The Poetics of Biblical Narrative - Part 4
Meir Sternberg’s poetics shows why cataloguing literary devices is pointless unless we explain how each small textual choice serves the biblical author’s communicative purpose.
The Literary and Theological Art of the Catholic Epistles
The seven Catholic Epistles form a cohesive literary and theological collection designed to teach the new family of Jesus how to endure suffering faithfully in the world.
Before we jump into any of the specific books, I want to start by noticing some things about this collection of seven books in general. But even before we can do that, we have to look at the story up to this point.
When we look at where we are in the single, overarching story of the Bible, we are all the way down at the end. If the books of the Bible were organized visually according to their actual length, this would appear even more extreme, because we stand right at the tippy end of the story. And like any story, you cannot simply jump into it at the very end, because so many themes, events, and characters have already unfolded.
Let’s review the story up to this point.
The Narrative Spine of the Old Testament
The Old Testament begins with one continuous story, running from Genesis through Kings.
As a quick footnote: I am working here with the order of the books found in the Hebrew Bible. It is slightly different from most of the arrangements in our English Bibles, which derive from the Septuagint, the ancient Greek translation of the Old Testament.
In this arrangement, the Old Testament begins with nine books: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, Joshua, Judges, Samuel, and Kings. Nine books, one single story. This forms the primary narrative spine, the main narrative thread of the Old Testament.
In its most simplified form, we begin with God in the place He has prepared for us—the Garden of Eden. And we end, at the close of 2 Kings, cast out of God’s place, out of fellowship with Him, in what we call exile. That is the grand arc. It functions essentially like a tragedy: it starts high, and it ends low.
To fill out this picture, let us look at a few details. In the beginning, God creates the heavens and the earth. You start with a disorderly place, and over the course of Genesis 1, God brings order to it. Then He makes little copies, little images of Himself—humanity—and says, in effect, “I want you to do these same things.” He gives us jobs to do: to be fruitful and multiply, and to subdue and rule over the earth.
He also creates a special place, the Garden of Eden. It is fascinating to notice that God gives us tasks inside the Garden, and He gives us tasks out in the wider world.
Out in the world, our charge is to subdue and rule it, mirroring what God Himself did in Genesis 1. Inside the Garden, however, we do not need to subdue and rule it, because it has already been subdued and ruled by God, and placed under our care as His vice-regents.
Inside the Garden, God gives us different directions: we are placed there to serve and to guard. Some English translations render this as “tend” or “keep,” but “guard” is a much better translation of the underlying Hebrew word, especially when we observe how it is used later in Scripture and even in the immediate narrative. Just a few verses later, it becomes painfully clear why the Garden needed guarding: a dirty serpent comes creeping in.
So we have tasks out in the world, and we have tasks inside the Garden—the original sanctuary, the kingdom of God. Our job out in the world is to subdue and rule it for our King, expanding the borders of the Garden outward. And inside, as that space expands, we are called to serve it, care for it, and guard it from intruders who would bring violence and evil into God’s presence.
We know what happens next. God tells humanity that they may eat freely of the trees of the garden, but gives one singular command concerning the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. And we disobey.
Yet because God is gracious, He gives humanity another start. That foundational story plays out again, but this time written large across an entire people. Instead of one individual son of God, we have the corporate son of God: the nation of Israel. Instead of a single command, God gives hundreds of laws at Mount Sinai—613 commandments, if the rabbinic tradition is correct. And instead of the Garden of Eden, God gives them the land of Canaan.
The story follows the exact same trajectory. They enter the land, not for a fleeting moment as in Eden, but across hundreds of years. Yet after persistent, generational disobedience, God finally drives them out into exile at the end of Kings.
The Prophets and the Writings: Retelling and Advancing
Following this primary narrative spine, we encounter the latter prophets and the third major section of the Hebrew canon, the Writings.
This subsequent material functions in two distinct ways.
First, it overlays the main narrative. Through these books, the author—ultimately God Himself—is showing us that far more was occurring during the events of Genesis through Kings than we initially perceived.
Consider the book of Ruth as an example. Ruth opens with the phrase, “In the days when the judges ruled.” It is telling us: during that tumultuous era of the judges, God was doing things you did not see at the time. If you recall the book of Judges, it portrays a grim downward spiral. The people abandon the Lord, God gives them over to oppressors, He raises up a deliverer, yet they promptly return to corruption, sinking lower and lower. By the conclusion of Judges, civil war erupts, and the tribe of Benjamin is nearly wiped out, with tens of thousands slaughtered. It is an exceedingly dark period.
