Torah means instruction. In the case of Yahweh's torah, the vibe is something like this: the loving instruction of a good father who only wants the best for his children. In Jewish circles, the Torah usually refers to the first five books of the Bible. Genesis. Exodus. Leviticus. Numbers. Deuteronomy. But sometimes, it's used more narrowly, referring to the commandments, statutes, and judgments of God. Some say there's 613 instructions, but at YH we're far less concerned about the number and far more concerned about applying, lawfully, all that applies (like Daniel would have done in Babylon).

So when Jesus said, "Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to keep all that I commanded you," we really do take the "baptizing" and "teaching" seriously. If we didn't, we wouldn't be making disciples of Jesus. And how do we know what Jesus commanded is, in fact, the Torah and not, say, Jesus's instruction in His Sermon on the Mount? Here's the simple answer. First, since we believe Jesus is God, the instructions given at Sinai are Jesus's instruction. Second, anyone who's given their heart to Jesus is no longer "of the nations" (gentile); instead, that person is grafted into Israel — which is good news, because that's who the New Covenant is with. And third, Jesus didn't come to abolish the Law. He certainly wanted to correct errant teaching regarding the Law (hence the Sermon on the Mount), but He didn't come to rid of it. In fact, doing so would have disqualified Jesus from being the Anointed One — the Promised Messiah.

Gideon and Asa trust their father to teach them all that is good and right.

The Sinaitic Covenant served as a bridge between YHWH’s promises to Abraham and the seed that would bring about those promises. While you and I have the benefit of the Gospels, those who lived before Jesus’s first coming did not. To help those people, YHWH provided a custodian—a paidagogos — to “guard” them until Messiah’s arrival. Here’s the way Paul communicates the idea in Galatians, step-by-step.[1]

Over the years, I’ve learned that somewhere between steps 3 and 4, there’s much confusion. Here’s why. The thrust of the Sinaitic Covenant isn’t salvation; it’s sanctification. Its intent is to foster love of God and neighbor as a response to salvation, not to earn it. That’s not to say salvation isn’t the central storyline. It is, but it relates to salvation differently than the Abrahamic and New Covenants. Whereas the Abrahamic Covenant promises salvation and the New Covenant achieves salvation, the Sinaitic Covenant helps the covenant-participant walk toward or in salvation.[2]

In Galatians, the apostle Paul chastises those confusing the verbs. Instead of understanding the Sinaitic Covenant as something to walk in post-salvation, some were trying to achieve salvation (or, at times, sanctification) through it.[3] The first group, the (Jewish) Influencers, were those who felt it necessary to become halachically Jewish to attain salvation.[4] The second group, the “foolish Galatians,” were those buying into the Influencers’ rhetoric, which Paul strongly asserts is “a different gospel; which is really not another” (Gal 1:6b, 7a). To correct the error, Paul offers an allegory. Again, here’s a step-by-step.

The Sinaitic Covenant helps people recognize sin and its narrative. For two reasons, Paul’s letter to the Romans is complicated. First, Paul uses the word law or nomos in a multiplicity of ways. For example, Paul refers to the letter of the Law (2:27), the law of faith (3:27), the law of sin and death (7:23; 8:2), the law of one’s mind (7:23), the law of God (7:25), and the law of the Spirit of life (8:2). Therefore, the only way to determine how Paul is using nomos is by analyzing its context. It’s confusing in English. It’s confusing in Greek. And it’s masterful. Why? Because Paul is at once describing the laws or forces at work in people’s lives while keeping the people he’s looking to persuade off balance.

The second complication emerges from the first. How is one to properly understand Sinaitic Law in relation to the other laws — or forces? To get at the answer, Paul wants his readers to understand sin — in three senses.

