Taking Back His Rebel World

In many Christian circles, we've reduced the gospel to a simple pitch about the afterlife. Saving souls (i.e. trading hell for heaven upon one's death) is often seen as God's primary objective—the meat of the gospel, so to speak. Consequently, signing people up for the sweet hereafter becomes our exclusive agenda (with everything else seen as either a distraction or an optional add-on). Jesus’ version of the gospel, however, had a noticeably different focus than our popular afterlife-insurance spiel. Jesus, for example, was preoccupied with announcing the coming of God’s subversive counter kingdom (arriving off the grid and under the noses of the present powers it was undermining, like yeast spreading through dough or a germinated seed slowly growing into a mighty tree). He invited his followers to experience this radical kingdom-life today as we’re reborn into him and subsequently transformed from enemies into agents of his sweeping new creation project. He described a new humanity and a new world that is even now crashing into and supplanting the old by way of his incarnation, death, resurrection, ascension, and eminent return. In God’s kingdom, the hungry, forgotten, and marginalized—the “last”—are given priority and the “first,” the powerful and privileged, are sent away empty handed. Jesus’ story crescendos with his physical return, the resurrection of the dead (and the end of death), his final confrontation of evil, a restored creation, and the total reunification of heaven and earth in himself, through the power of his Spirit and to the glory of his Father. Far from an evacuation to heaven, the gospel is more accurately describing the invasion and “colonization,” as N.T. Wright would say, of earth by heaven (a proposition that is either wonderful or terrifying—maybe both at the same time—depending on one's perception of the King and attachment to the present system that he means to overthrow). In short, God is now taking back his rebel world through the person and work of Jesus.

God, as the Creator, has exclusive rights to his creation. In Genesis we read how God created humans in his image and assigned them the task of tending to his creation as his administrators. The original human vocation, then, is to reflect the goodness of God to creation and to lead creation in worship of the Creator. It should be noted, however, that despite humanity's extensive, delegated authority over creation, Scripture is always clear that humans are tenants and not owners. When his vast and finely-tuned temple is operating correctly it harmoniously tells a true story about the One who made it. The resulting music is spectacular for everyone involved. But what happens when the middle management refuses to play their part? What damage is done if the conductors won't lead the orchestra to perform the symphony as the Composer has written?

Jesus once told a story about some presumptuous tenants who thought they could deny their landlord access to his own vineyard (the specific context of this story is relating to 1st Century Jewish leaders, but there are intended parallels throughout the biblical narrative between the Israelites/Canaan and humanity/creation). The tenants behaved as if the vineyard was their own, managed it as they saw fit, tried to keep the harvest for themselves, and ultimately murdered the owner's only heir in their attempts to retain power. It didn't go well for them in the end.

Seeing ourselves rightly as created beings who are indebted to our Creator is an important first step in recognizing the severity of our collective offense. If we wrongly conclude that God has created us with no particular purpose in mind, we may assume that we're free to do whatever we want so long as we're generally nice, decent creatures. Judging whether or not we've been successful at this ambiguous endeavor is itself an extremely subjective task (leading many to falsely conclude they are basically “good people”). We'll undoubtedly have differing ideas, for example, about what is or isn't nice and decent human behavior. If, however, we rightly understand that God has made us to be something like a mirror, to reflect his beauty, his justice, and his mercy, then the question isn't whether or not I'm being the best me that I can be. All of our opinions at this point are irrelevant. The real question is whether or not I'm accurately reflecting a specific person, namely my Creator, as he intends (It should be noted here that billions of finite image-bearers could potentially reflect an infinite Creator, with no two of them being the same, and yet the cumulative sum wouldn't even come close to fully describing him). He alone is qualified to determine my success at this. If it turns out I'm not accurately reflecting him (perhaps, like a shattered mirror, I'm no longer even capable of accurately reflecting him) then I'm essentially lying about him by way of the distorted image my life is projecting. Even worse, all of humanity (a tragic collection of broken mirrors that only produce more broken mirrors) is systemically and perpetually misrepresenting the Creator to each other, the rest of creation, and—most importantly—to the Creator himself. Whether we realize it or not, the exploitative and materialistic ways in which we typically view and abuse our fellow image-bearers and the rest of what God has made is nothing short of blasphemy. And the resulting dissonant music, if we can even call it that, is ravaging his creation.

At this point in the story, God has a decision to make (a decision he mysteriously settled in his own mind before even creating). Will he wipe the board clean and begin again (it seems creating is a simple thing for him, after all), or will he undergo the long and painful process of repairing and reinstating the undeserving rebels and undoing the damage they've caused to his creation? (It should be noted that simply ignoring the hell his wayward image-bearers have birthed was never an option for the Creator, as he is intrinsically incapable of apathy). His restrained approach to human rebellion, however, speaks volumes about how he views and wields the infinite power at his disposal. He hasn't abandoned the creation he dearly loves to its usurpers; he has subjected it (as an act of his permissive will) to bondage “in hope” (Romans chapter 8).

The Creator has a unique knot to untangle if he wants to have his creation restored to him as the temple it was meant to be. As already mentioned, an essential component of his interconnected design calls for humans to be willing participants, submitted to his sheet music as an act of their own volition, functioning as conduits of his grace and administrative justice (this willing submission to God by humans is the essence of his kingdom). This delegation of his power is certainly not out of necessity. He could easily conduct his composition himself, play all of the individual instruments, and so on, but this clearly isn't what he's after. The specific structuring of his orchestra, including the vital role assigned to its human conductors, has as much to say about the generous Composer as the actual symphony it was all meant to perform. Jesus, the servant King, once contrasted God's shockingly reserved methodology with typical human rulers' heavy handedness (as seen in our predictable tendency to lord it over each other). Human rulers have historically used violence or propaganda to coerce or manipulate their subjects into submission. But this simply won't produce the sort of kingdom that the Creator is after. He naturally won't bypass or extinguish human volition in his efforts to restore it. The kind of submission he's after can never come as the result of brute force or deception. But how does one convince one's enemies, pitiful creatures who are now inherently rebellious, to willingly, without coercion, submit once again to their rightful King? The complexity of the Creator's dilemma can hardly be overstated, but fortunately for us his ingenuity is boundless.

If human rebellion is the epicenter of creation's trouble, then the remedy can only come as the result of a humanity back on track, reflecting God's glory, and tending to his temple as the priests we were created to be. Here in lies the problem. Every one of us, according to Scripture, has become disqualified. There's an incredible scene in Revelation chapter 5, involving an important, symbolic scroll that sat unopened. An angel shouted out, “'who is worthy to open the scroll and break its seal?' And no one in heaven or on earth or under the earth was able to open the scroll or to look into it.” John, the author of Revelation, at this point broke down and wept uncontrollably over the hopelessness surrounding this unopened scroll. It seemed as though the original human vocation would tragically go unclaimed and unfulfilled.

