Bread of Life

 

Jesus is a master communicator. He is known for, among other things, his clever and concise story explanations for complex things. He would regularly draw out the inner workings of his listeners’ hearts—even exposing areas of which we ourselves were previously unaware—with accessible, yet provocative, parables about everyday life. With this young Galilean, you didn’t need to be an elite theologian or have a PhD in eschatology to get a taste of the kingdom of God. Jesus would explain it in down to earth, blue collar terms that resonated with his disciples and took root in their hearts. This talent for simple and effective communication is especially seen in Jesus' use of food and drink to convey the core of the Gospel—namely, that he is the Bread of Life.

After miraculously feeding a crowd of over five thousand people, Jesus explained to them that he was the “true bread from heaven” sent to satisfy their hunger and to give them life (John 6:32-33). He likened himself to the mysterious manna that God provided to the Israelites in the wilderness, and he claimed they would need to feast on his flesh and drink his blood if they wanted to live. This bizarre declaration wasn't any less jarring in Aramaic. There’s no linguistic nuance or cultural filter that makes his sentiment any more palatable. Jesus’ apparent invitation—no, insistence—that his followers cannibalize him was received as both disgusting and insane. Many of them left over this sermon. Even the Twelve were shaken but ultimately had “nowhere else to go.”

Later in the upper room, on the night he was betrayed, Jesus repeated this earlier controversial sentiment. He retooled the Passover meal, that was first enacted on the eve of the Exodus, in order to celebrate and declare an even greater deliverance. The Lord's Supper is one of two rituals that Jesus personally instituted among his followers (interestingly, his diverse body can rarely agree on the meaning or mechanics of either of these two rituals. In many cases, we've allowed practices that were originally designed to unite us to instead divide us). There are quite a few indicators that throughout the 1st Century Church the regular celebration of the Lord's Supper became the main event when the people of God would gather.

Breadcrumbs Leading to Jesus

Bread (a staple food item that represents basic sustenance in most cultures) is an essential element of human life that comes from outside of us. Like oxygen, we need it to survive, yet we can’t produce it ourselves from within.

God has designed human beings with an internal mechanism that reminds us of our need for this external sustenance. Dirt, rocks, sticks and such won't do. Only food will satisfy our hunger.

However, the bread won’t benefit us until we consume it. And it won't force itself down our throats and into our stomachs. We must decide if we will eat or not. In fact, we might have quite a bit of observable knowledge about bread and the human digestive system, but it's the one who partakes—even if they know nothing of how it works—that actually benefits from bread (and, in the end, has a greater sort of knowledge about bread).

Once we eat the bread, our body begins to metabolize it. The bread essentially becomes a part of us. It nourishes us and fuels our body from within. It gives us life.

And lastly, the bread is destroyed in the eating. We can't have our bread and eat it too. The bread simply won't survive its encounter with us if all these other things are going to happen.

Everything we've just considered about bread is of course obvious. The benefits of eating and drinking are intuitively understood, even by very small children, and, as previously stated, can be experienced apart from knowing how it all works. This is exactly the point. This is why it becomes a powerful, easily repeatable, and readily accessible picture of what Jesus has done, and is doing, in those who call him “King.”

Pass the Bread

In many cultures, breaking bread together is a very intimate communal activity. When we celebrate the Lord’s Supper, we preach the Gospel to our brothers and sisters, to ourselves, and to not-yet-believers who are looking on. As the Apostle Paul says, we “proclaim the Lord's death until he comes” (1 Corinthians 11:26). In this way, it’s both a declaration and an invitation—a family meal with much room still at the table.

It's not uncommon for the person officiating the celebration of the Lord's Supper, after they've explained its significance, to instruct not-yet-believers in attendance to let the elements pass them by. These uninitiated folks are usually told to come find someone after if they want to hear more about the Gospel. I think this common church practice misses the purpose of what's actually happening in the ritual. The Gospel is being proclaimed. That's the point of it all. If someone in attendance suddenly believes the Gospel message that we're collectively celebrating and declaring, even if they didn't believe only seconds before, they should be invited to respond by partaking (if you're from a tradition that would require baptism first, very well. I'd agree that baptism is the prescribed first response to the Gospel and the other ritual commanded by Christ. But make baptism readily available, and resume the family meal only after it's done). You don't present a Meal, describe how incredible it is, and then quickly whip the plate away from your dinner guest.

