Original Meaning

EZEKIEL HAS ALREADY used a variety of forms of metaphorical language, both subtle and not-so-subtle, with powerful effect. In this chapter, he continues to utilize metaphorical language, this time in a form that combines “riddle” (NIV, “allegory”) and “parable” (17:2). A “riddle” (ḥîdâ) is a statement that hides the truth it imparts,1 while a “parable” (māšāl) elucidates the truth that underlies it by putting it in a fresh light. In other words, this chapter functions both to conceal and reveal. It has a surface meaning that is fairly simple to comprehend, even if its message is not necessarily welcome, but to the discerning reader it also has a deeper, underlying significance. Perhaps this section best fits into the genre of “fable,” a story that communicates its concealed message by transposing the realities it describes into the world of plants and animals (cf. Jotham’s fable in Judg. 9:7–20).

The story itself concerns two great eagles,2 a cedar, and a vine. The first eagle came to Lebanon, broke off the newest growth of a mighty cedar, and carried it off to a land of merchants,3 that is, Babylon (Ezek. 17:4; cf. 16:29). In the cedar’s place, the eagle planted a vine, giving it every possible advantage. He provided for it fertile soil and abundant water supply, all the conditions necessary for maximal growth. In those conditions it spread out, producing branches and limbs but remaining low in stature (17:6).

Desiring more from its life, however, and observing that there was an alternative, the vine turned away from its first provider and sent its roots toward the second eagle. This bird is described in similar language to the first eagle—it too was powerful of wing and beautiful of plumage—yet without the same fulsome glory as the first.4 It had done nothing for the vine, just as the first eagle had left nothing undone, yet the ungrateful vine turned its allegiance from the first to the second (17:7).

The fate of the vine is predictable. In seeking to gain something more, it will instead throw away everything it has been given. Turning its branches toward the second eagle is already a repudiation of its purpose as a fruitful, splendid vine (17:8). The second eagle will do nothing for it; all the vine will succeed in doing is arousing the anger of the first eagle, who will come and tear off its fruit and uproot it from its place. It will not be a difficult task for this powerful eagle to accomplish, whose activity throughout the parable contrasts with the passivity of the second eagle (17:9). The vine’s chosen course of action is worse than foolish, it is suicidal.

As in the case of Jotham’s fable in Judges 9, the political realities depicted in this fable are little more concealed from the original hearers than when in contemporary American political cartoons the Republican Party is depicted by an elephant and the Democrats by a donkey. So there is a certain irony in Ezekiel saying to his audience: “Do you not know what these things mean?” (Ezek. 17:12). His hearers could probably have supplied for themselves the interpretation that follows. The first eagle is the king of Babylon, while the cedar sprig is Jehoiachin, whom Nebuchadnezzar carried off to Babylon, along with Ezekiel himself. The “seed of your land” whom Nebuchadnezzar put in his place is clearly Zedekiah, Jehoiachin’s uncle, whom Nebuchadnezzar installed in Jehoiachin’s place. The second eagle is Egypt, from whom Zedekiah was seeking aid to break free from the Babylonian yoke.5

The meaning of the parable is therefore self-evident: Zedekiah’s foreign policy is worse than foolish, it is suicidal. His revolt cannot stand on the basis of seeking help from a (disinterested) lesser superpower against the dominant superpower in the contemporary ancient Near East. Will he thrive? No way!

But is the fable’s meaning as clear as it appears at first sight? Throughout the fable there are slightly discordant notes that do not fit with the straightforward, surface analysis. These remind us that the fable is a riddle as well as a parable; it conceals a deeper truth as well as reveals an obvious lesson. For instance, Lebanon is not only the proverbial home of all cedars but also the name of one of Solomon’s palaces (cf. 1 Kings 7:2; Jer. 22:23). So the discerning reader is invited to consider who planted “the cedar in Lebanon” in the first place. Who established the Davidic dynasty in Jerusalem? Further back still, who was it who had brought them “to the land of Canaan,” just as Nebuchadnezzar brought Jehoiachin “to the land of merchants”?