What John witnessed next in Revelation 5 parallels the incredible Daniel 7 prophecy, in which a mysterious human character (a “son of man”) ascends to heaven, walks boldly into the throne room of the “Ancient of Days,” and is “given dominion (see Genesis 1:28) and glory and a kingdom, that all peoples, nations, and languages should serve him; his dominion is an everlasting dominion, which shall not pass away, and his kingdom one that shall not be destroyed.” John sees this same epic “son of man” moment in his vision, when the despair surrounding the unopened scroll is suddenly shattered with the arrival of the “Lion” who is also a “slain Lamb.” Pin-drop silence falls over the crowd as this mysterious figure emerges. This somehow worthy human walks right up to “him who was seated on the throne” and claims the scroll on our behalf. The onlookers erupt into song, “Worthy are you to take the scroll and to open its seals, for you were slain, and by your blood you ransomed people for God from every tribe and language and people and nation, and you have made them a kingdom and priests to our God, and they shall reign on the earth.”

His solution to the human dilemma is elegant and unexpected. Ironically, God himself, as an authentic human, fulfilled the original human vocation, and, by doing so, he is reclaiming all that was lost. The only begotten Son, the eternal Word of God, who spoke the universe into existence, became the human we were all meant to be, the true “image of the invisible God.” As the Creator, God's authority over his creation and subsequent rights to it are uncontested. But in the incarnation, God reclaims, on our behalf, a uniquely human authority. Suppose for a minute that the person who invented American football also established and presided over the National Football League, built all the stadiums, owned all the teams, and held lifelong contracts with every player. Despite this person's vast authority over the sport they created and maintain, they would still need to take to the field as an athlete if their intention was to fairly win the league's most valuable player award. And that's exactly what he did. God took to the field in the form of a 1st Century, penniless, Galilean from backwoods Nazareth, and he conquered the world without firing a shot.

The unique mission of the Christ could only be fulfilled by a human character (that he was also by necessity God, on account of universal human failing, is a fantastic twist in the story but not the main point of this chapter—as we often make it). In other words, Jesus wasn't just pretending to be human in the incarnation; he was human (John claims that denying this fact is “antichrist” - 2 John 1:7). And though his divinity is firmly established in Scripture, proving it wasn't the drum Jesus was beating during his earthly ministry (You might remember that “son of man” was his favorite term for himself). He silenced demonic beings who recognized who he really was, and he frequently made it clear that he didn't speak or act on his own authority (Philippians chapter 2 describes his behavior in the incarnation as a humble emptying of himself in order to faithfully fulfill his mission). He operated with borrowed authority, given to him by God, authority reserved for an untarnished human, the promised King, God's chosen representative, on whom his divine favor rests (The term “Messiah/Christ” sums this up nicely). The call to accept Jesus as God's chosen human representative, the exclusive conduit through which his grace would flow, and the means by which he would reclaim his rebel world is what we see primarily promoted in Scripture (John 5:37-38, 6:29, Acts 4:10-12). Jesus lived his life as a perfect image-bearer, fully relying on the Holy Spirit, and in complete submission to his Father (he “learned obedience” on our behalf - Hebrews 5). Receiving Jesus as the Christ is equated with submitting to God's plan for humanity. If we miss this, if we instead see Jesus as something of a superman, then we miss the point of the incarnation (As an untarnished human, he was a superman of sorts, but not the way we often think). Don't misunderstand me; defending the deity of Christ is an important task from which the Church should never shrink back. But in doing so, we must also realize that there's much more going on in the incarnation than simply, “surprise—Jesus is God.” The man Jesus isn't meant to be seen as a perpetual singularity but the extraordinary means by which God is producing many more sons and daughters of a similar kind (Hebrews 2:9-18). We've unfortunately allowed the heretics to define the parameters of this conversation (especially the misguided ideological descendants of Arius). As a result, we're spending so much energy defending Jesus' divinity that we're left with little time to recognize and accurately describe the implications of his humanity.

Just as the first Adam's rebellion infected all of humanity, so the second Adam's obedience makes him patient zero for a new pandemic, what C.S. Lewis calls the “good infection.” Jesus is something of a Trojan horse, in this way, an unassuming Antidote for the human condition. He is the first of many Spirit-filled and fully submitted humans, the King and the kingdom rolled into one, the person where heaven and earth intersect, and the divine image-bearer who sacrificially resolves the human conflict with God in his own broken body. He alone, through restored conductors, will direct the orchestra to properly perform the Composer's magnum opus. Jesus is the prototype for a restored humanity and the catalyst for the new creation. He is the invasion we never saw coming.

Of course not everyone is celebrating Jesus' enthronement. There are plenty of people who don't want God to reclaim his rebel world (plenty of tenants who think they are owners). God is patient, but he won't wait forever. His rescue plan will go forward as scheduled (It's his universe, after all). When Jesus returns, he will personally confront those who resist his legitimate authority, those who love their rebellion more than their coming King. Participation in God's kingdom as citizen sons is voluntary, however, and all those who foolishly opt out of God's new creation project will eventually have their decision ratified for all eternity. God values and even honors human volition, but he won't allow these dissenters to wreak havoc in his new creation. Sin spreads like cancer. The only perfect human, he who was obedient to God unto death—even death on a cross—will stand in judgment of their defiance. He will banish them from God's restored universe. “There are only two kinds of people in the end,” says Lewis, “those who say to God, 'Thy will be done,' and those to whom God says, in the end, 'Thy will be done.'” Their subsequent existence, forever separated from the Author of Life, is described in Scripture as a “second death.” Jesus, himself, compares this eternal quarantine to being locked out of the city, thrown on a burning heap of decaying filth, or set adrift in a lake of perpetual fire. He passionately warns whoever will listen that this tragic fate is to be avoided at all costs.

However, forgiveness of sins is never an end in itself. The popular afterlife pitch frequently divorces Jesus' debt-canceling work on the cross from God's ultimate purpose of restoring the original human vocation. In a truncated gospel, the “why?” behind the cross is often answered with, “...so we can go to heaven after we die.” While it's certainly true that God knows and loves each and every one of us (and his ambitious new creation project naturally involves our individual repentance and willing submission to his Christ), it's a mistake to view our “personal salvation” apart from the good news of God's kingdom (Even Jesus' well known conversation with Nicodemus, in which he articulates an individual's desperate need to become “born again,” takes place within the context of his larger kingdom message – John 3:3). Ultimately, we're made clean as a prerequisite for service. Our great offense is mercifully removed on the cross so that we're finally able to get back to that for which we were originally created. Scripture frequently ties forgiveness of sins to reinstatement in God's service (Titus 2:11-14, Ephesians 2:8-10, Hebrews 9:14). God's reason for releasing Abraham's descendants from the bondage of Egypt, for example, was so they would be free to “serve” him (Exodus 4:22-23). Keep in mind, it's exceedingly good to be in his service. He means to make us kings and queens. Ultimately, a heart of stone has no interest in fulfilling the original human vocation (which is why the strictly punishment-avoidance-pitch is very popular), but a restored heart of flesh leaps with indescribable gratitude at the opportunity to be reinstated as a priest in God's temple. Many of our notions of heaven, salvation, and God's endgame need to be rethought in light of Jesus' kingdom message.

