I've written about this briefly before, but over the past week or so as we've particularly remembered the atoning sacrifice of Christ it has struck me again: we (evangelicals, I guess) are pretty good at talking about the glorious truth of Christ's substiutionary sacrifice, with its happy consequence that we no longer face the wrath of God. We are less good at talking about the glorious truth of Christ's representative sacrifice, with its happy consequence that we are no longer the sinners we were.
To unpack that a bit, we say quite clearly that Jesus bore the penalty for sin that we deserved, thus taking it from us. He, the righteous one, stands over against us and takes from us the burden of our guilt, suffering in our place. We say that, and let's be clear: we can't say it enough. This is glorious, it is Scriptural, it is beautiful. Bless the Lord.
But we don't say, or at least we don't say nearly so much, that when Jesus died as our representative on the cross he really brought about our deaths. But that is a big part of the New Testament message. "One has died for all, therefore all have died." "We have been united with him in a death like his... our old self was crucified with him." "I have been crucified with Christ."
These verses, and many others - I would argue that this is the dominant theme of the NT presentation of the atonement - are saying something different from substitution. They follow the way of Christ into the presence of sinners, accepting solidarity with sinners at his baptism, maintaining that solidarity throughout his ministry ("a friend of tax collectors and sinners") - not resisting or avoiding the appearance of guilt, crucified between two obvious malefactors. Born in scandal, living with sinners, dying with criminals; he, the sinless one, with us sinners, really with us. And in his death, therefore, us with him, really with him. And therefore dead, died, executed.
This has hugely important consequences.
Why is God satisfied in the atonement which Christ makes? For sure the penalty is paid, but there is more: the sinner who stood opposed to God is taken away, crucified and dead in and with Christ his sinless representative.
Why should we do mission, taking the gospel out? For sure because of the good news of substitution, but even more because in Christ the death sentence on sinful humanity has been pronounced and carried out (2 Cor 5!); the situation for all people, each individual person, has changed, and they need to know.
Why should I live a distinctive and holy life? For sure the sacrificial death of my substitute is a powerful motive to love, but the standard New Testament appeal is not to gratitude but to simple reality: you, the sinful old you, died; how can you continue to live as if that old self was still around?
Maybe I've just missed it, but I don't think this theme is big enough in our preaching and teaching.
Wednesday, April 24, 2019
Monday, April 15, 2019
The Triumph of the Christian
A Triumph was a Roman celebration of victory, granted by the Senate, in which the victorious general entered Rome followed by the captive leaders of the vanquished, a display of captured booty, and his own victorious troops. The New Testament contains, I think, four 'moments' which could be thought of as Triumphs, each of which is illuminating for understanding what victory as a Christian looks like.
The first Triumph is recorded in all four Gospels (Matthew 21:1-11; Mark 11:1-11; Luke 19:28-40; John 12:12-19), and of course we celebrated it yesterday on Palm Sunday. Jesus enters Jerusalem, accompanied by his followers, who shout his acclaim. Although it is not explicitly identified as a Triumph in the text, the echo of the Roman ceremony would surely have been picked up by the readers of the Gospels, as it has been by the church - hence the traditional description as the 'Triumphal Entry'. Luke records that the disciples were prompted to their cries of praise by remembering "the mighty works they had seen"; I think it's not too much of a stretch to imagine that Jesus' followers saw his progress from Galilee to Jerusalem as a protracted running battle (consider the many encounters with demons), a battle which Jesus had won and which led to the victorious entry to the capital city. At the same time, the humility of Jesus shown in his Triumph stands in sharp contrast to the self-aggrandising display of your typical Roman general. There is something incongruous already in this Triumph.
