Archives for September 2023

Part 1: Origins | Part 2: What It Takes | Part 3: Why?

I’m going to appear to be changing the subject in this post, but the connection will be clear soon enough.

We all know the story of Jesus’ baptism. He comes to the spot on the Jordan River where John is baptizing. John is puzzled; he is preaching a baptism of repentance, and scores of people are being baptized, repenting of their sins. When John sees Jesus approaching, he says, “You ought to be baptizing me! Why are you coming to me for baptism?” (Mt 3.14).

Jesus replies, in essence, “I want you to go along with what I’m doing; this is appropriate to fulfill all righteousness” (Mt 3.15).

Now, what can that possibly mean? How is Jesus “fulfilling all righteousness” by undergoing a baptism of repentance? Especially if he has nothing for which he needs to repent?

I wonder—and I’m being tentative here—I wonder whether this is part of his larger work of representing us—of coming to earth as a man, living among us, and accomplishing for us what we could not accomplish for ourselves.

You know, I repented of my sin decades ago, and I meant it at the time. But then a funny thing happened: I kept on sinning, even though I had repented. Sixty years later, I still sin.

And I’m not the only one in that boat, am I? Isn’t that the experience of every Christian?

We repent, and we mean it. But somehow the sin doesn’t go away. Repeatedly throughout our lives, we yield to sin, despite our best intentions. We go back on our repentance.

We can’t even repent right. We’re really, really lousy at repenting.

So back to my question. Why would Jesus undergo a baptism of repentance, one that he really didn’t need, in order “to fulfill all righteousness”?

Could it be that this is part of his larger plan to be righteous in our place? Could it be that just as he will eventually die for us, he undergoes a baptism of repentance for us? That he repents perfectly in our place, because we are incapable of repenting perfectly for ourselves?

I don’t know whether that’s what he meant by his words to John. But if it was, it would fit perfectly with the larger scope of his earthly ministry.

• Christ undergoes a baptism of repentance, committing himself perfectly to live free from sin, and that repentance becomes ours when we repent, imperfectly as we do.
• Christ lives a perfect life, fulfilling the Law completely at every moment, and his righteousness is credited to our account (2Co 5.21).
• Christ dies an infinite death, experiencing in a few hours the intensely infinite wrath of God, and his death pays fully the infinite debt we owe (He 9.26).

As Adam, our first father, bequeathed his sinfulness to all of his descendants, even to us, thousands of years later (Ro 5.12, 19), even so Christ, the second Adam, bequeathed his perfect repentance and his perfect sinlessness and his infinitely perfect death to us, taking our place.

Every child in Sunday school learns that “Jesus died for my sins.” And while Jesus’ payment of our penalty is delightful news for anyone a gazillion dollars in debt, the simple truth is that at that moment we’re still broke; our spiritual net worth is zero. That’s a lot better than negative gazillion, but it’s still zero.

But then Jesus’ infinite bank account of righteousness, earned through a life of perfect obedience to the Father, is credited to our account, and we go from broke to infinitely wealthy in an instant.

And despite the imperfection of our repentance, and our consequent ongoing struggle with sin, we find that because we are in Christ, the Father sees his Son when he looks at us.

And in his Son he is well, well pleased.

In our place, from beginning to end.

Photo by James on Unsplash

Part 1: Origins | Part 2: What It Takes

I suppose everyone meditating on the vicarious atonement has eventually asked the question “Why?” Why would God the Son, who is perfectly and eternally satisfied in relationship with the other members of the Godhead, take on human flesh and essentially move to the dump? Why would he endure decades surrounded by sin, facing situations every day that he finds repugnant? Why would he subject himself to death—and a death designed to be as gruesome, agonizing, and painful as possible?

Why?

In the story the Scripture tells, God has reasons for what he does. Those reasons may not always be apparent, but they do exist, and we learn that his reasons are good and right, even when they’re beyond our understanding or even our knowledge. (See under “Job.”)

In the case of the vicarious atonement, God has given us at least three reasons; there may well be more, of course, but we can be certain of as much as he has told us.

The Image

One of the first things we learn in the Scripture is that we humans, and only we humans, are in the image of God. We are not like the ground from which we were fashioned in Adam, nor like the plants, nor like the animals—birds of the air, fish of the sea, or beasts of the field (Ps 8.6-8). We are like God.