When we lose sight of the larger narrative, we'll often view sanctification (i.e. becoming like Jesus) as an add-on to the gospel instead of the point of it all. Growing into the image of Christ isn't merely a private endeavor that we undertake for our own personal edification (i.e. approaching the fruit of the Spirit as a self-help buffet that promises to unlock our best life now). Our personal transformation is an integral part of his wide-scale terraforming project. He's making ready a now-inhospitable environment for his glorious, unveiled presence. He's bringing all things under the lordship of Jesus, and incrementally answering the Lord's Prayer for heaven to be reunited with earth. As we submit to the indwelling Spirit of Christ, we become kingdom-pockets of heaven on earth. There are still many areas of his world—many corners of our own hearts—that haven't yet fully submitted to his reign. There's much work to be done, but fortunately his kingdom will continually increase (Isaiah 9:7). Jesus claims he is “making all things new.” If we truly are “new creations” in Christ, then we should see the obvious continuity between what he is now doing in us and the final restoration of all things at the eschaton (described most vividly in Revelation chapters 21 and 22).

I know a brother-in-Christ who ministers in his hometown of Machilipatnam, India. He's used mightily by God to clothe the naked and feed the hungry, to sometimes rescue women and children from sex-trafficking rings run by murderous gangsters. I've heard stories of children sold into prostitution for a bag of rice, whole families that have laid down together on train tracks in a time of total desperation. Some of the children have witnessed their own father savagely murder their mother before their eyes, while others have been intentionally maimed by organized crime syndicates that use them as professional beggars (little ones that have seen evil so cruel they're still unable to even speak it). To anyone paying attention, the world is still obviously full of profound brokenness. And yet the darkness is passing away (1 John 2:8). One of my sister-in-laws works as an advocate for victims of human trafficking. She could tell you that in virtually every city across the US there are image-bearers of God being exploited by other image-bearers in numerous, horrific and dehumanizing ways (some of whom you and I have almost definitely met in passing without even knowing). And yet the Light has come. Even among our own communities and churches, those who are being transformed into the image of Christ, ministers of the gospel, our friends and family, may succumb to hidden sexual sin, vile hypocrisy, corruption, greed, racism, addictions, emotional and physical abuse... and yet... a new Day is dawning. As I look within, I've felt at times defeated and ashamed at what my own mouth has said, the lies my sin-stricken heart has believed, and the evil my hands have done. But we mustn't lose heart; our King is on the move. “For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves” (Colossians 1:13).

It takes faith to believe that God, even now in the midst of our broken world, is actively bringing all things under the lordship of King Jesus. Likewise, it takes faith to trust Jesus when he assures us that “all authority in heaven and on earth” has been given to him. And it takes faith to know that when his massive restoration project is complete—a rebel world returned to its Creator—he'll one day present the kingdom to his proud Father. The Creator will then dwell among us on a restored earth. We'll see his face, he'll be our God, and we'll be his people. This is his incredible endgame. This is the story the Bible is telling. And it's into this exciting endeavor that he's inviting “whosoever” to join him.

“For the creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved.” - Romans 8:19-24a


“To him who loves us and has freed us from our sins by his blood, and has made us to be a kingdom and priests to serve his God and Father—to him be glory and power for ever and ever! Amen.” - Revelation 1:5b-6

“Then the end will come, when he hands over the kingdom to God the Father after he has destroyed all dominion, authority and power. For he must reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet. The last enemy to be destroyed is death.” - 1 Corinthians 15:24-26

Winner Takes All

 

I've heard people cite Jesus' instruction to "render unto Caesar what is Caesar's" as an example of Christ delineating between the secular and the sacred. The popular American ideology that springs from this divides our lives into two categories: God is only after "spiritual things" like my saved soul, sincere heart, regular Scripture reading, solemn meditation/prayer, charity, and church attendance, we often think. He is not concerned—and neither should clergy be, if they know what's good for them—with 90% of my finances, my political outlook, and most everything else that falls within the sweeping "practical" or "secular things" category.

I don't think this is what Christ was saying at all when he held up the Roman denarius with Caesar's image imprinted upon it (Matthew 22). This is, however, what the Herodians, the Gentiles, and other earthly minded passers by would hear (Jesus' words were often multifaceted and intentionally layered). "This man is harmless," they'd think. Those attempting to ferret out Jesus' politics, would likely conclude, "He is something of a Gnostic who cares only for the unseen world." To Jesus' Jewish audience, however, they would instantly recall the "Imago Dei," how God has made humanity in his image. Jesus is saying that Caesar, shortsighted as he is, can have the metal with his imprint. God, however, lays claim to the person, body and soul. This should not be seen as a dividing of the spoils between God and Caesar. Any fool knows that if you get the man—his body, his mind, his heart, his soul, his ambitions and dreams, everything he is—you get everything else too. There is no aspect of life, of art, conflict, politics, economics, human sexuality, race, etc. that will not be affected (or "redeemed," to use biblical vernacular) by a reborn kingdom citizen.

Stacking Stones

 

After God miraculously stopped up the Jordan River so his people could at long last enter their promised land, he commanded Joshua to collect twelve stones from the temporarily-exposed riverbed. These stones, which represented the twelve tribes of Israel, would be stacked into a monument on the other side. Most of the Israelites who passed through the Jordan were born in the wilderness (You probably remember how their parents were barred from the land due to rebellion and unbelief). Second generation Israelites had only heard the stories of how God had dramatically rescued them from bondage in Egypt. So this became something like their very own Red Sea crossing. In the years to come, they could return to this location to look at the memorial and remember God’s provision. Their future children could run their fingers along the smooth stones taken from the floor of the Jordan and ask what it was like to see God roll the water back like a scroll. God knows the fickleness of human memory. He knows how easily we forget and how our hearts inevitably wander. The truth is that faith is unavoidably tied to memory, and sometimes our memory needs a little help.

I’m very sympathetic to honest skeptics (I’ve written elsewhere about my own perpetual journey through doubt). But when it comes to this sort of doubt, the kind that predictably emerges from our own forgetfulness, we have only ourselves to blame. If we’ve experienced God’s hand in our lives at some point, yet failed to document his faithfulness for future reference, then we’ve recklessly squandered his revelation. We’ve essentially been lazy with his grace.

I keep a journal, what I call my “faith book,” that acts as one of my more meaningful stacks of stones. It has something like a dozen entries. Only what I consider to be the most remarkable events make it in. When my memory fades, as it often does, I flip through this little book. It’s helpful to have my own voice, a younger me with a closer vantage point to the actual event, always ready to rebuke my unbelief. What was once clearly “miraculous” to us can sadly become merely “coincidental” if we fail to leave a record when everything is still fresh in our minds.

One of the stones in my “faith book” was given to me on December 6th, 2012. I was washing dishes on a Thursday afternoon (I know this because I wrote it down) while my one-year-old daughter took her daily nap. I had been volunteering with InterVarsity Christian Fellowship on a local college campus, and I had the opportunity to attend their upcoming mission conference in Saint Luis (Urbana is a massive international event that only takes place every three years). I couldn’t afford the travel expenses, though, so I would need to raise the funds if I was going to be able to make it. I sent out letters to my friends and family telling them about the exciting opportunity and inviting them to consider partnering with me financially. I put together a website with updates about my preparation for the conference and showed examples of the custom portraits that I was offering to sponsors (I was pretty sure the portraits would create some interest since I had worked as a professional artist in the past).