Moreover, the vine planted in conditions suitable for growth is a classic picture of the Lord’s provision for Israel (Isa. 5:1–7); indeed, the imagery of “no effort spared,” which seems more than a little overdone with reference to Nebuchadnezzar, fits perfectly for the Lord’s care. He is the One who, according to Psalm 80, brought a vine out of Egypt and cleared the ground in order to plant it in the Promised Land (Ps. 80:8–11). Likewise, Ezekiel’s address to Judah as “this rebellious house” describes the history of their relationship with the Lord much better than their history (to date) with Babylon.

Taken together, these hints supply a deeper significance to the breaking of Zedekiah’s oath of loyalty to Nebuchadnezzar. It is not simply that breaking an oath lawfully taken is a serious matter. It is not even that the oath Zedekiah was forced to swear was taken in the Lord’s name and therefore he would act as guarantor to bring into effect the covenant curses attached to it. It is that there is a fundamental analogy between Zedekiah’s rebellion against his covenant overlord, Nebuchadnezzar, and Israel’s rebellion against her covenant overlord, God himself. If Zedekiah’s abandoning of his (relatively) prosperous situation in favor of the Egyptian option is a suicidally foolish breach of the covenant relationship, what may we say about Israel’s abandonment of the Lord and their history of rebellion against him?

Thus, at just the moment when it might seem that Ezekiel has unpacked the meaning of the fable, he launches into its real meaning with the word “therefore” (Ezek. 17:19).6 The fundamental significance of the picture is not exhausted by the political observation that a breach of the covenant with Nebuchadnezzar, sworn on oath, is suicide. Rather, as Greenberg notes, “the political transaction is used as a model from which a theological analogy is drawn.”7 The political leadership in Judah has not only despised and broken Nebuchadnezzar’s covenant (an act for which they will face the consequences); on a deeper level they have despised and broken the Lord’s covenant (17:19; cf. the similar wording of 16:59). The result is that the coming judgment is not merely a harsh taste of Realpolitik, but the judgment of God on a rebellious house. If the risk of rousing the Babylonian wrath ought to give pause to plans to send to Egypt for help (and it ought), how much more should the risk of the Lord’s wrath give pause to a people willfully headed away from the One who planted them in a land flowing with milk and honey?

The deeper message of the fable thus paints the hopelessness of Zedekiah’s revolt against Nebuchadnezzar in its blackest hues, pointing out that he was not just rebelling against the mighty Babylonians, but against the sovereign Lord, the God who made heaven and earth. At the same time, however, the latter part of this chapter also reworks the fable in more positive terms (17:22–24). The Lord himself, no longer acting through intermediaries, will take a new shoot from the cedar and plant it on a high and lofty mountain (17:22). A new cedar will grow on the mountain heights of Israel into a lofty tree, which will provide in its branches shelter for birds of all kinds (17:23). In contrast to the vine, which even in ideal conditions rebelled and failed to fulfill its potential (17:8), the cedar will achieve the eagle’s initial purpose. In that way, all the trees of the field (the nations) will be brought to an understanding of the Lord’s sovereignty in history, seeing that the rise and fall of empires is entirely his doing (17:24).

The interpretation of this postscript to the earlier fable is a straightforward development from the deeper level of meaning of those verses. What does the future hold after the Lord’s judgment on Judah? Is there any hope for the uprooted vine? The logical answer would be no, but Ezekiel affirms, against all logic, that the Lord will intervene to reverse the failures of the past. Just as Nebuchadnezzar once installed Zedekiah, so Yahweh will install his own vassal on Mount Zion.8 In contrast to the vine that rebelled and would soon wither (17:7–10), the cedar of Yahweh’s planting will thrive and bear fruit (17:23).

However, it is not simply a matter of rescuing the cedar sprig that has been carried off to Babylon and restoring Jehoiachin to the throne. The problem lies deeper than that, for the whole history of the monarchy is, from Ezekiel’s perspective, one of failure. Yahweh will go back to the source, as it were, for a new shoot, though still from the same cedar tree.9 Though no hope is held out for the present cedar sprig (Jehoiachin) or the vine (Zedekiah), yet the death of the contemporary Davidides does not mean the end of the road for the Davidic monarchy. The failure of all past Davidic kings to usher in God’s kingdom does not mean an abandonment of God’s promises to David of an eternal throne (2 Sam. 7:16). A new sprig from that same tree will be planted and will flourish under the blessing of Yahweh’s protection. Indeed, his future greatness will far surpass that of the past monarchs of Israel, having a worldwide impact as the nations see God visibly at work establishing his kingdom.