Our reluctance to let just anyone participate in the Lord's Supper is I think rooted in Paul's stern warning to those who would partake in an “unworthy manner” (1 Corinthians 11:27). If you look at the context, though, Paul was addressing a church that was making a mockery of the sacred ritual with their hypocrisy (he wasn't forbidding the newcomer who has yet to procure their PhD in soteriology). On the one hand the church at Corinth was declaring their faith in Jesus' Gospel by participating in the meal, but on the other hand they were completely contradicting the implications of the Gospel by excluding people who were running late to the gathering or weren't able to afford the fixings and so on. Basically, they turned what was meant as a unifying family meal into a free-for-all exhibition of human selfishness and divisive prejudice. As Jesus pointed out with his story about the unforgiving servant, we can't receive forgiveness from God and then withhold forgiveness from others. That's not how his Gospel works. Freely extending forgiveness is just one example of how a truly transformed person will naturally live in Gospel truth. Anytime we partake of the Lord's Supper while actively denying through our rebellion the Gospel that the meal illustrates, we're “guilty of sinning against the body and blood of the Lord” (1 Corinthians 11:27). We're essentially making a statement that we don't in practice believe. We're taking his name in vain and trampling on his spilt blood. So we ought to “examine” ourselves before we eat and drink of the meal (1 Corinthians 11:28). Anyone who finds that they don't actually believe the Gospel (regardless of whether or not they say they do) should refrain from participating in the Lord's Supper. If we find that we do believe but are currently out of step with Jesus' Gospel then we must first acknowledge our inconsistencies and realign ourselves with our King. And whether we're responding to the Gospel declaration for the first time or for the ten-thousandth time, those who have been born of God will respond with repentance and then partake with gratitude.

Fortunately for us once-rebels, Jesus offers himself to all. His words of life are for anyone “with ears to hear,” and he invites everyone who is “hungry” and “thirsty” to be satisfied in him. He's given us a simple yet profound demonstration of his good news, something we can be reminded of often (since we typically eat at least three meals a day) and something we can in turn share with those who will be hearing it for the first time as we welcome them to our table. Jesus truly is the Bread of Life. Eat up!

“I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats this bread will live forever. This bread is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world.” —John 6:51

The Eschaton

 

Our culture seems to have a genuine fixation on the apocalypse, or the “end of days,” as of late. Post-apocalyptic, dystopian stories fly off the shelves faster than you can say “exclusive movie rights.” Popular Christian culture isn't getting left behind either. A steady stream of best-selling book series and movie adaptations have given us a fanciful, modern interpretation of Jesus' Revelation. And why not? The end of a story is arguably the most important part. Everyone understandably wants to know what's going to happen on the last page. Will the hero defeat his enemy or overcome his obstacle? Will he finally get where he's going and achieve what he's after? How we see the ending of the story—what we identify as the point of it all, the culmination, the climax—will greatly inform how we read the whole story. It will inform how we see our part in the story, how we live it out in our everyday lives, and how we tell the story of God to others who have yet to hear.

I don’t plan to get into the nuts and bolts, the nitty-gritty, of all the various eschatological positions. This probably comes as a great relief to many and perhaps a disappointment to some. If you find yourself among the latter, we’ll have to set up a time to sit on my porch with our tea and pipes in hand to gleefully deliberate for hours about the eschaton (I’ve never actually smoked a pipe, and I’m not much for tea, but it just seems like the thing to do when one is having a deep and nerdy theological discussion). My aim in this post (and in all my posts) is to speak primarily of the Gospel, and hopefully to let that which is of “first importance” frame our understanding of biblical eschatology.

