#4 WORD SERIES -- SHIBBOLETH

“SHIBBOLETH” 

shib·bo·leTH noun; from Hebrew šibbōleṯ “ear of corn” Used as a test of tribal identity by its difficult pronunciation (Judg. 12:6). English use from the 17th century

Let’s make it easy. Currently, a SHIBBOLETH is any behavior, word, or a phrase used by a particular group to identify insiders.

 Word: “Ya’all”

Phrase: “Make American Great Again.” 

Behavior: Secret handshake

Belief: Non-vaxer

Americans say “tomato;” a Brit says “Tomahto.” 

I say “oil well.” An East Texan says, “all  way-yull”

Media says “Oh-mah-cron,” Koine Greek says, “Ah-micron”

If you hail from the southwest, you say “NeVAda” with a short ă, an easterner is inclined to say, “NaVAHda,” using that low, back vowel sound of ‘ah;’ jaw dropped, tongue pulled back in the mouth. Not so coarse, you know. Obviously, not one of us.

 We can tell, all of us can, who belongs.

None of us is likely to be killed for mispronouncing Shibboleth, but once in the plentiful history of humans harassing one another, around the 11th century BCE, at the beginning of a true Palestinian Iron Age, while Egyptians were busy inventing what is now commonly called a chair; while China was destroying forests for the sake of agriculture, while sea-going Phoenicians were importing tin from mines in England (not by friendly trade agreements), and camel raids from the distant Midian annually menaced Israelite territories, while all that was going on, we find our word being used at the edge of the Jordan river.

Descendants from Joseph (the guy with the many-colored coat) and his Egyptian wife, the Ephraimites (Seattle proud) and the Gileadites (Bellevue prosperous) lived separated by the river, and by prejudices. The full story of these cousins is replete with salacious scenes, a disinherited leader born of a prostitute, lawlessness, invasions, regrets, and humiliation, but we are in their story looking for a word. Shibboleth. 

 This is what happened: a complement of Ephraimite warriors confidently crossed the Jordan into Gileadite territory meaning to join their cousins in a fight against invading Amorites. However, the Gileadites had finished that skirmish without first inviting guys from the west. Cousins, they were. Kissing cousins, they were not. 

So, here you have it. Like bulky linebackers after a quarterback sack, the Ephraimites were pounding their chests, loaded for bear, madder than a wet hen, facing off in a fight of cliches. Swords were drawn, insults tossed, and amazingly, the battle wearied Gileadites thought to have had enough, “smote” their annoying cousins right nicely. 

Surviving Ephraimites stumbled to the river fords meaning to wade west to safety. However. According to the record, “the Gileadites captured the fords of the Jordan,” and when the fugitives of Ephraim said, “Let me go over,” well then, this:

Are you Ephraimite?”

“No way!”

“Really?”

“Right.”

Well then, do this for us. Say Shibboleth.”

This was the right spot for a profane phrase to form in the minds of those fit to flee. Ephraimites, no matter that their lives depended on it, couldn’t say Shibboleth. They said Sibboleth.

Got that?

They “could not pronounce it right.” And because they couldn’t turn their tongues to the “sh” sound, according to the written report, 42,000 men lost their lives. There, at the river’s edge.

Got it?

Them and us.

Ours, not yours.

Insider/outsider.

It doesn’t take much to mark differences. It doesn’t take much to distinguish between winners and losers, insiders and outsiders, superior and inferior. It simply doesn’t take much. 

In the 21st century, Shibboleth is a behavior, a word, or a phrase that shows someone belongs to a particular class, ethnicity, culture, profession, nation, party, or belief. An includer. An excluder. 

“Shibboleth” 

Keep your eyes and ears open, such tests abound among us. Wise we are to recognize it; well it is to call it by its name.

Should you enjoy more of the original story, the following is a short essay I wrote some several years ago for a sermon I preached about it. Is it a jeremiad? I’m not sure. I know it is about a five-minute read.

       “ It May be Right but it isn’t Necessarily Good”

“Say Shibboleth.”

“Sibboleth” mutters the man from Ephraim.

“Try again.” A Gileadite soldier grins and slowly draws his sword.

“Sib-boleth” The emerging blade smiles in the sun; a struggling Ephraimite sweats. 
Sizz, Sibb, Sebb-oleth!” He and his fellow tribesmen are doomed.