The second moment of Triumph brings home this incongruity. In Colossians 2:13-15, the Apostle Paul describes God's Triumph over "rulers and authorities" - spiritual powers of evil. These powers are overcome and led in Triumphal procession precisely at the cross of Christ. (Whether verse 15 should end with 'in him' [that is, Christ] or 'in it' [that is, the cross] the crucifixion is still in view from verse 14, and indeed the whole wider context). The actual victory is won at the cross; the real Triumphal procession towards which the entry into Jerusalem could only point takes place on the first Good Friday. It's a Triumph that looks like a defeat, a celebration of victory that looks like a crushing humiliation. Jesus is dragged to Calvary carrying his cross, stripped, and lifted up to the mocking view of all, and yet it is precisely as this happens that the rulers and authorities are 'stripped' of their power to harm, exposed as the empty things they always were, and dragged in Triumphal procession behind the crucified Son of God. The death of Christ is the Triumph of Christ.
It is because of this deep incongruity - the suffering and the victory - that the third moment of Triumph takes the shape it does. The Apostle Paul in 2 Corinthians 2:14 describes his own missionary journeys as a Triumphal procession, led by Christ. In this use of the image we are looking at a different part of the Triumphal parade; in Colossians it was the captive spiritual powers which were in the focus, but now it is the soldiers following the victorious general who come into view. Paul's work is a Triumph, as Christ leads his Apostle through the world, proclaiming his victory. But because it is his victory, won at the cross, this Triumph necessarily has a curious shape; read the rest of 2 Corinthians and it is clear that for Paul his ministry was primarily suffering. He was weak, powerless, almost despairing - and yet this was a Triumph! This is necessarily the shape of all faithful Christian ministry, and all Christian life; conformed to the cross of Christ, and yet in that cross sharing in his Triumph.
The fourth moment of Triumph comes at the end, when the kings of the earth lead the redeemed of the nations in to the New Jerusalem, every enemy having been finally vanquished and utterly destroyed. Only at this point will the incongruity disappear, the tension resolve itself. They were faithful to death, they lived the cross, and now they receive their reward.
So, victory. The Christian life is a Triumph, a following in the path of the victorious General. It is a celebration and a display of the victory he has won. And yet that victory is the cross, which means that Triumph can never become triumphalism. The victory parade is a parade of suffering, weakness, and foolishness. Until he comes.
The first Triumph is recorded in all four Gospels (Matthew 21:1-11; Mark 11:1-11; Luke 19:28-40; John 12:12-19), and of course we celebrated it yesterday on Palm Sunday. Jesus enters Jerusalem, accompanied by his followers, who shout his acclaim. Although it is not explicitly identified as a Triumph in the text, the echo of the Roman ceremony would surely have been picked up by the readers of the Gospels, as it has been by the church - hence the traditional description as the 'Triumphal Entry'. Luke records that the disciples were prompted to their cries of praise by remembering "the mighty works they had seen"; I think it's not too much of a stretch to imagine that Jesus' followers saw his progress from Galilee to Jerusalem as a protracted running battle (consider the many encounters with demons), a battle which Jesus had won and which led to the victorious entry to the capital city. At the same time, the humility of Jesus shown in his Triumph stands in sharp contrast to the self-aggrandising display of your typical Roman general. There is something incongruous already in this Triumph.
The second moment of Triumph brings home this incongruity. In Colossians 2:13-15, the Apostle Paul describes God's Triumph over "rulers and authorities" - spiritual powers of evil. These powers are overcome and led in Triumphal procession precisely at the cross of Christ. (Whether verse 15 should end with 'in him' [that is, Christ] or 'in it' [that is, the cross] the crucifixion is still in view from verse 14, and indeed the whole wider context). The actual victory is won at the cross; the real Triumphal procession towards which the entry into Jerusalem could only point takes place on the first Good Friday. It's a Triumph that looks like a defeat, a celebration of victory that looks like a crushing humiliation. Jesus is dragged to Calvary carrying his cross, stripped, and lifted up to the mocking view of all, and yet it is precisely as this happens that the rulers and authorities are 'stripped' of their power to harm, exposed as the empty things they always were, and dragged in Triumphal procession behind the crucified Son of God. The death of Christ is the Triumph of Christ.