With only a few weeks until the conference, and despite my best efforts, I hadn’t raised a dime. I had been unsuccessfully looking for work, as well, and my wife was expressing serious doubts about the trip. I stood at my sink that Thursday with a sense of total defeat. Had God actually wanted me to attend this conference, I wondered? It had seemed so clear that he did. Did he care that I was spiraling down into a dark place? Was he even there (yeah, it was a pretty bleak day)?

“Try me,” is what I heard, “see if I can’t provide.”

It wasn't audible. The best way I can describe it is as a familiar voice in my head that I can clearly distinguish from my own. I recognized it as him (Being a skeptic by nature, I fully realize that this explanation is weak at best, but it's the only one I have). He was inviting me to ask anything of him. Now I'm familiar with the Scripture that warns us not to put God to the test, but I tell you he seemed to be giving me a blank check. I've never had an offer like this from him before, and I can't say that I've ever had it since. With a heart still lingering in unbelief, I said, “it would really encourage me if I could get $50 toward my trip.”

Shortly after, my daughter woke up, and I took her for our regular walk around the apartment complex. We stopped to pick up the mail on our way back. My heart must have stopped when I pulled a $50 check out of an envelope addressed to me. The person who sent it, someone I hadn't even told about the mission conference, wrote a note along with their contribution apologizing for the “small amount.” Tears came to my eyes at the thought of God's grace. He doesn't owe me anything—certainly not another proof of his love.

I realize that the letter was obviously mailed before I made my specific request, and, of course, there was a human being who wrote the check and put it in the mail (More often than not, this is his way). But to this day, I'm absolutely convinced that any amount I had asked for would have been waiting for me in that envelope. The rest of my needed funds came in the last few weeks before my departure. The money was never an issue.

Christians tend to romanticize an imagined sort of spontaneous faith that doesn’t require any maintenance or reinforcement. But there’s a practical side to sustained faith that looks less like walking through a miraculously parted river (which, don’t get me wrong, is awesome when it happens) and more like humbly toting around heavy stones and then taking the time to stack them into monuments after the river has resumed its course. Genuine faith, the kind that’s useful in the real world, is typically built on the less flashy pastime of simply leaving a record for yourself and others. I'm certainly thankful to the writers of Scripture, who amidst shipwrecks, beatings, imprisonment, and exile took the time to leave us monuments. As a result, we now all share their Spirit-breathed stack of stones. So make time to properly document God’s handiwork in your own life. Take time to stack some stones.

“I will remember the deeds of the LORD; yes, I will remember your miracles of long ago. I will consider all your works and meditate on all your mighty deeds. Your ways, God, are holy. What god is as great as our God? You are the God who performs miracles; you display your power among the peoples.” —Psalm 77:11-14 

 

Hellfire and Damnation

 

I can't think of any other biblical teaching more distasteful to modern, “enlightened” folks than the traditional stance on hellfire and damnation—the “wrath of God”—his final and shocking solution for evil. Ironically, just about everyone has a strong sense of justice (what I would argue springs from our shared stock in the Imago Dei). Only we can't seem to agree on how justice should play out (“fairness,” for example, will usually involve a lot of special consideration and mercy in my own circumstances while of course looking more like sevenfold vengeance for the other guy). Those who criticize God's handling of evil, find him at the same time to be doing “too much” and “not enough.” Why doesn't he immediately dethrone the despot, prevent children from being murdered, and bring his vengeance upon the jerk who just cut me off in traffic, we wonder? And yet how can he—with perhaps Hitler and the like being exceptions—condemn human beings to an eternity of unrelenting torment? We should take note that it's Jesus, more than any other biblical character, who speaks most frequently and urgently about the horrors of hell. The certain, coming judgment of God was the pressing reality in which his good news was announced. As such, the unpleasantness of hell can never be divorced from the gospel. We can hardly understand what all the fuss is about regarding Jesus' crucifixion and resurrection apart from comprehending the alternative had he never heroically stepped into our broken world.

Thanks to Dante and numerous others, we may have a picture of hell in our head that looks something like cavernous dungeons set aflame with demonic, reptilian or half-goat, pitchfork-wielding tormentors roaming the halls. But I don't think even Jesus' story about two men who share a post-death exchange on the other side was meant to describe the spacial layout and architecture of the afterlife (Luke 16:19-31). I would argue that hell—and heaven, for that matter—is often mischaracterized in our minds as a place rather than understood as a relational proximity to God. More on this later. It seems clear that the imagery of being cast out of the warmth and protection of a city into deepest darkness, complete with wailing and gnashing teeth; or the thought of being thrown on a heap of decaying waste, where abandoned corpses are burned or left to rot (as in Jesus' vivid example of the accursed Gehenna); or the vision of a lake perpetually aflame with the infinite wrath of God are all graphic metaphor. However, this should in no way alleviate our reasonable concerns about such an existence. The flames, devouring worms, death, and darkness are best attempts at describing something far worse.

The Bible often depicts the same thing in a number of different ways. We tend to gravitate toward one analogy or another. Reformed/Calvinist traditions, for example, connect more strongly with the gospel metaphors that emphasize God's sovereignty (i.e. a lamb or a lost coin found by a shepherd or searcher, a dead man brought back to life, or varying soils that receive the same seed, etc.) while Arminian thinking brothers and sisters tend to make their home in the stories that highlight human choice (i.e. an open invitation to a lavish banquette, a wayward son who comes to his senses, and so on). God's sovereignty plays heavily into what unnerves us the most about hell, so we'll certainly have to explore it further. For now, though, I merely want to point out the multifaceted way in which God patiently communicates complex ideas to us. The Creator, humanity, and what went wrong between us is effectively described in terms of a rightful King and a mass rebellion, a Judge who must address heinous criminals, or a great debt looming over bankrupt debtors. It makes no difference which biblical example drives the point home for you (I imagine certain individuals and even whole cultures may respond more readily to an analogy of economic debt as opposed to one involving disloyalty to a monarch, for example, or perhaps the other way around) Thankfully, he's come at it from a number of angles. He wants us to get it.

Jesus viewed himself, among other things, as a physician who came to treat sick people (Mark 2:16-17). In this analogy, humanity is suffering from a universal, debilitating, and eventually terminal, illness. Some may recoil from the sin-as-illness simile simply because illnesses beset us generally through no fault of our own (but I suppose that's another reason we have more than one analogy to work with). Jesus presents himself as the Cure—the only Cure—for what's killing us (John 14:6). He claims that he didn't come to condemn the world but to rescue and restore (John 3:17). Furthermore, he explains that the world is already condemned, that we're already dying, or even dead in a sense (John 3:18). Anyone who opts out of his restorative work in the world is simply left in the tragic state of decay in which he initially found them. Of course he means to set the whole universe back to what it was, what he always intended it to be, and, though our participation in his cosmic redemptive process is voluntary, he cannot leave the treasonous non-participants to continue wreaking havoc in his universe indefinitely. It is his universe, after all, and sin is destructive and contagious. According to the Genesis story, the harmful ripples of human sin are somehow felt throughout the entire cosmos. In eventually quarantining—removing from his physical universe—those who have refused his costly offer of help, God will have granted them what they persistently demanded: an existence devoid of him.