Then Ruth appears, set in that very same era, revealing what God was quietly doing behind the scenes. Like a cinematic flashback, we discover God working in Moab, bringing forth a Moabite woman who would become the great-grandmother of King David—the righteous king who would bring order and justice out of the chaos of the judges. Who would have anticipated that God was at work in Moab, an enemy nation, preparing the royal line of deliverance?
So this section overlays the history, offering a second perspective on God’s hidden providence.
Second, this section moves the story forward. While it looks back, it also advances the timeline. In the book of Daniel, for instance, we pick up after the exile of 2 Kings and discover that God is actively working in Babylon—not merely preserving His people, but reigning sovereignly over the Babylonian royal court itself.
Finally, this section retells the grand narrative from a new, climactic vantage point. When you open the books of Chronicles, the story begins all the way back with Adam—moving through nine chapters of genealogies from Adam straight through to the exile and the decree of return.
The Architecture of the New Testament
What makes this structure so vital is that the New Testament is organized in precisely the same manner.
It begins with its own primary narrative spine: not the story of Israel, but the story of Jesus. We have Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, and Acts.
Jesus arrives as the new Adam. He reconstitutes true Israel around Himself and inaugurates the new creation. Where humanity defiled God’s creation in Genesis, and where Israel repeatedly failed throughout the Old Testament, Jesus comes renewing all things. He travels about healing the sick, restoring life, and proclaiming His central message: the kingdom of God is at hand.
Then we arrive at the book of Acts. Luke opens his second volume by noting that his first book recorded all that Jesus began to do and teach. Acts, therefore, is the record of what Jesus continues to do through the Holy Spirit. Jesus teaches, dies, rises, and ascends, pouring out His Spirit to fill the church.
Most of Jesus’ earthly ministry took place within the land of Israel—within the Garden-sanctuary, so to speak—because He had to accomplish what Adam and corporate Israel failed to do in facing the serpent. But just as God originally made images of Himself to carry His work outward, the Spirit fills the church, and in Acts we witness the kingdom expanding out from the Garden, out from Jerusalem and Judea, into the wider Greco-Roman world through the ministries of Peter and Paul.
The narrative spine of Acts concludes in Rome. That is precisely where the next section picks up, with Paul’s letter to the Romans.
Just like the Writings and Prophets in the Old Testament, the New Testament epistles function as an overlay. They show us the deeper theological reality of what was taking place during the era of Acts, letting us hear the fullness of apostolic pastoral ministry. And finally, the book of Revelation retells that grand story of Jesus and His kingdom from a heavenly, unveiled perspective.
Locating the Catholic Epistles
If we break this down further to locate the Catholic Epistles, a striking pattern emerges.
Jesus inaugurates the new creation and the kingdom of God as the new Adam. From there, we receive the Pauline collection, which begins with letters addressed to seven distinct churches. We have thirteen letters of Paul in total, but they are addressed to seven specific congregations: Rome, Corinth, Galatia, Ephesus, Philippi, Colossae, and Thessalonica. This pattern of seven churches will reappear in Revelation chapters 2 and 3. Through these letters, we watch this new family of God being established across the nations.
Next, we encounter the Pastoral Epistles—Paul’s letters to church leaders like Timothy and Titus. This corresponds to the Old Testament focus on kings and shepherds, where the character and faithfulness of leaders determine the direction of the flock. Following that, the book of Hebrews gives us a magnificent sermon, modeling the kind of preaching and theological vision those leaders need.
Then we arrive at our section: the Catholic or General Epistles. Here we find seven letters addressed to the suffering church in the world.
I describe this collection in two specific ways: it is addressed to a church in the world, and to a church that is suffering.
Consider the first description: the church in the world. As we have seen, Jesus’ ministry was centered in Israel. In Acts and Paul’s letters, the gospel steadily advances outward into specific localized cities and individuals. But by the time we reach the Catholic Epistles—so named because “catholic” means universal or general—they are not addressed to a single local congregation in one city.
Instead, they are addressed to the broader people of God scattered across the earth. James opens his letter: “To the twelve tribes in the Dispersion.” Dispersion, or diaspora, is the biblical term for exile, referring to the scattering of God’s people out among the nations. James is not writing merely to an ethnic Jewish enclave; he is writing to the new Israel reconstituted around Jesus and His twelve apostles. That dispersed people is the church living out in the world.
