offering seventy bulls over seven days for the seventy nations listed in Genesis 10 (Numbers 29:14-40)—so the Levite priests mediated for the World and the Land in the “Garden” of the Tabernacle. The entire arrangement was established as a holy mountain stepped with terraces of increasing access via purity (ceremonial death) and beauty (ceremonial resurrection).

However, what the rabbis overlooked is the fact that Israel’s ministry as a corporate suffering servant was also magnified in the office of the High Priest, the one man upon whose shoulders was placed the burden of the nation’s sins. So, at the top of this “social” Zion-ziggurat that represented the whole earth (an idea reprised in more obvious terms in Daniel 2:35), was a single man, an “Adam” in the Garden. Although the nation of Israel and its High Priest were distinct, their ministries were most definitely linked. Just as the many Gentile nations were represented in the one (Israel), so also were the many tribes represented in the one (Levi), and the ministry of the many Levite priests was represented in the one (the High Priest). When Jesus told His disciples that the entire world would be judged in Him, as its legal representative, and the devil would be legally deposed as a result (John 12:31), it was not a novel idea. This Jesus, who prayed alone on a mountain, would alone be lifted up for all men.

Jesus was Israel, the Seed amongst the seed (Galatians 3:16), the Firstborn from the Dead among the sons of the firstborn nation, chosen “from the herd” at His baptism. Matthew’s Gospel hammers this home by recapitulating the fundamental themes of the five books of the Torah in chapters 1-7 (with the Sermon on the Mount as its Deuteronomy). Jesus Himself hammers it home to Nicodemus in John 3:16 by recapitulating the same fivefold pattern in a single statement concerning the global nature of His ministry as Israel’s telos.

What this means is that the Suffering Servant sequence (which itself works through the pattern of the Heptateuch internally) pictures Israel as a corporate High Priest to the nations—all twelve “rainbow” gemstones upon a single bosom. Indeed, the tribes in the wilderness had been arranged around the “cruciform” Tabernacle as a better Babel—a gigantic, cruciform ziggurat.³See Jacob’s Ziggurat. Israel was established to bear the brunt of the global curses in local terms, entering into the grave of Babylon and rising again in a new and better form. Whereas the “furnace” of Egypt had glorified Israel in natural terms (from a family into a nation), the bondage in Babylon transformed a people obsessed with graven images into a people focussed on the graven Words. That is what is promised in Jeremiah 31, another passage whose context demands a post-exilic fulfillment which is overlooked by lazy expositors. In this chapter, the Lord refers to Ephraim as a son and Israel as a daughter, so the personification of a people as an individual is ubiquitous in biblical thought.

Since the concept of one Adam dying for the people (John 11:50; 18:14) was as old as humanity, the rabbis’ refusal to see Israel’s ministry personified not merely under the metaphor of a father in the past (Jacob), but also as the son in the future (Christ) is another example of how simultaneously perceptive and obtuse the Jewish interpreters so often were. They had every clue but the one that actually solves the mystery.

The failure of Christians, of course, is the inverse. Textual fragments are cherrypicked for direct application to the first century while their literary environs are discarded like chaff. This practice not only exposes us as hermeneutical lightweights, it also misrepresents how Bible prophecy works. We jump to the obvious conclusion without enough sense to do the necessary typological workings of the sort that are the basis of the so-called “apostolic hermeneutic.” And that is precisely why the New Testament’s use the Old so often mystifies us.

The core issue for the rabbinic objection is their failure to understand the heart of their own Scriptures, and indeed their own history—the principle that true and lasting kingdom is the result of priestly obedience to God. Submission to heaven (cultus: acknowledging our dependence upon God in heaven—the Tree of Life) leads to dominion on earth (culture: receiving God’s promises of fertility, abundance, and progress—the Tree of Knowledge). While the Jews knew that God gave His people priests before He gave them kings, they failed to consider the thread of a suffering king that is subtly woven throughout the Old Testament. It is obvious once it has been pointed out, but until then it is veiled to us because we are spiritually blind. Perhaps the reason we do not pick it up is because we are just like Adam: we refuse to believe that if we humble ourselves under God’s commands (priesthood), He will exalt us because we have shown ourselves faithful and trustworthy (kingdom).

Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you. (1 Peter 5:6)

The principle stated explicitly by the Apostle Peter is apparent in the history of David, the king-elect who—unthinkably—suffered between his anointing and his enthronement at the hand of his predecessor. He was made perfect (mature) through suffering, and this prepared him for rule. David submitted to God, and God exalted him. Like Moses, he graduated from keeping sheep to shepherding people.

David maintained this attitude when he was threatened by his own son, Absalom. Unlike Adam, he consistently refused to take the throne by his own hand. Although his kingly sins brought death and division, his consistent humility before God brought life and unity to those whom he stewarded on God’s behalf.