“Depart from me,” will be his final words to those who defiantly refuse to be made well (Matthew 25:41). They will then experience the furthest relational distance possible from their Creator. Relational proximity—their lack of communion with God through Jesus—was their trouble all along. Their tragic banishment, in Jesus' own words, is resulting from the fact that he “never knew” them (Matthew 7:22-23). As it turns out, to reject communion with the Tree of Life is to inherit a death of the worst kind.

At this point the agnostic and atheist may think, “What difference would that be from my current existence?” “I've never given him a second thought in this life.” “Why would it be so horrible to exist apart from him in the next?” This flawed line of thinking fails to see the numerous echos all around us of a Creator who holds the exclusive patent on justice, beauty, and love. This once-good universe we now inhabit still possesses, even in its broken state, the warm reflective glow of its Creator, as well as the persistent memory of what was and the lingering hope of what could be again. The loyalty of a friend, family bonds, the world's most beautiful art, sacrifice and heroism, even the simple joy of holding a newborn baby—all of this originates with a remarkable God who dreamt it into existence. There is much we mistakenly think is ours, when in actuality it is only on loan from him and only functions as a reflection of his essence. We also know from Scripture that God is everywhere, but there are certainly lesser and greater degrees to which we can perceive his presence. Sin creates a relational distance between God and humans—a rending of heaven and earth. However, Jesus—the exact imprint of the invisible God, a temple of flesh and bone—through his death and resurrection brings heaven crashing back into earth (with the ultimate and complete reunification of heaven and earth yet to come). As mentioned, his restorative process is already incrementally underway, and “new creations,” in which his Spirit dwells, are becoming little pockets of heaven-restored all around us. Whether we're aware or not, we're all of us in this life adrift in an ocean of his grace. All this to say, it's impossible to even imagine what it would be like to be completely excluded from all that's of God—even forfeiting the image of God that we presently bear. What would be left, what we can rightly claim as “ours,” cannot even still be called “human.”

“What a cruel tyrant he is,” say many of God's critics, “to extort our friendship with the dangling promise of 'eternal life' and threaten us with 'hell' if we won't comply.” “If he was truly 'loving,' he would simply give us the eternal life, no strings attached, and let us be on our way.” Anyone who thinks in these terms unfortunately knows nothing of “eternal life.” God cannot give eternal life—he cannot give heaven—apart from giving himself (John 17:3). And there is nothing left but what we call “hell” for those who will not partake of him. We might not like the fact that a branch once severed from the tree withers and dies. But there's really no use in wishing, hoping, or demanding that the branch goes on living independently of the tree. That's not how trees and branches work.

In our discussion of hell, we tend to fixate on all the wrong things. “Why isn't he doing a better job of rescuing us,” we wonder? “Why isn't he overriding our foolish rejection of Life and our subsequent pursuit of death?” The real scandal of the story, however, is not his final confrontation of evil. The real jaw-dropping part of the whole thing is that he has miraculously and at great cost to himself crafted a way—even after everything we've done, after everything we've become—to redeem us, transform us, and reattach us to the once-rejected Tree of Life. In light of the story of God, hell makes perfect sense. It's the shocking twist of the cross, however, that should leave us dumbfounded.

If God can do anything, can he make a rock so big that even he can’t lift it? Can he carry out an evil act and still be pure good? Can he make a square circle? These aren’t actually questions of substance. A square circle, for example, isn’t a complexity for omnipotence to solve. It’s a logical contradiction. It’s a word game that doesn’t amount to anything. In our conversation on God’s sovereignty, we must be able to tell the difference if we’re to get anywhere.

To put it mildly, Christians don’t quite agree on how God’s sovereignty plays out. It’s been a topic of debate for thousands of years, and we certainly won’t be resolving it here. But I’d suggest that as we wade into these undeniably deep waters we can’t afford to lose sight of two biblicaly revealed truths about God: First, he is indeed sovereign (i.e. completely in control of his creation and himself); and, second, he has a genuine, heart-rending desire for reconciliation with all of his wayward, image-bearing creatures. As we build sophisticated theological systems that attempt to make sense of the interplay between God’s sovereignty and human choice, we’ll inevitably be tempted to erode either of these two key truths. But we mustn’t. In an oversimplified binary system these can’t both be true (Either he doesn’t actually want to be reconciled with all of his creation, or he lacks the ability to accomplish it). However, if we plan on staying true to Scripture, then we must consider a truly sovereign God who doesn’t always get his way.

Theologians try to describe this paradox by distinguishing between God's “perfect” and “permissive” will. I'll attempt to illustrate this tension by referencing a typical trip to the grocery store with my young children (although I'm neither omniscient nor omnipotent, so, like all analogies, this one will break down sooner rather than later). From the start, I have various hopes and goals for how our errand will go (my “perfect will”). I hope, for example, they will refrain from grabbing at everything in reach, that they will mind me, stay near, and not sound like blood-curdling banshees as we go (we've certainly had plenty of conversations and consequences to this effect). Despite my sincerest hopes, however, experience has taught me that there will undoubtedly be course corrections along the way. I could forcefully ensure my initial hopes—my supreme will for their behavior—by bringing them to the store in straitjackets, taping their mouths shut, and placing them securely in the grocery cart next to the milk and eggs (Before calling CPS on me, remember we're still safely in the realm of the hypothetical). But this ultimately isn't what I'm after. I'm aiming to raise mature adults who understand their innate sin-illness and look to Jesus for forgiveness and restoration. I want to address their hearts and wills, not just command their mechanical obedience. To this end, I'll have to trudge through the occasional grabby klepto-hands, a measure of sass, wandering off, and inhumanly shrill volumes (call this my “permissive will”). Even after this patient process, my children may grow into adults who reject me and all that I've taught them. Such is the nature and inherent risk of somewhat autonomous souls who are gifted with the ability to choose.

Damnation is the worst possible outcome imaginable. Could God have made genuinely free creatures who were incapable of wandering, incapable of rejecting the Tree of Life? I think this would be something like a square circle. Well then, is it worth it? Is having authentic relationship with creatures like us who are free to love as well as hate, not to mention everything else that comes with a real world as opposed to a toy one, worth the loss and rejection of so many (and he does feel every agonizing loss resulting from his wager)? It's no mere game to him. He has literally poured his blood, sweat, and tears into this endeavor—held nothing back. So is it worth it? Only he, as the omniscient Creator, can answer the question. And indeed he has.

