Dan Olinger

"If the Bible is true, then none of our fears are legitimate, none of our frustrations are permanent, and none of our opposition is significant."

Dan Olinger

Chair, Division of Biblical Studies & Theology,

Bob Jones University

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In Christ, Part 2: Pictures

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Part 1: Introduction

We humans have a remarkable capacity for learning new things. We begin as soon as we’re born—maybe even before—and though that facility seems to slow down as we age, we still continue to learn.

A key to the way we learn new things is comparison. I tell my students that we all have a metal rack in our brain, with lots of hooks on it. When we come across something we didn’t know before, we look for something similar that’s hanging on the rack, and we hang the new thing right next to it. That allows us to get a jump start on the new thing by pulling in what we already know about the similar thing. It’s efficient.

And one way to do that is to use metaphors. This new concept, this abstract idea, is “like” this other thing that we’re already familiar with.

The Scripture does that sort of thing all the time. Jesus’ parables are just one example. And the whole story of God’s dealings with Israel is pictured in Hosea’s relationship with his unfaithful wife.

Similarly, there are biblical pictures of our union with Christ.

The first one I notice is Jesus’ feeding of the 5000, after which Jesus offends many of his hearers, apparently intentionally, by saying,

51 I am the living bread that came down out of heaven; if anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever; and the bread also which I will give for the life of the world is My flesh. … Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, you have no life in yourselves. 54 He who eats My flesh and drinks My blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day. 55 For My flesh is true food, and My blood is true drink. 56 He who eats My flesh and drinks My blood abides in Me, and I in him (Jn 6.51-56).

Near the end of his earthly ministry Jesus repeats the concept—though, oddly, John doesn’t report it. Matthew’s account reads,

26 While they were eating, Jesus took some bread, and after a blessing, He broke it and gave it to the disciples, and said, “Take, eat; this is My body.” 27 And when He had taken a cup and given thanks, He gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you; 28 for this is My blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for forgiveness of sins” (Mt 26.26-28).

Just as “we are what we eat,” so we become united with Christ by taking him into us. Now, Jesus put this in crudely physical terms—that’s what many of his hearers found so offensive (Jn 6.52, 60, 66)—in such a way that even to this day some readers teach that we eat Jesus’ literal body in the Eucharist. But just as the New Covenant is spiritual, not physical (Jer 31.31-34), Jesus intends that we take in his teachings and his works so thoroughly and intensely that they become part of us, part of who we are to the very core.

And so, apparently, part of the responsibility for being united with Christ falls on us. We take him in, and he takes us in.

That’s a sobering responsibility.

Jesus uses another illustration of our union with him:

4 Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself unless it abides in the vine, so neither can you unless you abide in Me. 5 I am the vine, you are the branches; he who abides in Me and I in him, he bears much fruit, for apart from Me you can do nothing (Jn 15.4-5).

A plant, an organism, lives only by staying together. Parts that fall away from the vine cannot thrive, for they get their sustenance from the core. Similarly, we cannot thrive apart from the spiritual strength we derive from being connected to Christ.

We often forget that. As we grow, we develop competence at things we give our attention to, and we grow confident that “I can handle it.” And to an extent, that’s true. I can write the letters of the alphabet. I can poach an egg. I can ride a bicycle. I can shave without cutting myself.

But in the spiritual realm—in living with authenticity, in accomplishing genuine spiritual growth, in genuinely edifying others, in effectively telling the story of the gospel—I can’t do anything without the Vine, without being connected to the Son.

More pictures next time.

Photo by Wylly Suhendra on Unsplash

In Christ, Part 1: Introduction

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Of the many things that God does for his people when they come to him in faith—all of them astonishing—perhaps the most astonishing is that he unites us with his Son.

Now, all of God’s people are his sons and daughters, members of his family (Ep 1.5). But Jesus Christ is his Son in a way that no other person is; he is the Son (Mt 28.18-20), the one-of-a-kind, unique Son (Jn 3.16), the only Son in that sense—God the Son, in whom the Father is well pleased (Mk 1.11).