If one’s heart is absent the generative work of the Spirit, Paul asserts, then that person’s heart is controlled by sin (Type B). In this way, one’s heart—or soul — is like a switch with two positions. Position 1 (P1) is the condition of sin, and its wages is death. Position 2 (P2) is the condition of life, and its wages is life (6:23). The only way to move from P1 to P2 is to see sin (Type B) for what it is, repent, and trust YHWH to bury that sin-inhabited heart “with Him through baptism into death” (6:4).

So then, if the only way to move from P1 to P2 is by faith, why Sinaitic Law? Why Torah? First, the Torah helps people see their “switch.” With justification in his purview, Paul writes, “for through the [Torah] Law comes the knowledge of sin [Type B]” (3:30). Later in Romans, Paul expounds.

With regard to sin (Type B), the Torah in conjunction with the Spirit helps those with hearts in P1 to see their P1 status. In this way, the Torah serves a practical role. The Spirit does the convicting (Jn 16:8). From there, salvation is a matter of calling on the name of the Lord (Rom 10:13).[3] Again, this is Paul’s first argument.

Now for the second. Once salvation is a reality — that is, once an individual (or community) has moved from a narrative of death to a narrative of life, having trusted in Jesus’s sacrifice for the forgiveness of sins — the Spirit (P2) now inhabits their heart. They’ve been freed or “saved” from Egypt’s (sin) narrative and are now free to serve (abad) the narrative of Jesus’s Kingdom (life). Pre-salvation, the Torah helps people see their switch. Post-salvation, the Torah helps people keep a close eye on the narrative they’re serving. Paul writes of sin (Type C),


Post-Passover and post-escape, the Israelites are saved. Egypt, in one sense, is in the past. In another sense, however, Egypt is still very much in the present. You’ve heard it said, “You can take a boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of a boy.” The same principle applied to Israel. The same principle applies to us. The Israelites were saved. And we, too, are saved. But here’s what we all know. While salvation releases us from Egypt’s or sin’s (Type B) jurisdiction, Egypt and sin (Type C) still knock at our heart’s door. For this reason, the Law (Torah) was added: “because of transgressions”—to help people see the narrative to which they’re presenting the members of their bodies. Egypt’s or YHWH’s?[5]

Johannes Vermeer
Girl with a Pearl Earring

YHWH’s Torah established the Kingdom’s narrative. The redemptive line that runs between the Abrahamic and New Covenant is straight. YHWH made a promise to Abraham, then delivered on that promise via the redemptive work of Jesus, and that’s that — no help needed.

Then why the shadow of Sinaitic Law? What’s its purpose? So yes, the Law “was added because of transgressions” so “sin would become utterly sinful” (Gal 3:19; Rom 7:13). That’s certainly true, for without it people would have a harder time recognizing their need for the cross. But there’s another equally important reason: its narrative creates the necessary storyline in which to situate Jesus’s worth.

To understand the importance of narrative in relation to value, consider another famous "shadow," the Girl with a Pearl Earring. That’s what paintings are, aren’t they? Shadows. There’s the painter. There’s the subject. Then there’s the “shadow” of the subject depicted in brushstrokes and hues. In reality, Johannes Vermeer’s Girl is nothing more than oil on canvas. And yet, when those oils — infused with ochres, lapis lazuli, bone black, and lead white—are swirled together just so, the result is breathtaking. Why? Because the moves of Vermeer’s painting usher the viewer, in a way few other works of art do, into an alternate narrative. The colors. The head tilt. The gaze. The pearl. It all bespeaks something. The mind of a painter. The relationship between painter and subject. None of it is the real thing (it’s a shadow), but the painting’s worth is incalculable.

The Torah is like a work of art — a sort of three-dimensional masterpiece we're invited to live into.[1] There’s the painter — YHWH. There’s the subject — Jesus. Then there’s the shadow of the subject depicted in the brushstrokes of seasonal observances and the hues of a Tabernacle. In reality, the Torah is nothing more than a set of laws, statutes, and judgments. And yet, when those laws — infused with blues, purples, scarlet, the purest gold, and the crimson blood of a lamb — are ordered just so, the result is breathtaking. Why? Because the moves of the Law usher the observer, in a way no other narrative can, into the kingdom of God.[2] The sabbaths. The sacrifices. The way we eat. The clothes we wear. The kindnesses we embody. It all bespeaks something. The mind of the Creator. The relationship between Creator and created. Like the Girl with a Pearl Earring, it’s all a shadow, but its worth is unfathomable.