But the concept of a human king explicitly bearing the sins of his people was even more unthinkable—a stumbling block for both the Jews and the Gentiles (1 Corinthians 1:23). Along with offering regular animal and human sacrifices, Gentile kings routinely scapegoated unfortunate individuals in order to appease their false gods and restore peace and prosperity to their kingdoms. But the kings themselves, just like their imagined deities, were exempt from such suffering. They were not the sickness but the surgeon. Entering into the divine rest, both personally and corporately, was to be accomplished in the Baalistic way of Cain, the firstborn son given by God who refused his ram and substituted it with human blood. He split humanity into two Edenic family trees, putting enmity between the complementary functions of priest and king, church and state.

The offices of priest and king were even more sharply divided in Israel, and the judgment upon King Uzziah was a terrifying reminder of the God-instituted veil between the sword of sacrifice (submission to heaven) and the sword of execution (dominion on earth). These roles were divided into “Jew and Gentile” when the Noahic order of priest-kings became corrupt. They were set apart in order to protect the priesthood from the compromise—physical and spiritual intermarriage—that resulted in the Great Flood. The priestly sword, representing that of the cherubim, could never cut human flesh as a sacrifice. It could only cut human flesh in order to prevent the desecration of the Sanctuary (Exodus 19:12; Numbers 25:6-8). Such a cutting was precisely what animal sacrifice was intended to avoid.

These divided offices would ultimately be reunited in Christ, whose death on the cross would tear the veil (Ephesians 2:14-16) via an unjust execution at the hands of both Jews and Gentiles. But this also established a new and better priesthood—a royal one (1 Peter 2:9). At a greater scale than the annual sevenfold harvest calendar, Israel’s Jubilee every forty-nine years foretold a time of atonement when the global inheritance of Japheth’s Noahic priest-kings—an office of which they were temporarily divested that it might be borne by Shem on their behalf—would be returned to them in a new and more glorious Melchizedekian order, with all debts forgiven. Israel’s history of tribes upon the “dry land” of Canaan would end in the “flood” which all the Noahic nations deserved (Daniel 9:26; Matthew 24:37-39). Having failed in their offices, the two bronze pillars of Zion would be dismantled once again, and forever, in a brutal historical inclusio: the Herods would flee the city at the beginning of the siege (Boaz: kingdom deposed) and the Levites would be massacred at its end (Jachin: priesthood rejected). The old “Eden” upon Zion was destroyed in a microcosmic cataclysm, while the new royal priesthood was exhorted to remain “without spot or blemish, and at peace” (2 Peter 3:10-14).

However, the Old Testament does give us some examples of kings who bear corporate sins if we have eyes to see. Proud King Sennacherib is the serpent at the center of Isaiah, and his fall is contrasted with the humility of Hezekiah, a Son of God, that is, a priestly king. To understand Hezekiah’s sickness, we must consider it within the context of the book as a whole, which, like all Scripture, alludes in some way to the early chapters of Genesis.

Isaiah begins with the condemnation of an Israel that is incurable, sick from head to foot. This is deeper than a general reference to the nature of sin; it alludes to the requirement for Israelite men and women to be living sacrifices, without spot or blemish.

From the sole of the foot even to the head,
there is no soundness in it,
but bruises and sores
and raw wounds;
they are not pressed out or bound up
or softened with oil.
(Isaiah 1:6)

The truncated historical narrative of Hezekiah’s deliverance—not only from Sennacherib’s invasion of Judea, but also from a sickness that would soon lead to his death—seems out of place at the center of a book of oracles until we realize that this godly king was a picture of the suffering King at the center of human history. Thus, proud Uzziah is Isaiah’s “Adam,” whose death occurred in the year of the prophet’s call, and Hezekiah is Isaiah’s “Jesus.” Both kings approached the Sanctuary, but only one was accepted, blessed, and vindicated by God.

Hezekiah is also implicitly contrasted with Solomon, who was promised healing for the land but instead became an idolatrous tyrant (2 Chronicles 7:13-14).

The fact that Hezekiah’s boil was cured with a poultice of “Edenic” figs leads us to another example of a “scapegoat” king.

As with the identity of the Suffering Servant, the mystery of Job’s suffering is no mystery at all if we read the Bible cumulatively. Like Noah, Melchizedek, and Jethro, Job was a tribal priest-king. Such a role was prohibited in Israel because this newborn nation possessed an actual “Edenic” Sanctuary, which explains why Korah and his fellow tribal chiefs were denied any priestly role as a component of their office (Numbers 16:1-3).

All the evidence points to Job being an Edomite (from Esau), and the successor of the infamous Balaam, the son of Beor (Genesis 36:32; Numbers 31:7). Balaam, like the serpent, intended to force God’s hand against His people by causing them to sin. In contrast to his predecessor, Job was a God-fearing man who, like the Lord, offered sacrifices for those in his “tent.”

Job’s Edomite heritage explains why this story of a non-Israelite is included in the Scriptures. The homophonic relationship between Adam and Edom is a running gag throughout the Bible (particularly in the book of Isaiah), culminating in the Edomite Herodian kings (false Jews) as the sworn enemies of Jesus and the Church, from the beginning of the New Testament to its end.

In this way, the sons of Esau gradually become typological shorthand as the epitome of the hatred of “the natural man” for the Sons of God. This is doubly true of those descended from Esau’s grandson, Amalek, including King Agag and Haman the Agagite. “Loving Jacob and hating Esau” was an idiom that concerned the choice of an heir. Again and again, God did not choose the oldest brother (the natural heir) but the purest. So Job’s Edomite pedigree is significant for the meaning of his story. He was not suffering merely for his own edification, nor even for that of his colleagues.