It is because of this deep incongruity - the suffering and the victory - that the third moment of Triumph takes the shape it does. The Apostle Paul in 2 Corinthians 2:14 describes his own missionary journeys as a Triumphal procession, led by Christ. In this use of the image we are looking at a different part of the Triumphal parade; in Colossians it was the captive spiritual powers which were in the focus, but now it is the soldiers following the victorious general who come into view. Paul's work is a Triumph, as Christ leads his Apostle through the world, proclaiming his victory. But because it is his victory, won at the cross, this Triumph necessarily has a curious shape; read the rest of 2 Corinthians and it is clear that for Paul his ministry was primarily suffering. He was weak, powerless, almost despairing - and yet this was a Triumph! This is necessarily the shape of all faithful Christian ministry, and all Christian life; conformed to the cross of Christ, and yet in that cross sharing in his Triumph.
The fourth moment of Triumph comes at the end, when the kings of the earth lead the redeemed of the nations in to the New Jerusalem, every enemy having been finally vanquished and utterly destroyed. Only at this point will the incongruity disappear, the tension resolve itself. They were faithful to death, they lived the cross, and now they receive their reward.
So, victory. The Christian life is a Triumph, a following in the path of the victorious General. It is a celebration and a display of the victory he has won. And yet that victory is the cross, which means that Triumph can never become triumphalism. The victory parade is a parade of suffering, weakness, and foolishness. Until he comes.
Tuesday, April 02, 2019
The Potter and the Clay
We reached Jeremiah 18 on Sunday at CCC. Various commentators find the chapter puzzling. It starts with Jeremiah at the potter's house, observing how he shapes a vessel - and then, crucially, re-shapes it when it goes wrong. The message conveyed by the image is one of sovereignty. God is the potter, Israel/Judah is the clay. God is able to (re-)shape his people just as easily as the potter is able to (re-)shape the clay. The emphasis here is on ability: the potter can shape the clay, he has the power. In other passages in Scripture where the potter/clay image occurs (Isaiah 29:16, Isaiah 45:9, Romans 9) the weight falls on the idea of right: the potter has the right to shape the clay, and the clay cannot reasonably question the outcome.
This is a high account of God's sovereignty: always free in relation to his creatures; always in the right in relation to his creatures.
What puzzles commentators is that the application in Jeremiah doesn't seem to fit this picture. To be sure, in verses 7-10 the potter is still the one shaping and re-shaping nations. But in doing so he is responding to their actions; he is conditioned by their prior response to his word. If a sinful people show themselves penitent, God will 'relent' of the planned judgement; if a righteous people do good, God will 'relent' of his planned blessing.
How do we read passages like this, which show God responding to his creatures? Particularly when they come in such close proximity to such clear statements of unqualified sovereignty?
One time-honoured way is to deny one half of the picture. We can define God's sovereignty in such a way that he is not in fact sovereign; the potter can only do so much, at the end of the day, with the clay he's got. This is the route taken by classical Arminian and (semi-)Pelagian theology (and I am aware that Arminians don't want to be lumped together with semi-Pelagians, but I can't for the life of me see the difference). In these models, God is understood as exercising a great deal of power and grace, but with the final say in the outcome resting on human decision. It's hard to see how this fits with the image: the potter must respect the autonomy and free-will of the clay?
Or we deny the other half, as various strands of (Hyper-)Calvinism have tended to do, and as is (I thnk) implicit in Classical Theism more generally. God is sovereign. He only appears to relent in response to human action and decision. He condescends to appear as a responsive God, when in actual fact he remains absolutely unconditioned by human decision. The potter makes what he's going to make, and the clay simply has no influence on what happens. This seems better to preserve some of the use of the potter image (especially in Isaiah and Romans), but ultimately doesn't seem to fit with the use made of the image in Jeremiah.
As is often the case, I think we tie ourselves in knots by starting in the wrong place. If we start with the Unmoved Mover, the god of Aristotle, the Unconditioned Absolute, a god in the abstract - well then, how can this god possibly 'relent'? In this model, it seems to me, god pretends to be relational, pretends to be responding to his human creation, but really he's just absolutely still, being all absolute, behind the scenes. Great.
If on the other hand we start with humanity per se, the Idea of the Human, the human in the abstract - well, the idea of the potter's power over the clay is humiliating. It can't be accepted without significant qualification. But the god who is leftover at the end of this process of thought doesn't seem like the potter at all - doesn't seem like a god, to be honest. Just a god at the margins, a god who revolves around - well, me. Great.