Bridging Contexts

CODED SPEECH AS a tool of communication. In a country where free speech is considered sacrosanct, the vehicle of metaphorical speech is one to which contemporary prophets rarely resort. We can say what we think in plain, unequivocal terms. Such a luxury has not always been afforded to government critics down through the ages and is not permitted to many around the world in the days in which we live. In such situations, various forms of pictorial speech or coded message—parable, riddle, or allegorical or apocalyptic language—become popular. The superficial message may be couched in safely “unreal” terms, while allowing the deeper, coded message to be understood by initiates.10

But even in a context where free speech is permitted, metaphors, parables, and allegories can be powerful tools of communication, giving a fresh perspective on a familiar situation or bringing to light unrecognized parallels and similarities. That is why art and literature have so often had a critical role in bringing about social change. For example, Harriet Beecher Stowe’s famous book, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, probably had a far greater impact on the future of slavery in America than all the political speeches of her contemporaries. In a similar way, Ezekiel uses the political reality of Zedekiah’s covenant with Nebuchadnezzar and its impending breach to bring home the spiritual reality of Israel’s broken covenant with the Lord and its impending consequences. Playing fast and loose with one’s covenant overlord is never wise and frequently fatal, whether that overlord is Nebuchadnezzar or God himself.

The consequences of breaking an ancient covenant. Yet some aspects of that comparison may well be lost on us as contemporary listeners. Because we are not familiar with the nature of covenant treaty documents, we may be unaware that to break your oath of covenant loyalty was to call down on your own head all of the curses attached to that covenant. It was customary for such self-imprecatory curses to be attached to the end of an ancient Near Eastern covenant treaty document. Thus, after naming the gods who are summoned as witnesses of the oath, the treaty between the Hittite king Mursilis and Duppi-Tessub of Amurru concludes:

The words of the treaty and the oath that are inscribed on this tablet—should Duppi-Tessub not honor these words of the treaty and the oath—may these gods of the oath destroy Duppi-Tessub together with his person, his wife, his son, his grandson, his house, his land and together with everything that he owns.11

It is not clear whether the Babylonians regularly imposed such an oath of allegiance on vassals in the name of their own gods, although the Assyrians clearly adopted that practice.12 According to 2 Chronicles 36:13, Nebuchadnezzar had indeed made Zedekiah swear an oath in the name of God. When he broke such an oath, Zedekiah could hardly expect God’s aid.

But it may well be that, like so many of his predecessors, it was not the Lord’s aid he sought anyway, being content if he could merely gain substantial military assistance from Egypt. He hoped to play the two major regional superpowers, Babylon to the east and Egypt to the west, off against one another. It was a dangerous game to play. Similar strategies of seeking help from Egypt were in place in Isaiah’s time, with no significant results (Isa. 30:1–7; 31:1–3). Yet in spite of that negative history, hope of help from Egypt sprang eternal in the hearts of those in power in Judah. Turning their back on their one true refuge, the Lord himself, they placed their hope in the chariots and horses whose ancestors had perished in the Red Sea (Ex. 15:4). Such an attitude was inevitably doomed to disaster.

The monarchy in Israel and Judah. The monarchy itself in Israel and Judah suffered for a similar mismatch between expectations and performance. God had made provision at the outset of Israel’s history for that institution: Ancient prophecies had foretold it (Gen. 49:10; Num. 24:17) and the Mosaic Law had regulated it (Deut. 17:14–20). Yet when the people actually made the request for a king, their motivation was entirely wrong. They wanted a king who would lead them and fight their battles for them, so that they could be like all the other nations around them (1 Sam. 8:20). They had forgotten that they were not called to be like the nations around them but to be God’s own treasured possession, a kingdom of priests (Ex. 19:6). They had apparently also missed the fact that in the immediately preceding chapter they had fared well enough in the second battle of Ebenezer, with “only” the Lord fighting for them (1 Sam. 7:2–14).