We’re not like God nearly as much as some people obviously think they are, but we are like him in significant ways. And that image is so deeply embedded in us that neither Adam’s willful disobedience nor all the accumulated sins of all the ages can eradicate it. Immediately after the Flood, God’s cosmic judgment spurred by the fact that “every imagination of the thoughts of [man’s] heart was only evil continually” (Ge 6.5), God reminds Noah that murder must be capitally punished, not because every human has a right to life, but because every human, even in a sinful age, is in the image of God (Ge 9.6)—and an attack on God’s image calls for the utmost penalty.

Note that the value, if we can use that word, of the human is not inherent to himself; it’s derivative from the value of God himself. It is God who gives his image value.

Well then. How will God respond when his image is in peril? He will rescue it, of course. And he knew he would do that, even before the peril came along.

The Plan

God’s design in creating and then rescuing mankind went far beyond simply multiplying his image around the planet. His design will culminate in the amassing of millions of his images—all who will come—into a throng perfectly united in harmony and grace, unlike anything they have ever seen on earth, and the epitome of what they have desired on earth, people from every kingdom and tribe and language and nation (Re 7.9), undivided by prejudice or suspicion or contempt or any other consequence of sin.

Ironically, this is the professed dream of political leaders across the globe—but one they have never achieved, nor will they. Overcoming divisions ingrained this deeply in the human soul will require the healing of those souls, the defeat of their inherent sinfulness.

Only God can do that. And, as the vicarious atonement makes clear, he considers it worth his infinite sacrifice.

The Heart

We cannot end this list of motives without mentioning the motive closest to God’s heart.

He loves us.

Oh, how he loves us.

He professes his love continually—even in the Hebrew Scripture, what we call the “Old Testament,” where God is allegedly warlike and cruel and demanding. He professes his love in Ezekiel 16, and in Zechariah 3, and in Jeremiah 31, and in the entire books of Deuteronomy and Hosea.

And in the New Testament as well, most famously in John 3.16, but also in John 15 and Romans 5.8 and Ephesians 5.2 and Colossians 3.12 and 2Corinthians 13.11 and throughout John’s first epistle.

It’s everywhere.

He rescued us because he loves us. And that love, in an infinitely perfect marriage, has united us with him forever, God-Man and mankind eternally of one human nature and one in that love.

Think on these things.

Photo by James on Unsplash

Part 4: How Far?

Part 1: Origins

God’s plan to have the seed of the woman crush the serpent’s head by dying in Adam’s place raises all sorts of questions. The most obvious, I suppose, is how such an arrangement can be just—especially when God himself declares that the sinner must die for his own sin (Ezk 18.4, 20). One atheist famously said that he refused to worship a “god” who would kill his own son for something he didn’t do.

Like most arguments against God’s ways, this one suffers from a significant logical fallacy: it fails to recognize a piece of the data that is central to the question. In this case, the key data point is that the Son died willingly; he volunteered. That single fact changes the whole scenario.

And the Son’s willingness to be the sacrifice is but one of a list of qualifications that identify the substitute.

What would have to be true of whatever person could serve effectively as a substitute for Adam and for every other sinner?

Human

This substitute, whoever he is, must be one of us; he must represent us perfectly and wholly, and only another human being can do that. Paul speaks of him as a second Adam, of whom the first Adam was a figure (Ro 5.14).

But there’s another reason the substitute must be human. The penalty for sin is death, and someone who cannot die cannot pay that penalty. No angel could do it, and God cannot either.

He must be one of us (He 2.14).

Divine

If the penalty for sin is death, then an ordinary man can by his death pay the penalty for only one (other) man. But the substitute for Adam’s offspring must be able to die a death that will pay for millions of people; his death (and life) must be worth far more than any ordinary man’s. Only a death of infinite worth can pay an infinite penalty.

This is a point that Anselm, the church father, made in his classic work Cur Deus Homo? (Why the God-Man?). Only a man can die, and only God can pay an infinite price. The only solution to our problem is the God-Man.

Sinless

One cannot be a substitute for someone else’s sin unless he has no penalty to pay for his own sin. But where will we find a sinless human? There have been only 3 sinless humans in history: Adam and Eve were sinless for a time, but since then all of mankind has been covered by a curtain of sin—until God the Son pulled back that curtain by stepping into human flesh and defeating every temptation throughout every day of his earthly life.