I think we have to approach this topic, as we should all theology, with a humble and teachable spirit. As human beings, we are extremely susceptible to marrying ourselves so completely to a way of thinking, or an ironclad theological model, that we may end up inadvertently imposing our beloved framework on the biblical text (creating theological tunnel vision). We should be very alert, even reasonably terrified, of this all too common and mostly subconscious behavior. The Jewish theologians of Jesus’ day, for example, held to a specific and finely tuned eschatological model that didn’t line up with the young Galilean prophet who stood before them. Ultimately, when faced with the contradiction, it was their Messiah and not their misconstrued model that they foolishly abandoned. These were learned men. They spent their lives studying the Scriptures. Many of them could quote entire books, replete with messianic prophecy, just as readily as we could rattle off John 3:16. It’s unnerving to think that we can arrive at a place of extreme biblical familiarity only to find ourselves, due to our theological presuppositions and hard hearts, still incapable of perceiving the heart of God as it’s dancing off the pages. We are each of us undoubtedly wrong about something, probably a great many somethings. We must be willing to learn what those somethings are.

While one can easily get bogged down in the details (and I’m not saying they aren’t important), we simply can’t afford to miss the broad strokes of the story. We must, at the very least, be able to see the forest for the trees. So by all means, study the various barks and leaves within, become a master of the theological flora and fauna, but God forbid that while doing so we fail to connect the dots, to appreciate the cumulative sum of the individual parts, and to grasp the overall lay of the land (How's that for a hearty mixing of metaphors?).

As best as I can see, the overarching story that the Bible is telling is of an all-powerful, all-knowing, timeless, just, loving, hyper-personal, and completely self-sufficient spiritual Being who (for reasons only fully known to himself) decides to create an incredibly vast and beautiful physical universe (comprised of space, time, and matter). Within this universe, he fashions an ideal world and populates it with all kinds of amazing life. He then establishes one set of his creatures above the rest as his uniquely crafted image-bearing representatives to creation. Heaven (what we now think of as “God's space”) and earth (“our space”) seem to harmoniously coexist in this early state, characterized by perfect communion between the Creator and his image-bearers. Curiously, this all-powerful Being intends to rule his creation through these fragile human creatures. But the first humans, of course, reject the Tree of Life and abandon their noble vocation. All of his once-good creation suffers the harmful effects of these unwilling, and now unqualified, administrators. Earth is, in a sense, torn from heaven (though God is of course ever-present, our ability to perceive him, to experience his life-giving fellowship, and to benefit from universal human submission to his reign, is at this point tragically constrained). Undaunted by this colossal setback and unwilling to wipe the board clean, the Creator patiently works through flawed human messengers and broken leaders—committed as ever to his original intent for humanity—to reveal his heart for reconciliation and to foretell his plan of restoration (an extremely truncated summary of thousands of years of human history). The culmination of these efforts is finally seen in the dramatic and miraculous appearance of a divine human in 1st Century Palestine. According to the story, this humble God-man is the Creator’s only Son, the perfect image-bearer, the promised King, and the sort of human we were all meant to be. He alone is uniquely qualified to reclaim humanity's birthright and, in so doing, to return to God what is rightfully his, as well (The Creator certainly knows how to untangle a knot). God then takes back his rebel world through this man, Jesus, and gives birth to his everlasting and long-promised kingdom (as he begins to mend the tear between heaven and earth one person at a time). Previously disqualified humans are now scandalously invited to resume their original vocation as “ambassadors” and “priests” of God and to participate in his redemptive work in the world. By way of his death and resurrection, Jesus counterintuitively wins a decisive victory over his enemy and purchases a costly citizenship and adoption for once-rebels who now acknowledge him as their rightful King. His kingdom-people are empowered with God’s own Spirit and commissioned to share the good news of his reign. Like a tiny mustard seed, his kingdom steadily grows and will continue to grow into a mighty tree that fills the whole earth. No human kingdom will be able to overthrow it or even resist its advance. And yet it will not spread by the typical human means of violence, hollow propaganda, or coercion but by a diverse army of sacrificial servants and martyrs who follow their Founder's example (as a Spirit-filled extension of him) and faithfully demonstrate and declare his better kingdom. In many cases, the illegitimate powers of this world will not even notice his subversive kingdom's liberation movement until it's too late. Though all authority in heaven and earth is already his, there are still many who do not know, or simply refuse to accept, that Jesus is now King. His rule will therefore be complete upon his physical return to earth, at which point evil will be permanently eradicated from his restored universe, he will judge the living and the dead, death will be swallowed up by Life, heaven and earth will be once again seamlessly and fully reunited, and we will see him face to face. All of human history is leading up to this climactic moment when death and decay—the results of human rebellion—are forever undone and God's good and perfect will is at long last carried out consistently and effortlessly here “on earth as it is in heaven.”