Peter uses the same imagery in 1 Peter, writing to “those who are elect exiles of the Dispersion.” In 1 John, the word “world” appears seventeen times—one of the highest concentrations of that term anywhere in the Bible. The church has left the nursery of Judea; it is now fully out in the world. These letters offer practical wisdom for how the followers of Christ are to live faithfully in that global setting.
The second major reality is that this church is suffering. Throughout all seven Catholic Epistles, suffering and trial form a central theme:
James opens immediately with:
Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds…
Peter writes in 1 Peter:
…though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials…
In 2 Peter, he warns that false prophets and false teachers will arise from within. In 1 John, the apostle warns his children that it is the last hour, and that many antichrists have already gone out into the world. And Jude, the seventh letter, sounds the alarm that ungodly persons have crept in unnoticed, denying our only Master and Lord, Jesus Christ.
As the church advances into the world, it faces external opposition, internal deception, and genuine hardship. These seven epistles are designed to teach the church how to suffer well—a lesson that remains central to our identity in this present age.
The Family of Jesus
Notice also how this collection is framed. There are seven letters in total, and they are bracketed by the earthly brothers of Jesus: James at the beginning, and Jude at the end. Both were literal half-brothers of Jesus.
This framing is more than an interesting historical curiosity about what Jesus’ siblings thought of Him. One of the dominant motifs across the Catholic Epistles is familial language: frequent references to brothers, the Father, little children, and tribes.
As we have seen, Jesus is establishing a new Israel. What was ancient Israel originally? It was simply the household and family of Jacob. Today we think in terms of modern nation-states, but biblical Israel was fundamentally a family. Jesus is now creating a new family.
This theme of family becomes even more profound when we examine the original names behind our English translations. In the Greek text, the names James and Jude are not modern English names. “James” is Iakōbos—Jacob. And “Jude” is Ioudas—Judas or Judah.
In English Bible translation, certain biblical names were anglicized over time while others were retained closer to their original sounds. Abram and Abraham carried over directly, whereas Miriam became Mary. Peter comes across simply from Petros. But with James and Jude, the connection to Israel’s ancestral history is obscured by the anglicization.
When you recover their biblical names, the literary framing comes alive. We open with Jacob, and we close with Judah.
Both names call to mind famous brothers from Genesis who experienced severe family conflict. Jacob was a brother who endured profound estrangement and conflict with his brother Esau, yet was ultimately reconciled. Judah was the notorious brother who proposed selling his own brother Joseph into slavery, yet later offered his own life as a substitute for Benjamin, bringing about reconciliation.
Furthermore, the name Judas brings to mind Judas Iscariot, the betrayer. Yet in this letter we meet another Judas—not a traitor, but a faithful brother and servant of Jesus Christ.
Even in the names that frame this seven-letter collection, the text reinforces the truth that Jesus is restoring and sanctifying His new family.
Two Principles for Reading the Epistles
Before we begin a close study of James, I want to suggest two foundational principles for reading New Testament epistles—not just these seven, but any apostolic letter.
First, these epistles are dense. By dense, I mean something similar to good poetry. Good poetry does not explicitly explain every detail; it leaves certain connections implicit, inviting the reader to discern how the pieces fit together.
We can see a clear example of this in the opening lines of James:
Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.
That thought is straightforward enough. But look at the very next verse:
If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives generously to all without reproach, and it will be given him.
Why does James suddenly pivot to wisdom? He was just discussing trials and how we should rejoice in them because of the maturity they produce, and immediately he brings up wisdom.
The link between those two thoughts is left implicit. James does not spell out every logical connector for us; he expects us to reflect on the relationship between enduring trials and the need for divine wisdom. We should never assume that an epistle is simply a loose collection of disconnected thoughts strung together at random. James is writing with great intentionality, and God has inspired these texts with care. Because many connections are implicit, we must slow down, meditate, and pray to grasp the inner logic.
Second, these epistles are literary unities. The Epistle of James is a single, cohesive letter. We should work diligently to follow the sustained flow of thought across the entire document.
We often pick out individual verses, and that is good. Some of the Bible is written for that kind of reading. The proverbs, for instance, are written in two-line couplets that we can carry in our pocket for the moment when we need them. But with these epistles, we also need to think about how the parts fit together, following the flow of thought through the letter as a whole.