What happened was that they had transferred to the monarchy all the faith that their fathers had placed in the ark of the covenant. At the first battle of Ebenezer in 1 Samuel 4, their fathers looked to the ark to lead them into battle and to bring them automatic victory over their enemies. It did not work. Now their descendants were looking to a king to bring them automatic victory over their enemies. They didn’t really trust God as their king, so they wanted to replace him by an earthly king, someone you could see and feel and touch. In that hope, they were going to be disappointed. Their deliverance came not from an ark or an earthly king, but from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.

But God’s plan for his people is ultimately gracious. He does not plan to destroy them. Do they want a king? He will give them a king. In fact, he will give them a whole series of kings to rule over them. Over the next five hundred years they will have a succession of all kinds of kings: good kings, bad kings, strong kings, weak kings. They will have more than enough kings for them to see that no earthly king can meet their needs. There will be no king who can provide them lasting shelter against the storms of life, a reality that found poignant expression in Lamentations 4:20: “The LORD’s anointed, our very life breath, was caught in their traps. We thought that under his shadow we would live among the nations.” What they really need is for the Lord himself to be their king, to establish the monarchy on a new footing as a lofty tree that will produce fruit and shelter, peace and prosperity (Ezek. 17:24).

Having shown the people throughout the pages of the Old Testament what kind of king they need, in Jesus God himself will come to be their king. He is the perfect king, fully obedient to God’s laws, a king after God’s own heart. He is a king who intercedes for his people like a prophet, a king who offers his own life up as a priest, a king who will not die and pass his kingdom on to a line of depressingly inferior descendants. He is indeed the King of kings.

Contemporary Significance

LACK OF SPIRITUAL insight. We live in an age of intense political analysis. The nightly news is filled with the results of the latest polls, which are scrutinized for their potential impact on political thinking. Whenever major political changes take place, such as an election at home, an international trade treaty, or a major event like the dismantling of the Berlin Wall, there is an outpouring of words explaining how these events will affect our lives. In large measure, governments depend on such analysis to make their decisions. Yet in spite of the intense searchlight of analysis, politicians still can and do make phenomenal mistakes. Right up until the moment Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait in 1990, intelligence reports apparently regarded such an outcome as unlikely. That miscalculation, along with Hussein’s estimation that he could safely annex Kuwait, cost many lives on both sides.

Zedekiah’s decision to rebel against Babylon was a miscalculation of similarly costly proportions. Encouraged perhaps by the Egyptians under Pharaoh Hophra, he sought to break free, only to discover too late that the Egyptians were freer with their words than with their military might. The intelligence analysis led him astray. Nebuchadnezzar came, as Ezekiel had warned, and judged the covenant-breaker, executing his sons in front of his very eyes and then putting his eyes out before taking him to Babylon in chains. Yet, disastrous as his foreign policy was for Judah, Ezekiel insists that Zedekiah’s basic problem was not lack of political insight but lack of spiritual insight. It was not merely Nebuchadnezzar’s covenant he had broken but the Lord’s.

We suffer from the same rose-tinted myopia that Zedekiah did. On a societal level, we think the problem with our world is essentially political. If we were just able to kick the present set of bums out of office and elect people who agree with us, the world would instantly be a better place. So we pour our time and energy into political campaigns and boycotts and other efforts to bring about change through political means. On a personal level, we think the solution is to pour our time into gathering the information necessary for wise decision-making. We read the consumer reports before we purchase a new car. We do our homework before we invest money in a particular stock, to ensure, as far as possible, that we will get a good rate of return for our money. We plan our careers years in advance, trying to make sure that we are in the right place at the right time to reach the very top. We try to make wise provision for our retirement years so that we will not be in want.

Now all of these things are good things to do, on a personal and societal level. We should work for political change and we should plan for the future. Yet we can be so busy doing the good things that we miss out on the one insight that is really necessary, the best thing: maintaining our personal and corporate spiritual life with God. But as Jesus reminds us: “What good will it be for a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul?” (Matt. 16:26).