Our hearts should ache for this (Rom. 8:23). The heart of God—including his Spirit who resides within his people—longs for this steadily-approaching future (“The Spirit and the bride say, 'Come!'” -Rev. 22:17a). All of creation groans, as well (Rom 8:22). Jesus instructs his followers to regularly pray that God would essentially bring heaven to earth (Matt. 6:9-10). The Lord's Prayer should cause our anticipation for the reunification of heaven and earth (both incrementally in the present and universally at the eschaton) to build into a fever pitch. In his well known Sermon on the Mount, Jesus tells us to live as if it were already so, even when living this way will presently cost us dearly.

There are numerous popular predictions about the eschaton that I would disagree with, but I don't feel the need to vehemently debate every potential error (although, we'll certainly leave no stone unturned if you happen to hit me up for the eschatology-fest on my porch). There is undoubtedly a hierarchy of errors, and we should always give greater attention to the errors that erode (either directly or indirectly) the core elements of the Gospel. If one is unfamiliar with the common use of metaphor in apocalyptic genres, for example, then one may be very sincere in their expectation of seeing a literal, scaly, fire-breathing dragon at some point near the end. They also may be racking their brain in a good faith effort to creatively figure out how all the stars will literally fall from the sky or the moon will turn to blood. They may even take a certain pride in their remarkable ability to believe such absurdity. Many of these hyper-literal conclusions (when the biblical author is clearly attempting to convey something else), in my estimation, are extremely misguided but arguably benign to a point. However, regularly divorcing apocalyptic prophecies (such as Jesus' colorful predictions in Matthew 24 and his subsequent elaboration in the Revelation to the seven churches) from their clear biblical antecedents (like Isaiah using similarly cataclysmic language and hyperbole to predict the 539 BC judgment of Babylon—Isaiah chapter 13) can also lead to egregious error (It's easy to see how some small exegetical errors naturally produce greater errors down the road. In arithmetic, for example, if we misstep early in the process, our initial miscalculation is magnified as we continue on).

One popular interpretation of God's story (with multiple eschatological implications) insists that God has “two distinct people” and subsequently “two distinct plans.” This teaching has led many evangelicals to conclude that there are two ways to be reconciled to God: one (for Gentiles) being to trust in the finished work of Jesus and the other (for sincere, ethnic Jews) to simply be genetically related to Abraham's grandson, Jacob. This grave error (which essentially undermines the exclusivity and sufficiency of the cross, a core tenant of the Gospel) is not often expressly taught, but, given what is commonly taught, it is easy to see how the laity within this camp arrive at this erroneous conclusion. On this point, I would say shepherds and teachers are responsible, to some extent, not only for what they say but also for what the flock hears. According to the story of God, there is decidedly only one Seed of Abraham with the power to save, only one ancestry that affects our standing at the eschaton, and, by the grace of God, anyone can become related to him. I've also heard well-intentioned Christians of this persuasion express how they think it would not only be a “good idea” but perhaps even a moral imperative for Christians to help rebuild the Jewish temple (right where a high-profile Muslim mosque now stands, no less). This sort of thinking reveals catastrophic ignorance about pivotal developments within the Gospel story (i.e. Jesus as a better Temple, a better Priest, and a better Sacrifice). Rebuilding the temple and re-instituting the sacrificial system are dangerously regressive endeavors for a Christian and completely at odds with Christ's clearly articulated kingdom agenda (Check out Galatians and Hebrews for more developed warnings).