And we are united with that Son, placed in him; we are the body of which he is the Head (Ep 1.22-23).

It seems that Paul is simply overwhelmed with this truth. He uses the expression “in Christ” 74 times in his 13 epistles; “in Jesus” 6 more times; “in the Lord” 43 more times; and “in him” (with reference to the Son) 17 more times. That’s 140 times in total. He just can’t seem to get the concept out of his mind.

And Paul isn’t the only New Testament writer to address the concept in depth. John certainly does, and Peter alludes to it as well.

Strangely, it’s not something that the modern church seems to prioritize. You find a few cases along the way—Sinclair Ferguson’s video series on the topic is noteworthy—but across conservative evangelicalism it doesn’t generally seem to get the attention it deserves.

So I think I’ll write a series of posts on the topic. It won’t have the depth of book-length theological treatments, of course, but I’d like to survey the basic biblical data in outline form.

To begin with, I suppose the clearest statement of the basic principle comes from John, at the end of his first epistle. He writes,

19 We know that we are of God, and that the whole world lies in the power of the evil one. 20 And we know that the Son of God has come, and has given us understanding so that we may know Him who is true; and we are in Him who is true, in His Son Jesus Christ. This is the true God and eternal life (1J 5.19-20).

Here, interestingly, John says that we’re in both the Father (“Him who is true”) and “in His Son Jesus Christ.” This is one of the last portions of the Scripture to be written, and John is likely encapsulating all that the New Testament writers have written before. I think we can consider this the climax of biblical teaching about the relationship between God and his people: we are in him, united with him, one with him, the very God of heaven. And that union with God is made possible by our union with the Son, who is united with us as a perfect, unfallen human being—one with us, as it turns out, forever.

This is an astonishing concept.

This is something that Christ himself predicted. In his farewell address to his eleven disciples, he said,

18 “I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you. 19 After a little while the world will no longer see Me, but you will see Me; because I live, you will live also. 20 In that day you will know that I am in My Father, and you in Me, and I in you (Jn 14.18-20).

“That day,” I would suggest, is the last day, the eschaton, the resurrection, when we shall know even as we are known (1Co 13.12), when we shall be perfectly united with the Father through the Son. But there is much in the New Testament to indicate that that union is occurring now, even before the death of death and the eradication of sin. More on that later in the series.

Jesus not only predicted this union; he prayed actively for it. In the longest recorded conversation between members of the Godhead, Jesus prayed,

20 “I do not ask on behalf of these alone, but for those also who believe in Me through their word; 21 that they may all be one; even as You, Father, are in Me and I in You, that they also may be in Us, so that the world may believe that You sent Me (Jn 17.20-21).

And the Father, ever at one will with the Son, has answered that prayer (1Co 1.30).

This has always been the plan.

We’ll look into the details in the coming posts.

Photo by Wylly Suhendra on Unsplash

On Seeing God, Part 2: Elijah

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Part 1: Moses

There was another man who desperately needed to see God.

His name was Elijah.

Elijah was a highly unusual fellow. He had a wild appearance, much like a later prophet, John the Baptist. He was confrontational, no-nonsense, not one to back away from a showdown (well, most of the time). Though not the first prophet, he was the initiator of the prophetic era, from the 8th century down to Malachi, the end of special revelation in the Old Testament era.

Elijah’s prophetic calling, like that of many other prophets, brought him into direct confrontation with the perverted and unjust leadership of his nation, most especially Ahab and his pagan Tyrian wife Jezebel. At Elijah’s command, Israel receives no rain for three long years (1K 17.1), a drought that certainly devastated the land economically. As the drought is about to end, Elijah faces down the priests of the Canaanite god Baal on Mt Carmel, calling down fire from heaven and massacring the priests (1K 18.21-40).