“For the joy set before him he endured the cross...” —Hebrews 12:2b

“...he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance” —2 Peter 3:9b

Shadow of Doubt

 

I’m a natural born skeptic. Those who know me can confirm that cynicism runs through my veins. “If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is,” and all that. It’s to God’s credit, however, that he can effectively transform a very selfish person into a servant of others, a violent person into a gentle soul, a greedy materialist into a philanthropist, or even a confirmed skeptic into a believer. After all, it’s in our weaknesses that his power is made perfect. And so we become his trophies, monuments to his ability to overcome any barrier that the human heart can erect. As a believer, I still regularly wrestle with doubt, and it’s this internal and near constant struggle that has largely come to define me.

C.S. Lewis describes faith as “the art of holding on to things your reason has once accepted, in spite of your changing moods” (Mere Christianity). I’ve noticed that my doubt is often tied to my emotional state. This was hard for me to accept at first because I consider myself a very rational person. It’s humbling—yet extremely helpful—to know that my critical faculties can be so easily influenced by my fleeting brain chemistry. I’m frailer than I first imagined.

It seems that belief to a certain extent is a matter of choice. Hear me out, as I’m not suggesting that one could choose to believe against one’s better judgement that, for example, the moon is in fact made of cheese or that the tooth fairy is actually open for business and ready to trade with the children of the world. Regardless of the incentives, I simply cannot believe these things. However, we regularly make choices about how we will process/file/believe the numerous evidences that our world offers. Confirmation bias—the human tendency to seek out evidences for that which we already believe to be true—is present in atheists, believers, and everyone in between. Otherwise reasonable people will regularly choose to believe any number of outlandish things regarding vaccines, conspiracy theories, political candidates, etc. despite the ample existence of compelling contrary data. The resulting cognitive dissonance is more obvious in some than others, but I would put forth that none of us is completely immune to this human phenomena.

I’m not suggesting that truth is relative, only that our ability to arrive at truth is very much related to our subjective perceptions and emotions. We must be aware of the intellectual pitfalls common to the human experience if we’re to steer clear of them in our journey toward truth. It’s ultimately an unwavering love of truth that allows one to reject fiction, regardless of how emotionally entrenched it may be.

The broad strokes of the biblical narrative are widely known within Western culture: An all-powerful, timeless, and good being makes humanity in his image and places them in a beautiful and vast universe as his administrators. Humanity quickly rebels and condemns the universe to death and decay. The merciful creator then interacts with fallen humanity through human messengers to reveal his heart for reconciliation and to promise a rescuer. At long last, the creator miraculously comes as a human to bring the good news of God reclaiming his rebel world. He accomplishes this by living a perfect life, dying an excruciating death at the hands of his creation, and rising from death victorious. This divine human claims to have power over life and death and offers pardons and adoption to all rebels who acknowledge him as king. Before ascending to another dimension, he instructs his followers to go tell the rest of the world about the good news of his kingdom. He promises to one day return, eradicate evil, raise the dead, and punish his enemies. Along the way there’s water turned to wine, pillars of fire, invisible supernatural beings for and against the creator, a guy who gets swallowed by a giant fish and lives to tell about it, and a one-time talking donkey.

I don’t think we should pretend that the story isn’t odd, that it isn’t at first hard to believe. An extraordinary claim of this scope and magnitude must reasonably come with proportionately compelling evidence that it’s true if anyone is expected to believe it. Oddly enough, though, it’s the strangeness of the story at times that causes it to smack of authenticity (strangeness alone, of course, couldn’t be the sole criterion for determining the truth of something). The human authors of Scripture don’t seem to be overly concerned with the strangeness of their testimony. They often recount things that would’ve been more easily accepted had they omitted certain details or slightly altered things to be more palatable to the hearer (such as their ancestors' and their own personal failings, less than ideal witnesses of key events, etc.). The fact that they didn’t, however, is one small marker for me on the road to accepting their credibility. I believe Lewis in Mere Christianity discusses how we could easily in a short time manufacture from our own minds a simple religion which could quickly be understood if that’s what we set out to do. Real things, however, aren’t always how we would’ve first thought them to be and often have a complexity, a strangeness even, that naturally requires time and effort to comprehend.

Ancient mythology, animistic religions, and such have their obvious earthly antecedents. The Greek pantheon, for example, is clearly made up of humans like us, what we think we might want to be, only magnified times ten, ultimately more passionate, petty, and insecure than any single human and with greater propensity and capacity to pursue the basest of human desires for an indefinite period of time. The God of the Bible, on the other hand, isn’t what we could’ve imagined. He is clearly not what we would have imagined. His counterintuitive thinking seems to even confound his prophets, who sometimes must reluctantly convey his strange messages only at his emphatic insistence. His revealed triune nature alone is enough to make your head spin, but it points to a truth about an allegedly transcendent being that is both confounding and confirming. I’ve heard it rightly said that the deity described in Islam, for example, couldn’t be accurately called “loving” apart from the existence of something or someone else. There must logically be an object of affection, something besides the lover, for love to exist. The most that could be said for Allah (along with numerous other deities) then, before he allegedly created the universe, is that he had the potential to be loving. His very nature is philosophically contingent on his creation (the Greeks were at least more up front about this facet of their gods’ reliance on humanity). Do not misunderstand my noting of this ontological difference as a petty expression of “my deity can beat up your deity.” I don’t think in those terms. My aim is always to follow truth wherever it leads. It’s the God of the Bible, who uniquely is said to exist as a harmonious community—Father, Son, and Spirit—unto himself, who alone could truly be complete and loving without the necessary existence of anything beside himself. He’s not merely us magnified (after all, we’re said to be made in his image and not the other way around); His divine personhood is logically more sophisticated than our own. That an infinite being, who is more of a person than you or I, possessing hyper-personhood, would exist in this complexity is both impossible to have figured and yet obvious once it is revealed to us. The way he wields infinite power is also like nothing a human could have thought up. His clever and startling solution for reclaiming and restoring his rebel world is at the same time elegant and horrific, the product of a moral genius who has yet to encounter a truly no-win scenario and who fully demonstrates the necessary fortitude required to bleed out his costly and innovative rescue plan.

If we’re entertaining the idea of a transcendent being that’s capable of architecting the universe from nothing, then we immediately realize that he will have to initiate any potential interaction between us if it’s to occur. This is where divine revelation comes in (most frequently delivered to/through human messengers). Truth be told, I thoroughly dislike the method this infinite being primarily chooses to communicate with his finite creation. No doubt, he has his reasons. Still I would much rather have my own earth-shattering vision of God seated on his throne then have to experience it vicariously through the prophet Isaiah’s alleged encounter. And I’d have preferred to see Jesus, with my own eyes, raise Lazarus from the grave then have to merely read the testimony of those who did. Thomas’ famous need to confirm an outrageous claim with his own senses really resonates with me. I’m not saying that God refuses to speak to most of us directly. I’ve had some personal and what I think are remarkable encounters with him. But I cannot through these personal encounters know what the first humans were like when the world was young, surmise what went wrong, and piece together what he’s even now doing to correct things. Like it or not, I must look to the authors of Scripture, who were said to be “carried along by the Holy Spirit,” for the larger narrative (2 Peter 1:21, 2 Timothy 3:16). As it turns out, God did not think it necessary to consult me on how I would like to be contacted. And it does no good to go on endlessly about how we wish things were. We must instead consider things as they are. I think it would be truly unfortunate if someone refused to examine an important message simply because they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, accept the way in which it was delivered (especially since God is said to intentionally use seemingly “foolish” and “lowly” things to accomplish his objectives – 1 Corinthians 1:27-29).