“Rapture” theology plays heavily into this eschatological model as well. A fascination with being “caught up” has certainly caught on among many evangelical Christians (as clearly seen in the numerous book sales and movie adaptations of rapture themed fiction). I really think Paul’s beautiful picture of believers being lifted into the sky to greet the returning King (1 Thessalonians 4) has been commonly misinterpreted as a mass evacuation, but, if so, it’s probably a misinterpretation of the mostly harmless sort. Something to be cautious of, however, is the resulting escapist perspectives that can arguably be traced back to rapture theology. Some of these rapture-centric Christian traditions have at times produced a very pessimistic, “duck and cover” outlook on the world within their respective church cultures. The story they're telling seems to go something like “everything is getting worse all the time, but if you'd like to say this prayer to 'accept Jesus as your personal savior' then we can all hunker down in my basement together and watch the news for subliminal clues to which world leader may or may not be the 'antichrist' this week while we're waiting for Jesus to come back.” “When he gets here, he'll get us out of this hellhole—right before he torches the whole thing—and we'll finally be able to live with him forever in heaven.” This may be an extreme characterization of this camp, but, even in its milder forms, it starts to sound far more Gnostic than Christian (i.e. “the physical world is inherently evil and irredeemable, therefore God's endgame is to eventually extract me so that I can live with him forever in an ethereal, spiritual realm”). I've written about this elsewhere, so I'll just briefly recap here: Resurrection (which is, by definition, a physical event) is an essential element of the Gospel, as is the eventual complete restoration of creation. These repeated themes of the physical universe being redeemed and restored are not “unimportant” details that we are free to overlook or outgrow—they are bedrock to the biblical narrative (Rom. 8:19-23). Contrary to what many may think, the story the Bible is telling is not of a great escape from earth to heaven. It's a story about God bringing heaven back to earth through the person and work of Jesus (Rev. 21:3).

Some of this retreating from “secular spaces,” accompanied by extreme pessimism about the state of God’s kingdom, and trends toward spiritual escapism (marked by an abandoning of the physical world) now commonly seen in American evangelicalism is due in part to a long history of bad examples and failed attempts at “kingdom expansion.” Centuries of European “theocracies” have contributed to the reluctance most modern American Christians presently have in referring to “God’s kingdom,” as Jesus did, as something that is happening (or at least starting to happen) now. The rise and fall of Christian Triumphalism and movements like the “Social Gospel” of the early 20th Century, which is often criticized for merely focusing on societal reform and scientific advancement (perhaps over-emphasizing the demonstration while neglecting the clear declaration of the Gospel), has contributed to a far dimmer outlook of the future for those who are left in the wake of these flawed movements. The response tends to be one of overcorrection. Many of today’s church cultures have, with their theological traditions, completely neutered the dynamic and world-changing kingdom of which Jesus passionately spoke; Instead, promoting a merely internal and harmless, spiritualized version of God’s kingdom message. It’s both equally wrong to pursue a man-made utopia (in which Jesus is conspicuously absent) as it is to abdicate or abandoned the real-world implications and demands of God’s all-encompassing kingdom agenda.

My purpose here is not to mock, malign, or conversely promote a specific eschatological model (though adherents to some versions of Premillennial Dispensationalism may feel like they’ve taken some lumps in many of my cautionary examples. I only bring up so many issues resulting from this theological camp, however, due to its extreme popularity within the evangelical circles in which I run. If I were fellowshipping more often with mainline traditions, I would probably have more to say about the potential pitfalls of Preterism, and so on). Ultimately, I think it’s helpful to hear multiple perspectives from a variety of studied and Spirit-filled brothers and sisters. I’ve routinely disagreed with many of my closest and dearest spiritual family members on secondary theological issues. In spite of our differences, we’re able to live, learn, and serve together in a spirit of deep mutual respect due to our shared love of the God his story reveals. The conversation within the church regarding what story the Bible is telling, including sub-conversations about the ending, has been going on for some time now (with great saints of the past and present contributing much to the collective effort). As such, there’s really no need for us to start from scratch, nor should we.