Traver Dougherty
A Personal Testimony

The Torah doesn’t stop at establishing the Kingdom’s narrative; it establishes Jesus as the first fruit of that narrative. There was a time in my life when I couldn’t have cared less about Vermeer’s Girl, The Hague, or the Mauritshuis (the city and museum where the Girl is on display). The same was true of the Torah. In both instances, I had a maturity and capacity problem; I couldn’t see the relevance of either. In time, however, that changed. The Girl became relevant when I realized that art, when done well, imbues the human experience with depth and wonder. The Torah became relevant when I realized that the Law, when correctly understood and observed, not only infuses the human experience with the deepest of meaning, it defines and exalts Jesus. What’s more, it provides a roadmap for Christian living, one that allows God’s people to walk in the narrative of Jesus’s kingdom and proclaim its gospel.

Taking the Vermeer metaphor just a bit further (see above), suppose I’ve come into some unexpected money and decide to vacation in The Hague for a solitary purpose — to study the Girl. Every day, I keep the same schedule. Wake up at six — at the coffee shop by seven. As I walk into the coffee shop, I first spot a table, then lay down copies of Arthur Wheelock’s Johannes Vermeer and Mariët Westermann’s A Worldly Art. On top of the books, I set my phone. Then, I take my place in line. Next, a nice lady takes my order. From there, the nice lady warms my breakfast wrap, pulls my espresso, then delivers the items to my table. I'm grateful.

For the next hour, I read — about the exhibit, verisimilitude, Dutch ideologies, and Vermeer’s world. At nine, I pack up, drop off my books at the hotel, then head to the Mauritshuis. From ten to noon, I view only one painting — the Girl — studying every stroke, contemplating every why. I eat lunch, break for an hour, then return to the museum to peruse the collection — the Rembrandts, the Frans Hals, the Jan Steens. An hour before closing, I then sit with the Girl, once more, while journaling about the day’s experience.

For the next several days, I repeat the process. Wake up. Order from the same nice lady at the coffee shop. Read. Museum. It’s fabulous — but not as fabulous as it could have been — had I only known.

With each passing day, I make several unintended discoveries. I notice, for example, that Vermeer avoids hard lines, relying instead on shades and shadow. On another day, for an instant, I notice in the background what I think is indigo and weld. Then I think, you’ve stared too long — your mind’s playing tricks.

Nothing, however, could have prepared me for the discovery I’d make on the seventh day. For the past six days, I had kept a tight schedule. Up at six. Coffee shop by seven. Set down my books. Then order — from the same nice lady. It's rhythmic. She warms my breakfast wrap, pulls my espresso, then arrives at my table. But this time, she comments on my books, “I see you’re reading Wheelock and Westermann. I love Vermeer’s work.” She then looks at me as if to say notice me. As she begins to walk away she tilts her head, just so, to the left. Beneath her left ear is a suspended pearl. It's the Girl. She was there the whole time, and I missed it!

And that's the metaphor.

For years, I patronized another museum of sorts — a seminary. Like clockwork, I set aside my morning hours to mine the Scriptures, usually at a local coffee shop. I’d walk in, spot a table, then lay down my Bible and books. On top of the books, I’d set my phone. I’d then order, wait for my items, then arrange my books and coffee in my normal methodical way. For the next hour, I’d read — about theologies, philosophies, the Torah, and lots of Jesus. And here’s what I notice. While the Torah’s treatment of defiling skin diseases is intriguing, its import is somehow lost on me. When Jesus heals a man of leprosy, however, I’m awestruck.