The Biblical story of a Syrian commander named Naaman comes to mind (2 Kings 5). His initial snobbery toward divine revelation almost cost him a miraculous healing, not to mention a life-changing encounter with a living God. Naaman had heard about the powerful God of Israel and had sought out his prophet Elisha with the hopes of being healed of his untreatable and degenerative, flesh-eating disease. While Naaman was still on the way, Elisha sent his servant to instruct the commander to bathe seven times in the, apparently unappealing, Jordan River. Naaman was indignant. He was expecting Elisha to “stand before him” (instead he would receive the revelation from the messenger of the messenger—twice removed from the divine source), “call on the name of the LORD,” and “wave his hand” (God was not offering anything so flashy). Furthermore, the proud commander could think of several “superior” bodies of water back home from which his rescue could just as easily come. It was Naaman’s own servant who finally exposed his master’s prejudice and convinced him to not discount the revelation of God simply because it was not the message or method he was anticipating. Had Naaman not considered and acted on the revelation given to him by God through the prophet Elisha, had he left in search of a “better” revelation, one more palatable to his preconceptions, he would’ve eventually succumbed to his flesh-eating illness. Had Naaman thought that washing in a river would be a good idea, only a different river other than the humble Jordan, then he would have died just the same (the river of course had no intrinsic healing properties, but, by the will of God, it became a conduit of his grace). Had he consented to wash but insisted that he would only wash six and not seven times as God had clearly instructed, his terminal disease would have continued its work. Naaman’s rescue was contingent on his willingness to accept divine revelation on the Revealer’s terms. I have come to realize, though I may have in my mind what I think would be a better way for God to have revealed himself to humanity, or to me in particular, this is not itself a good enough reason to outright reject the method he has allegedly employed (humble as the method may be).

There are numerous internal and external indicators that point to the human authors of Scripture being credible eyewitnesses. The existence of many of the places, people, and events, for example, can be confirmed by ancient historians and modern archeology (with additional corroborating data unearthed all the time). The multiple instances of fulfilled prophecy point to an unearthly vantage point that can’t easily be ignored. However, my skepticism compels me to take seriously every reasonable case against the supposed witnesses (accusations that the story was compiled/constructed generations after the events mentioned by unknown authors with unknown agendas, innocent corruption of core parts of the story due to early oral transmission, and so on). Even prominent critics of the Bible acknowledge the authenticity of many of Paul’s 1st Century letters (several external historical documents make this case). In Paul’s 1st letter to the infant church in Corinth, which was written in the mid-50s AD (Paul was executed by Nero sometime before the emperor’s suicide in 68 AD), he perfectly and succinctly recounted the gospel story’s key events, referring to these events as being of “first importance.” Likewise, Luke the physician wrote his gospel and sequel, the Acts of the Apostles, based on eyewitness testimony and almost certainly before Paul’s death (Acts, which heavily features the life of Paul, concludes with Paul’s eventual fate yet to be determined). John, knowing the extraordinary nature of his testimony, emphatically reassured his readers that he had “heard,” “seen,” and “touched” this “Word of Life” that has now consumed him. One might question whether the author of John’s gospel actually saw water turned to wine or shared a meal with a once-crucified Galilean, but one can be reasonably certain that the author had firsthand knowledge of an early 1st Century Jerusalem (significant due to the city’s decimation shortly after in 70 AD during the Jewish-Roman Wars), including the layout of the city, and specific structures like the now-excavated pool of Bethesda (described in John chapter 5), as well as local politics and personalities. Several other examples exist, but this post isn’t meant to be a comprehensive argument for the reliability of Scripture. I can choose to disbelieve their testimony, but I must admit that their odd story seems to have remained consistent since the beginning, even in the face of torture and death.

Few things that we now know were established by way of our firsthand experience. I have never been to Australia or the moon, for example, but I have no trouble believing that they are real places. The facts surrounding Australia, the moon, and millions of other things, have been firmly settled in my mind on the basis of credible authority. Our task then is to determine what sources of information are credible, reliable, and trustworthy. If we will not receive truth on the basis of credible authority, then we must resign ourselves to never knowing very much about anything. This necessary expression of faith is an unavoidable and unpleasant reality for a skeptic like me. But it is said that God's own Spirit is ready and willing to help any of us—those who are humble enough to ask—sort all of this out.

I hope the reader doesn't conclude that one can from the safety of their armchair simply analyze their way into communion with God. At some point we must conclude our reasonable deliberation and actually decide whether or not we will get into the water. Jesus tells a story about two sons who are asked to work in their father's vineyard (Matthew 21). The first son initially refuses, but then later reconsiders and eventually obeys his father's instruction. While the second son quickly and emphatically agrees he will go, but then never makes it. The sort of belief that God is after is not the talking kind. I think he takes great pleasure in the one who, despite uncertainty, finds themselves waist deep in the Jordan, half way through their seventh consecutive bath. After all, he invites us to “taste and see” for ourselves (Psalm 34:8).

I’ll admit to not having everything resolved to my complete satisfaction (or even anywhere close). This is a post about doubt, after all. My unrelenting skepticism ultimately compels me to keep searching for answers. There are several passages in Scripture that I’ve wrestled with for years, some that I’ll probably never fully understand. But I can attest that God has shown himself to be true and trustworthy in certain significant instances, so much so that I sometimes find myself extending great leeway to him in other areas that confuse or concern me. This is, I think, the essence of faith.

The Word of God became flesh and lived among us.

A somewhat nondescript, homeless, Middle Eastern man from 1st Century Nazareth is said to be God’s greatest revelation to humanity, the clearest picture of who he is and what he’s up to. Attempt, if you can, to temporarily bypass the cultural familiarity and preconceptions you have regarding this now well-known character (complete with his pale skin, flowing hair, and red sash). That this man, of all people, is the “Son of God” is nothing short of scandalous, and we should not so quickly overlook the oddness of his bizarre claim. If one was ever going to be put off by the humble packaging of a divine revelation, this would probably be the time. But ordinary as he may seem, this divine man resembles the first humans in his untarnished perfection while at the same time pointing forward to a restored humanity, and a seamless reunification of heaven and earth, which he is ushering in. The story of God can only be understood in its entirety when viewed through the lens of this person Jesus. He is a better Adam, a better Israel, a better temple, a better high priest, and a better sacrifice—truly “the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End” (Revelation 22:13).

What would the perfect human being, God’s image bearer as he intended, be like? Said another way: What would happen if the Creator gave us a living breathing commentary on humanity (addressing both what we are and what we could be) and simultaneous revelation of himself by becoming one of his creatures and walking among us? I find the Bible’s answer to this intriguing question extremely compelling. There are a few things we could guess without knowing anymore of the story. If humanity is as broken, as out of step with God, as the previous prophets let on, then we’d expect that God’s commentary on humanity would not be entirely welcomed by his wayward creatures (to say the least). In fact, this perfect human would be so out of step with everyone else that he’d almost certainly be met with unequaled hostility. His very presence would threaten to expose cherished fantasies as the fiction that they are. Those who thought humanity was mostly fine, that they themselves were mostly fine, would undoubtedly be his greatest adversaries. While those who miraculously agreed with this perfect human’s estimation of things would be drawn to the revealed God who compassionately and humbly came to help.