So be a proud Premillennial, Postmillennial, Amillennial, or even eschatologically undeclared follower of Christ. But also be alert to elements of these eschatological models that might undermine core tenants of the Gospel by becoming extremely familiar with the broad strokes and governing themes of God’s epic story, as it plays out from Genesis to Revelation (i.e. Be able to distinguish between primary and secondary elements of the narrative). Be aware that your understanding (or misunderstanding) of the story’s ending will inevitably affect how you live. Be inquisitive and willing to surrender your most beloved theological presuppositions and cherished church traditions if they turn out to run contrary to the higher authority of God’s word. Be reasonably informed about our brothers and sisters who came before us and who tackled many of these same complex questions. More than this, be genuinely excited about the return of Christ, and be about your Father’s business.

I would respectfully suggest that if you're more enthusiastic about “blood moons,” implanted micro-chips, and stocking up your personal bomb shelter than pursuing the mission of God (by meeting the neighbors, welcoming the stranger, serving the least, and declaring and demonstrating the good news of God's kingdom in numerous other ways throughout your everyday life) then you're tragically missing the heartbeat of the redemptive story that God has been telling—that he's even now telling. Likewise, if you find yourself at the other end of the spectrum, with the crowd who smugly allegorize everything to the point of meaninglessness, or who reject the resurrection, the physical return of Christ, and the ultimate supernatural restoration of the cosmos, and instead seek generic social justice and man-made utopia, then you are also telling a different story of your own making (in which Jesus and some of the language of his Gospel has merely been appropriated in order to promote a secular humanist fantasy). The Gospel of the kingdom of God that Jesus preached has an amazing third act. Let's learn the story right, live the story well, and tell the story often.

“Yes, I am coming soon” —Jesus (Rev. 22:20)

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

Taste and See...

Jesus identified the command to love our Maker with all that we are as the “greatest” of all God's commandments. In truth, I find it to be the most tragic of all His commandments. Only because there was a time when this commandment—and by extension, all other commandments—would be as unnecessary as an edict requiring humans to acknowledge that fire is hot and water is wet or that life is to be chosen over death. The first humans were crafted with the capacity to be captivated by His beauty. It seems they loved Him like they loved their next breath—like they loved life itself. We have since lost our taste for Him, the Tree of Life. Stumbling in the darkness, we have tasted of another tree, and in our broken state all we crave is ash and death. Frequently returning to the alternate tree, we gorge ourselves on “that which is not food” and are left in perpetual famine and want (Isaiah 55:2). Central to the Father's redemptive work in the world through Jesus then is the Spirit's restoration of our scorched palate. He renews our desire to feast on Him.

When God spoke the world into existence, He created a beautiful garden in which the first humans were meant to thrive. As image-bearers, we were made to be an extension of Him to the universe, a mirror radiating His goodness and glory and administering and celebrating His justice and virtue throughout His good world. At the center of the garden He placed two trees unlike the others. And so humanity was presented with a monumental choice from the beginning: “I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live” (Duet 30:19). God makes His desire for His creation abundantly clear, and yet, by His own sovereign will, He does not completely bypass human volition. The fruit of the first tree offered eternal life while the fruit of the other would forever infuse the eater with the forbidden knowledge of good and evil. As you probably already know, they foolishly forfeited their claim to the Tree of Life and instead grasped for the authority to define good and evil for themselves, a task for which they were—and we still are—hopelessly ill-equipped.