How many people have planned for every eventuality they can encounter in life, yet have left out of the reckoning entirely their coming great encounter with God in death? Anyone who has ever talked to people in the streets or in their homes and asked them the question “If you were to die tonight, would you be sure of going to heaven?” can testify that many have never thought about their coming appointment with their Creator. Yet for all of us, the ultimate reality is not how much we have reformed the world or how well we have planned our money and our efforts. It is the fact that we will all one day have to stand before God to give account of what we have done.

God’s answer to our hopeless situation. Perhaps one reason why we ignore that ultimate reality is that we do not wish to be confronted with the unpleasant truth. It is easier for us, like Zedekiah, to believe in comforting accounts of our own ability to stand on our own merits rather than to face the harsh facts of the untenability of our own position. We want to believe that we can change the world through our own efforts. We want to think that God ought to be impressed, at least somewhat, by our goodness and righteous acts. We prefer not to remember that we are helpless sinners on a collision course with a God of absolute purity and holiness, in whose presence sin cannot be tolerated. But if we accept the fact that we are all covenant-breakers in Adam as well as covenant-breakers on our own account, how shall we stand on that day? Is our ultimate future as bleak as was Zedekiah’s?

The answer lies in the new chip off the old block, the sprig of the cedar tree that God will plant. This new beginning from David’s line will be a covenant-keeper, not a covenant-breaker like Zedekiah. He will not simply be a slightly improved version of the past, a political retooling of last year’s model, but a radically new beginning. As a result, instead of scattering death and destruction in his wake, he will provide shelter and security not merely for Israel but for all of the nations of the earth.

The fulfillment of this prophecy is found in Jesus Christ. The angel Gabriel says of the child to be conceived in Mary’s womb: “The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end” (Luke 1:32–33). Mary herself speaks in the Magnificat of a reversal of fortunes, furnishing the evidence of God’s sovereignty: “He has brought down rulers from their thrones but has lifted up the humble” (1:52). Jesus is the coming King, who reverses the fortunes of Israel by his covenant-keeping.

Jesus is definitively not merely a retooling of the past; rather, he is a radically different kind of ruler. He comes as a king—but a king who rides on a donkey (Matt. 21:5). He comes as the Prince of Peace—yet meets a bloody death on the cross. He is himself the Holy One of Israel—yet he eats with tax collectors and sinners (Matt. 9:11). The One who was by nature exalted humbles himself. In the Incarnation, he takes on human form, the form of a servant, and carries it all the way to the death of the cross. But the humble one is paradoxically also exalted.

His kingdom is like the mustard seed, the smallest of all seeds, which grows into a great tree, in whose branches the birds of the air find shade (Mark 4:30–32). Those who come to him receive in him every spiritual blessing (Eph. 1:3). He is not only the new king, he is himself the new temple planted on the high and lofty mountain of Israel (Ezek. 17:22; see 40:2). As the humble one is lifted up on the cross, he draws to himself by his elevation not only God’s own people, Israel, but men and women from all nations as well (John 12:32). Because of his humility, he has now been exalted to the highest place and given the name above every name (Phil. 2:9).

In his humiliation and exaltation, Christ gives us a radically different model for leadership—and indeed for life. How much of our leadership style is based on our own abilities and efforts to get others to serve us? We build our kingdoms and our lives around our own analysis of the world, seeking to make the contacts and build the relationships we think will prosper us, heedless of God and his Word. The irony is that so often our efforts do not even achieve what we aimed at on a human, political level. How much more tragic, though, that in the process we have abandoned God and rebelled against him! Will such rebels prosper? By no means!

The good news, however, is that in spite of our weakness and folly, Christ’s kingdom continues to grow and develop, based on his goodness and covenant faithfulness, not ours. Our rebellion and failure may have negative consequences in our own lives, but it cannot prevent God from achieving his purposes in the world. He may work slowly, from our perspective, through imperceptible growth from small beginnings rather than radical revolution, but his work is nonetheless effective. His tree provides perfect shelter and security for all of his own people. As he has planned, he will bring men and women from every tribe and nation to know himself, justified in the perfect obedience of their true king, the shoot of David, Jesus Christ.