The extraordinary evidence we have been waiting for, that we reasonably need to corroborate the spectacular story of God, comes chiefly with the physical resurrection of Jesus. A man who publicly predicted his own death and subsequent resurrection, was subjected to arguably the most excruciating and humiliatingly public death imaginable, and ultimately was seen publicly by hundreds after he stepped out of his borrowed grave. These remarkable events did not take place “in a corner” (Acts 26:26); they were a matter of public record and became common knowledge (rippling out from Jerusalem and quickly buzzing in every province of the known world). The amazed witnesses went forth in the power of God’s Spirit and “turned the world upside down” with their simple testimony (Acts 17:6). They freely gave their possessions to those in need, cared for the poor and marginalized, and willingly surrendered their bodies to be brutalized and destroyed, singing as their murderers sadistically tried in vain to extinguish their light. Hundreds quickly became thousands and then millions. As a skeptic, I of course realize that rapid growth and a willingness to be martyred do not alone prove the validity of the story. However, these powerful indicators, taken along with numerous other sign posts (some of which were mentioned), are difficult to ignore. In light of this compelling information, I would agree with Paul that our otherwise bizarre behavior as Christ-followers is more than “reasonable” given the extraordinary circumstances (Acts 26:26).

Most days I believe the whole story. Some days I am overcome by the oddness of it all, and I can hardly believe any of it (even questioning my own unexplainable encounters with him). I have experienced both the crushing weight of doubt and the ecstasy of having that unbearable weight miraculously lifted off my shoulders by a patient Savior who never stops rescuing me. I often repeat the plea of a desperate father who famously cried out to Jesus, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” (Mark 9:24b). I feel a kinship with John the Baptist, who was appointed to be the Messiah’s herald even though he would later express uncertainty about Jesus’ identity. I also appreciate that Matthew records how even among the eleven, and on their way to hear their resurrected Lord deliver the Great Commission no less, “some doubted” (Matthew 28:17). In my most lucid moments, I recognize that he is more real than I am—that he is more alive than I am—and I even sometimes chuckle at the absurdity of someone who has only existed for 35 years questioning the existence of someone who has always been. He is the dreamer, and we are merely his dream. He is the source of life—He is LIFE: “For in him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28).

So count me among the “fools” who will bathe in the muddy Jordan, give up our lives in order to truly live, pursue an invisible kingdom, and hope in a 1st Century homeless guy who claimed to be “the resurrection and the life.”

The Heart of God

Some postulate an aloof God who creates but does not empathize or engage with his creation. Albert Einstein, for example, seemed to subscribe to an impersonal divine architect. Naturalists such as Richard Dawkins scoff at the notion that a being who could construct such a vast and sophisticated universe would bother interacting with primitive little creatures such as ourselves. Even science fiction frequently imagines god-like beings that, in direct proportion to their increasing knowledge and abilities, eventually transcend emotion. It is assumed then that with infinite knowledge and power inevitably comes a detached, dispassionate, and merely logical perspective of things. The implication is clear: Emotion is thought to be the stuff of lower beings. It seems to me that the opposite is true. The relationship between knowledge/power and personhood/emotion should actually slide in the other direction. Dogs have personality and emotions—humans, even more so. Why should an infinitely superior being not have these same capacities, and even in greater abundance? Indeed, the God described in the Bible is more of a person than you or I. He is said to have an unfathomably nuanced emotional spectrum that is capable of noting, processing, appreciating—feeling—everything from a single fallen sparrow to a world ending supernova. Given this, there is no other way to know this extremely emotive and hyper-personal being apart from discovering his revealed heart.

The God of the Bible is incredibly passionate, creative, and relational. He is not always expedient or practical. He regularly indulges in the extravagance of poetry and beauty. His behavior is far from capricious, yet it may seem so in terms of mere efficiency. He is probably better understood as an artistic genius than a utilitarian engineer.

Human emotions are notoriously fickle. They are largely bound to numerous shifting internal and external factors. Consequently, it is not a flattering assessment to be characterized as an “emotional” person. God, however, is undeniably a highly emotional being. He feels things deeply, but he is always consistent. Contrary to the human experience, his emotional response to various things can be somewhat reliably predicted (insofar as he shares his heart with us). His emotions spring from who he is and they inform what he does.

Through page after page of Holy Scripture, God pours out his heart to whoever will listen. He utilizes numerous earthly analogies to convey the lavish affection he feels for his people and the heart-rending grief he experiences when they reject him. He explicitly likens his emotional devastation to a publicly humiliated spouse whose beloved has sexually betrayed them again and again. Though he is “slow to anger,” he describes his intense jealousy in light of the reasonable exclusivity expected by any husband or wife who is unwilling to share their spouse with another. He also compares himself to a father who humbly seeks to restore his wayward and ungrateful children. He readily and recklessly expresses himself in ways that leave him vulnerable to immense pain. He often references the most intimate human relationships to describe how he feels. He is not too proud to wear his heart on his sleeve.

Remove the emotional element of God, and one would have to agree with Dawkins' observation that an infinitely powerful being would have no interest in communing with finite beings such as us. Putting Dawkins' objection to bed, however, is as simple as watching a new parent with their infant child. A mother or father can stare for hours at their baby, captivated by every gurgle and slightest gesture. The infant is, of course, not a compelling conversationalist. They have nothing of any intellectual or practical value to contribute to the relationship. Essentially, they are more of a deficit than anything. And yet the parent is undaunted by the infant’s technical inferiority and is always eager to engage their child at whatever level they are capable. What transpires between the two cannot be expressed as a mathematical equation or understood in terms of mere reason. And yet it is intuitively understood by emotional creatures without explanation. It is a matter of the heart.

Dawkins' initial conclusion that a being capable of creating our universe would be completely beyond us—transcendent—is totally correct. We, as the infant, cannot very well go looking for him. He must peek his head over the edge of the crib, so to speak, if we are to see his face. It is the Christian claim that he has done just that and more.

After centuries of poetic correspondence (all of which must be seen as a father speaking “baby talk,” as there simply is no other way for an infinite being to converse with finite creatures), the unrequited author finally came in person. The creator became one of his creatures. Jesus, the 1st Century man that Christians claim is supernaturally the “exact imprint” of the transcendent God, spent his days on earth declaring and demonstrating the heart of God—a heart that is ultimately best seen in the great lengths he is willing to go to reclaim his rebel creation. After all, matters of the heart are not weighed in gold or silver but in spilled blood, sweat, and tears. It is in the elegance and horror of the cross that the pulsating heart of God, laid raw, is on display for all to see. He is not a God far off, and it is his heart that draws him near.

“The LORD is compassionate and merciful, slow to get angry and filled with unfailing love.” -Psalm 103:8