At this point, we must have a word about metaphor. You may recall how Jesus created quite a stir among His First Century followers when He claimed to be the “bread of life” come down from Heaven to be consumed by whosoever willed. The thought of cannibalizing their beloved leader was understandably grotesque. Most of His disciples walked away in disgust. Christ's meaning is debated still. Jesus' comparison of His body and blood to bread and wine was undoubtedly meant to be jarring. As we follow His metaphor, though, we will note that bread is a necessary and external source of life to the eater. It literally becomes a part of us as we digest it, empowering us and changing us from the inside. The bread is also unavoidably destroyed in the process. Jesus effectively described something otherworldly that we couldn't otherwise understand by using something that we do understand. His death, burial, and resurrection are objectively real, historical events with boundless implications. The symbolic explanation in no way obscures or robs the events of their meaning. It is Jesus' stories, in fact, that actually convey the true meaning of what He accomplished, which would otherwise be missed. Many fundamentalists see virtue in dogmatically adhering to a hyper-literal interpretation of all sacred scriptures. They may see an appeal to metaphor as the voice of the serpent who cunningly asked, “did God truly say...?” When in truth, it is the hyper-literalist who tragically misses Jesus' actual message in this instance.

I'm not suggesting that the book of Genesis should be exclusively understood as metaphor. While there are scriptural authors who the Spirit moved to consistently write in very poetic and hyperbolas styles, Genesis, like the gospels, is primarily written as a straight-forward, historical narrative (objectively chronicling real people, places, and events). Furthermore, recognizing Adam as a real human being who actually lived is arguably pivotal to understanding the necessity for the “new Adam.” Interestingly, though, Jesus frequently relies on metaphor when He is explaining the nature and function of the kingdom of God (He uses a lot of similes in particular: “the kingdom of God is like” such and such). In His revelation to the seven churches, He describes the full reunification of Heaven and Earth in a very symbolic way. He likens His people to a city and a beautiful bride. He presents Himself as a bridegroom, a lion, and a lamb and so on. Could it be that this early period of human history described in the first few chapters of Genesis, in which Heaven and Earth peacefully co-existed, is so foreign to us post-Eden folks that we can only now be told of it through metaphor? When I muse that Jesus was/is the Tree of Life, the fulness of God made incarnate and accessible to humans, spoken of in the Creation story, I'm not suggesting that He existed as an inanimate tree with magic fruit any more than I would suggest that Satan, a supernatural being, in the story is meant to be understood as a literal reptile. Satan is often likened to an ancient sea serpent, a dragon, a deceiver, and an angel of light elsewhere in the pages of holy scripture, and so we have little trouble identifying him in the story. I would argue that there are other passages that reveal Jesus as the Tree of Life, to whom our first parents lost access and instantly “died” as a result. In Jesus' depiction of paradise restored, complete with ample references to Eden, He claims, “Blessed are those who wash their robes, that they may have the right to the tree of life and may go through the gates into the city” (Revelation 22:14). In this passage, access to the “tree of life” and entrance into “the city” are inseparably linked. And if this weren't enough, Jesus claims the tree's leaves are for the “healing of the nations” (Revelation 22:2). Jesus is truly Light, Life, the Door, the Rock, the Lion, the Lamb, the Word, the Alpha and the Omega, the Vine, the Truth, the Bread of Life, but He is not literally these things.

Whether the Tree of Life is a supernatural fruit tree which grants the eater physical immortality, or it is a metaphor for something, or someone, far greater which we could not otherwise understand, the central message of the fall must not be overlooked: The first humans tragically rejected God—their true source of sustenance—in favor of an existence apart from Him. “My people have committed two sins,” says the Lord, “They have forsaken me, the spring of living water, and have dug their own cisterns, broken cisterns that cannot hold water” (Jeremiah 2:13). We have all believed the lie that we can define and manage good and evil for ourselves and in so doing have chosen death over abundant Life. Still, He humbly beckons us back, “Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost. Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and you will delight in the richest of fare” (Isaiah 55:1-2). In His mercy, God has graciously brought the once-rejected Tree of Life to us. Through the work of His Spirit He has renewed our taste for its fruit. He invites us to feast, to delight in Him. If there is anything truly good, anything of pure joy, anything worthwhile in this broken world, it is merely a faint echo of Him. For He is the source of all goodness, creativity, justice, and beauty—LIFE itself.

“Taste and see that the LORD is good” (Psalm 34:8a).