Cornered like a mouse at a raft’s edge, though their lives depended upon it, Ephraimite mouths could not shape “sh,” could not say “shibboleth.” Sad, but in this historic tale, a sibilant sound silenced some right brawny men. The Ephraimite warriors had bravado right, they had directions right for war. Their weapons and indignation and arrogance were shining right nicely but by not being able to say it right, everything went wrong. It all went wrong in Gilead, east of the Jordan and near the town of Succoth.

The region of Gilead undulates with a history of strife and anger. Here, Laban hunted Jacob, the fugitive. Here, an exhausted Gideon knocked the socks off the city of Succoth for their refusal to feed his soldiers. Nearby, the young shepherd, David, dodged insults hurled by his older brothers. Moments later, the giant, Goliath, collapsed like a glass tower under the boy’s accurately aimed stones. Then, when David was at last king, his own son, Absalom, opposed him by gathering a rebel force—in Gilead. 

Now, Ephraimite tribesmen are slinging right-nasty one-liners at their East bank cousins, the Gileadites. Never have these tribes shared much accord, and it will not happen here. Gileadite warriors were plodding homeward, weary from a victory over invading Amorites. At the same time, the Ephraimites crossed over to Gilead from the Jordan’s west side, too late to join the fray. These guys were rested. Finding the battle done, they were down-right miffed and hot-shot ready for a fight of their own. Picking one was as easy as picking ripe figs off a tree. But with the Amorites defeated, who would Ephraimites fight? 

Those who ventured forth to war without them, that’s who. Those close and familiar. Gileadites. Kin. White hot angry, the guys from the west side struck up a family feud. Eponymous insults flew like flint sparks struck over dried leaves. Old issues ignited old hatred. Searing aspersions whipped up the flames. 

“We know who you really are!” they yelled. “You deserters from Ephraim. Frauds! That’s what you Gileadites are. Renegades!” Probably they were right, as when “right” means “accurate.” But as we will see, being right is no guarantee of being good. 

So taken were the Ephraimites with their righteous indignation that they completely neglected the place of goodness. And, oh yes, they neglected to notice the place where they stood. Not smart. On the winning side of intimidation they seemed to be, but they were on the wrong side of the Jordan. 

In short order, that tired, don’t-mess-with-me band of Gileadites threw cold water on all the hot talk. The war of cousins left defeated Ephraimites crawling over their own dead in retreat. 

“Get home,” they muttered among themselves. “Just get home.”

But between their battered bravado and their home lay the Jordan river, and at the river’s edge stood Gileadites—angry, arms akimbo, and after two rounds of war, sorely in need of showers and sleep. Seek these things they would, but not before they determined no Ephraimites survived. Their method of detection was brilliant. In their regional dialect they asked, “Any Ephraimites left?” Silence.

“What’ll we do?” whispered the defeated. 

“Pretend to be Gileadite, that’s what.”

“Anything to get across the Jordan.”

“Cross you may,” shouted the victors. “That is, you may cross if you are Gileadite. If, as Gileadites can, you say, “Shibboleth.”

That’s right, Shibboleth, a harmless word meaning ‘an ear of corn.’ Obviously, in this case it meant much more. Easy. Say it. We Americans can. Unfortunately, Ephraimites could not. Quite a few of them died trying; trying to say it right in the wrong place. Not good.

Welcome to America where a small number of the world’s Christians live. Observe new wrong places—political, theological, cultural places where families fall into arguments and accusations. Welcome to the place of shocking un-fellowship, to a field strewn with the corpses of a single but fragmented family. Here, find Christians, politicians, educators, and pundits who not only insist that they “say it right” but regularly censure others for failing to say it right, whatever “it” happens to be.

Observe the spectacle of the Convinced aiming arguments at the unpersuaded. Observe various tribes sparring and slugging it out on the battlefield. Some will escape, some will heal, many will die. Observe our proud, separate camps. Some of us love war. Others love purges. Many love combat. See banners hoisted overhead, proclaiming the right point of view, right agenda, right theologies, right leaders and followers, right indignation while, all the while, we march from one fray to the next. Stripped of goodness, being right rather than doing it, encouraging war. For the Church, at least, she becomes a laughingstock, these feuding followers of one fondly called Prince of Peace. For humanity (generally speaking), being able to “say it right,” very often proves not to be good. 

MOTHER GOOSE & GRIMM (WHY A WORD MATTERS)