Then one day, I see it — the pearl, but in a reverse sort of way. Jesus said to the Pharisees, “For if you believed Moses, you would believe Me, for he wrote about Me” (Jn 5:46). The Jewish people, then and now, know their way around the Painting (the Torah). And of the Painting, they’re altogether familiar with the metaphorical ochres, the lapis lazuli, the bone black, the lead white. With the Subject (Yeshua), however, they are not. I, on the other hand, knew the Subject, but knew nothing of the painting that depicted Him as Subject. Knowing the Subject is incredible. Knowing the Subject amid a life immersed in the brushstrokes and hue choices of a Master Painter, even more so — for a life directed by YHWH’s Torah not only immerses people into the Kingdom’s narrative, it established Jesus as lead actor.

"We do good, not because works make us good, but because the works exalt His goodness."

God's torah helps people recognize righteousness and its narrative. Good works are good, but the function of good works isn’t what many think. The world’s logic goes something like this: because I do good works, I must be good. Christian logic goes something like this: although I occasionally do good works, I’ve done enough wrongdoing to disqualify myself from the good category. Therefore, I need a Savior. And that’s right. “There is none righteous,” says Paul, “not even one” (Rom 3:10). But then, I’ve seen some Christians take the no-one-is-righteous logic a step further. It goes something like this: any attempt on a Christian’s part to keep the Torah’s commandments negates the cross.[1] That’s not true. If it were, Paul would not have told the Corinthian believers to “keep the Festival [of Unleavened Bread]” (1 Cor 5:8). He wouldn’t have repeatedly emphasized that God’s Laws (instruction) never misses the mark. “Is the Law sin? May it never be!” (Rom 7:7).

What then, post-salvation, is a right use of the Law? Why good works? To elucidate the answer, there’s an important detail of Vermeer’s Girl I’ve yet to disclose. In the world of art, she’s a tronie — a composite image, one girl comprised of many, created in Vermeer’s mind. She’s distinct, but she’s also Vermeer. It’s a relationship I can’t quite define. A mystery. So too is the bride of Messiah (Eph 5:32). She’s a composite of all who have ever called on the name of the Lord (Rom 10:13). Together, she forms the oils — the ochres, the lapis lazuli, the bone black, and the lead white. And when we obey, it’s as if the Painter, via the Spirit, picks up His brush. With each stroke, the Kingdom comes into view — for us and for the world.

Torah observance, mitzvot, good works — however you want to think of it — has nothing to do with a works-based righteousness. Righteousness is bestowed, not earned. Instead, good works are a response to God’s grace, a way of pressing into the Kingdom’s narrative. We do good, not because works make us good, but because the works exalt His goodness. You see, the Law isn’t about right and wrong any more than Vermeer’s Girl is about right and wrong. Yes, there are rights and there are wrongs, but thinking of the instructions (laws) given at Sinai in terms of dos and don’ts is as absurd as thinking of the Girl as random globs of oil on canvas (or dos and don’ts). Synergistically, the Torah’s aim is the true good; its brushstrokes heralding a good and righteous King, the substance and trajectory of his kingdom, and the bride who’s made beautiful because of Him.

The Sinaitic Covenant serves as a bridge between YHWH’s promise to Abraham and Jesus’s permanent kingdom on earth. In theological schools, professors ask students to think deeply about the eschatological “now” and “not yet” — this age (aeon), as Lee Camp points out, and the age to come.[1] The present aeon, of course, began when YHWH tabernacled among us in Jesus. Jesus’s first coming didn’t alleviate all that is broken in this world, but it certainly cemented an inevitable end: one day, “[Jesus] will wipe away every tear from [our] eyes; and there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain” (Rev 21:4). And when will the inevitable outcome begin? No one knows for certain, but if YHWH’s consistent — and He always is — we now look toward the fall appointed times, beginning with the Day of Shouting (Yom Teruah).[2]