Willing

As we’ve noted, if the substitute is not willing, then the transaction is fundamentally unjust. And an unjust transaction, rather than solving the sin problem, merely adds to it. In assuming a human nature, the Son announces, “I come to do thy will, O God” (Ps 40.6-8; He 10.7, 9). As omniscient, the preincarnate Son knew full well that he would be completely dependent on the Father during his earthly sojourn (Mt 11.27; 24.36; 26.39, 42; Jn 8.28), and he proceeded willingly (Jn 10.17-18; 18.11).

And conversely, God must be willing to accept the sacrifice of the substitute. And we find that not only is he willing, but the plan was his in the first place. In the words of the hymnwriter,

See the Father’s plan unfold
Bringing many sons to glory.

In perhaps the most well-known description of the Son’s vicarious sacrifice, written 800 years before the event, the prophet writes,

The Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all (Is 53.6).

And Paul adds his affirmation after the fact:

[The Father] delivered him up for us all (Ro 8.32).

And so we have a legal basis for a substitutionary atonement, as well as a list of qualifications. And we find that the only person qualified to act in that role is the very one who volunteers for it, at infinite cost to himself.

See the destined day arise;
See a willing sacrifice;
Jesus, to redeem our loss
Hangs upon the shameful cross.
Jesus, who but You could bear
Wrath so great and justice fair?
Every pang and bitter throe
Finishing Your life of woe.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
Lamb of God, for sinners slain!
Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
Jesus Christ, we praise Your name!

(Venantius Honorius Clementianus [AD 6^th century], trans Richard Mant)

Next time: Why would he do that? And what has he accomplished?

Photo by James on Unsplash

Part 3: Why? | Part 4: How Far?

Have you ever felt like your sin was just too much? Like you just can’t stop, even though you’ve made all those promises to God? I have. More recently than you might think.

And I have good news for you today.

In the words of the hymnist P.P. Bliss,

In my place condemned he stood;
Sealed my pardon with his blood!

In the most astonishingly selfless act of all time, God the Son stepped into my sandals, took my sin upon his sinless self, and bore on one dark Friday afternoon the eternal punishment for my sin.

It’s a shame that we’ve gotten used to that.

What I’ve described here is what we call the “vicarious atonement”—the act by which Christ removed the wall of separation between us and God—making us former enemies “at one”—by substituting for us.

It’s a doctrine I’d like to invest a few posts in considering.

I suppose the place to begin is In the Beginning. God created us, in the beginning, as distinct from everything else he created—and he created everything else. Unlike the animals, and certainly the plants and the rocks and rills, he created us in his image (Ge 1.26-27). That made us unique and extraordinary: God makes creatures who look like him in significant ways, and who will reflect that image, and its glory, in their dominion over the earth, their relationships, and their rich and diverse personalities. And they will do that without sin, just like their Creator.

But soon—how soon we do not know, but certainly before 130 years had passed (Ge 5.3)—the creature chose to reject the will and plan of his Creator, and death became, for the moment, king. And the first step in Adam’s dying was his rush to hide from his Creator, his infinitely wise mentor, the one who loved him fully and perfectly and forever (Ge 3.8).

The bond was broken.

God would have been justified in just letting his wayward creature go his own way and face the consequences.

But he came after him, calling his name and asking, “Where are you?”—not because he couldn’t find Adam, but because he wanted Adam to begin the painful process of finding Him. And in that first, awkward conversation, God spoke of his plan to make them one with him again.

The Seed of the Woman would crush the serpent’s head (Ge 3.15).

He doesn’t say anything more about the plan than that, but it is enough for the moment. The ball is rolling.

Adam faces the penalty for his sin, which is death. But the source of death will die under the omnipotent heel of the Seed.

Adam has an Advocate, a Champion, a Hero.

Looking back after all these years, we know that the Seed was not merely a protector; he would be a substitute. He would stand in Adam’s place and die a death deep enough for all who would believe.

Adam and Eve can’t possibly have understood what God was saying that day. Even the phrase “seed of the woman” would have been incomprehensible to them, given that there had never yet been anyone born in the normal way, let alone without the involvement of a father. And that this “seed” would be a person of God himself, in the image of the image? They never would have imagined such a thing.

But over the coming millennia, God will slip the curtain back more and more on his plan, revealing a little here, a little there, until the momentous day when the serpent’s head is crushed by a dying man, a man who stands in Adam’s place, and in ours.

Which raises a question. In a context of sin and judgment, how can there even be a substitute? How does it serve justice to punish an innocent man for a guilty one? How can the transaction take place?

We’ll look into that next time.

Photo by James on Unsplash

Part 2: What It Takes | Part 3: Why? | Part 4: How Far?