But if we ditch the abstraction, and read both God and humanity from the particular place where both are revealed - Jesus Christ - then whilst we don't get to jump over all the mystery of divine/human interaction, we do get an understanding of the dynamics involved. What if the paradigm of potter/clay interaction is in fact the incarnation? Consider the way the passion narratives are told. Jesus is dragged around from here to there, and yet very clearly he is in control. He responds to his people and their rejection of him, and yet this is exactly the eternal plan of his Father. Is all this in appearance only?
When we start with Jesus, we can see that God is indeed absolute - but he is such as the loving, relational, immanent Father of the Lord Jesus Christ. He does indeed respond to his people - but he does so as the sovereign Lord of Heaven and Earth. We need him to be both. He has revealed himself to be both. This is not just a doctrinal knot to untangle; it's the very best news.
This is a high account of God's sovereignty: always free in relation to his creatures; always in the right in relation to his creatures.
What puzzles commentators is that the application in Jeremiah doesn't seem to fit this picture. To be sure, in verses 7-10 the potter is still the one shaping and re-shaping nations. But in doing so he is responding to their actions; he is conditioned by their prior response to his word. If a sinful people show themselves penitent, God will 'relent' of the planned judgement; if a righteous people do good, God will 'relent' of his planned blessing.
How do we read passages like this, which show God responding to his creatures? Particularly when they come in such close proximity to such clear statements of unqualified sovereignty?
One time-honoured way is to deny one half of the picture. We can define God's sovereignty in such a way that he is not in fact sovereign; the potter can only do so much, at the end of the day, with the clay he's got. This is the route taken by classical Arminian and (semi-)Pelagian theology (and I am aware that Arminians don't want to be lumped together with semi-Pelagians, but I can't for the life of me see the difference). In these models, God is understood as exercising a great deal of power and grace, but with the final say in the outcome resting on human decision. It's hard to see how this fits with the image: the potter must respect the autonomy and free-will of the clay?
Or we deny the other half, as various strands of (Hyper-)Calvinism have tended to do, and as is (I thnk) implicit in Classical Theism more generally. God is sovereign. He only appears to relent in response to human action and decision. He condescends to appear as a responsive God, when in actual fact he remains absolutely unconditioned by human decision. The potter makes what he's going to make, and the clay simply has no influence on what happens. This seems better to preserve some of the use of the potter image (especially in Isaiah and Romans), but ultimately doesn't seem to fit with the use made of the image in Jeremiah.
As is often the case, I think we tie ourselves in knots by starting in the wrong place. If we start with the Unmoved Mover, the god of Aristotle, the Unconditioned Absolute, a god in the abstract - well then, how can this god possibly 'relent'? In this model, it seems to me, god pretends to be relational, pretends to be responding to his human creation, but really he's just absolutely still, being all absolute, behind the scenes. Great.
If on the other hand we start with humanity per se, the Idea of the Human, the human in the abstract - well, the idea of the potter's power over the clay is humiliating. It can't be accepted without significant qualification. But the god who is leftover at the end of this process of thought doesn't seem like the potter at all - doesn't seem like a god, to be honest. Just a god at the margins, a god who revolves around - well, me. Great.
But if we ditch the abstraction, and read both God and humanity from the particular place where both are revealed - Jesus Christ - then whilst we don't get to jump over all the mystery of divine/human interaction, we do get an understanding of the dynamics involved. What if the paradigm of potter/clay interaction is in fact the incarnation? Consider the way the passion narratives are told. Jesus is dragged around from here to there, and yet very clearly he is in control. He responds to his people and their rejection of him, and yet this is exactly the eternal plan of his Father. Is all this in appearance only?
When we start with Jesus, we can see that God is indeed absolute - but he is such as the loving, relational, immanent Father of the Lord Jesus Christ. He does indeed respond to his people - but he does so as the sovereign Lord of Heaven and Earth. We need him to be both. He has revealed himself to be both. This is not just a doctrinal knot to untangle; it's the very best news.
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