The sacrificial theme established at the beginning of the book is the key. Job is described as a blameless priest-king in Job 1:1-5 in order that we might understand precisely why he was singled out by God for suffering in Job 1:6-12. Job was a “son of the herd” who was chosen from among his brothers not because he was imperfect but because he was perfect—without spot or blemish.

“If his offering is a burnt offering from the herd, he shall offer a male without blemish. He shall bring it to the entrance of the tent of meeting, that he may be accepted before the Lord.” (Leviticus 1:3)

This means that the assembly of the “Sons of God” in Job 1:6 was not a gathering of angels but an inspection of God’s ministers, much like that described in Revelation 2-3. The same sort of inspection of leaders is the subject of Psalm 82, although in that case it was the unjust judges of Israel, and their punishment was to die “like Adam.” Those who were called to represent God on earth were subject to stricter judgment, whether individuals or an entire nation (James 3:1; 1 Peter 4:17).

The extended consideration of the cause of Job’s suffering is more than a theodicy. It is the same old Adamic refusal to understand the true nature of kingdom—a man who bears his people before God on his own bosom. So the message of the book extends beyond the sanctification of the individual to the lives of those in his care. Put more bluntly, as we read Job we must not only hear “God is good,” but also, “It’s not about you.” While Job’s accusers concern themselves with justifying God, God Himself is concerned with the justification of men.

Job of Edom is an Adam who, like the High Priest, and indeed like the remaining faithful Noahic priest-kings, was temporarily divested of his glory that he might purify his brothers. This divesting manifests as the deconstruction of an old “tabernacle” which must be slain and raised up again. First, Job’s kingly accoutrements are taken from him—his possessions and his offspring (kingdom deposed). Then, Job’s priestly qualification is symbolically removed in the corruption of his flesh (Leviticus 21:16-24, priesthood rejected). Job’s personal “temple” is dismantled and he can no longer stand before God upon his pillar-legs. In other words, the judgments due to Edom for the spiritual sickness of Balaam were borne by Job in the same way that Hezekiah became the focus of the mercy shown to Judah.

So Satan went out from the presence of the Lord and struck Job with loathsome sores from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head. (Job 2:7)

The difference with the Christ, of course, is that He was the king who voluntarily laid aside His glory—just as He temporarily divested Himself of His robe to wash the feet of His followers. With no kingly accoutrements—no house, no offspring, and no loyal friends—what remained was the tearing of the “seamless robe” of His spotless flesh, a robe that was restored to Him in His resurrection. Just as Job received a double portion of all that he had possessed before, Jesus received an eternal inheritance (Matthew 19:29; Hebrews 2:13).

This submission is signified in Jesus’ mention of a cup in Gethsemane. He would not bear every death, but merely “taste” death for every man as a king’s cupbearer (Hebrews 2:9). The cup of the idolatrous, adulterous Jerusalem below (alluding to Exodus 32 and Numbers 5) is finally given to the spotless Jerusalem above. The wine that was turned to blood is turned to wine once again, the swords beaten into plowshares, and the nature of true kingdom is established forever. For everyone who believes, death itself is now but a taste (Matthew 16:28; Mark 9:1; Luke 9:27).

We live in a world that was designed to run on miracles. This is why God sent serpents—Sauls, Sennacheribs, and Herods—and all sorts of other dilemmas, calamities, and plagues (Isaiah 45:7; Amos 3:6). There are no easy answers for such things, and that is precisely the point. Like Job’s accusers, we split into factions as we attempt to make sense of the situation. But the answer hidden in the cloud of unknowing is that the solutions to problems faced by rulers were deliberately placed beyond the scope of human wisdom. Right from the beginning, there was a cup at the center of reality, the miracle cure of a ruler who serves and suffers for his people in impossible situations that the character of God might be magnified.

Rulers who refuse to bow the knee before God must bear the entire weight of the world upon their own shoulders as its self-proclaimed saviors. And again, just like the assertions of Job’s accusers, or Israel’s futile political treaties, the answers derived from this earthly expertise almost always make things worse.

The good news for all leaders—whether kings, queens, masters, mistresses, husbands or wives—is that they are but servants whose shoulders were not designed to be burdened with more than the worries of a single day (Matthew 6:34). When a “Sennacherib scroll” or Job’s bearers of bad tidings rock up in quick succession at our door, we accept the cup as a bittersweet mission from God that will change the world.

The sevenfold pattern of Hezekiah’s story in Isaiah—which includes the ascension of the priestly king to the Sanctuary in order to open the scroll before God—is also the basic pattern of the Book of Revelation. By faith, every passing danger is turned into an eternal inheritance; every threat is an invitation not only to approach, but also then to share, the throne of grace (Revelation 3:21).

You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
(Psalm 23:5)

Further reading: Snakes and Ladders, Lamech’s Patsy: The Human Cost of State Hypocrisy, The Unity of Isaiah: One Body in Sickness and in Health.