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.
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