Seeking vengeance for her god Baal, Queen Jezebel pronounces a fatwa on the prophet (1K 19.2), who, in a highly uncharacteristic response, runs for his life. (We all have our moments, don’t we?) Elijah heads for the safety and anonymity of the Wilderness, the Negeb, to the south. There, beyond Beersheba, he slumps in the shade of a brush tree and asks God to kill him.

He’s pretty low.

But God will have none of that. He sends a messenger to give him two hearty meals with a good sleep in between (1K 19.5-7). And then he directs him further south, deeper into the desert, to a place that’s familiar to us: Mt Horeb.

We may not recognize the name, but we’ll recognize the place. This is Mt Sinai, the mount of God, where Israel had been constituted as a nation, where Moses had communed with God face to face, where God had given Moses his spoken and written Law, where God had placed him in a crevice of the rock face and covered him with his hand while he passed by in his glory.

This is the place where God has revealed himself in the past, and where he is about to reveal himself again.

But this one is very different.

God speaks calmly to Elijah, asking him simple questions. And then there’s activity reminiscent of the thunderings and lightnings that enveloped the mountain in Moses’ day—there’s a hurricane-force wind that actually breaks off the rocks on the mountain’s face, and then there’s an earthquake, and then a raging fire. Sound and fury.

But God, the text says, is not in these things (1K 19.11-12). Not this time.

God is in the still small voice that follows.

It’s the voice of a call. God calls him, authorizes him, to prepare the next generation of leadership—the next king of Syria, the next king of Israel, and then, last, the next prophet, the one who will take his own place.

God reveals himself not in a visible form, not this time. He reveals himself in a calling.

Both of these men, Moses and Elijah, experienced remarkable things. But we get a sense—the narrator seems to want us to think this way—that the men have been left a little short. Moses has begged to see God’s face, but he hasn’t. Elijah has despaired of God’s presence and protection to the point of death, and he gets a quiet voice.

Is God the kind of person who will leave things there for those men?

Oh no.

Eight centuries later another man takes three close friends to another mountaintop. And in an astonishing moment, this ordinary-looking man, another itinerant prophet, begins to shine with the glory that Moses has begged to see (Mt 17.1-2). He is revealed as not merely a prophet, but God himself in human form, God the Son, the Beloved One—the perfect and complete revelation of the Father.

And suddenly two other men are there.

Moses. And Elijah.

They finally got their vision.

And we receive that vision as well, when we see Jesus, God’s perfect self-revelation, the Living Word revealed perfectly in the Written Word, the Scripture.

You’d think we’d spend more time reading it.

Photo by Gabriel Lamza on Unsplash

On Seeing God, Part 1: Moses

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Let me tell you a tale of two men who desperately needed to see God.

The first is Moses.

The difficulties Moses faced in leading the Israelites out of Egypt are notorious. He encountered constant fear, dissatisfaction, and complaining. When the crowd finally arrived at Sinai, I suppose he expected that things would get easier, that the people would see the power of God exhibited and come together as a covenant nation.

Of course, they had seen the visible presence of God all along the way in the pillar of cloud that led them, and they had complained anyway. But surely here …

Moses meets God, apparently in view of the people, and receives the Ten Commandments (Ex 20.1-17) and some additional initial laws (Ex 20.22-23.33). He then offers sacrifices in the presence of the people (Ex 24.1-8), before ascending with the other leaders of Israel to the mountaintop (Ex 24.9-11)—and “there they saw the God of Israel” (Ex 24.10). The text doesn’t describe very clearly what they saw, but I’m inclined to think it was less than Moses wanted to see, as we’ll note shortly.

Then God calls Moses to a private audience on the summit, where he gives him the commandments in written form (Ex 24.12). (This is a significant step in the progress of divine revelation.) God and Moses commune there for 40 days, while God explains the design and procedures of the Tabernacle (Ex 25.1-31.18).

But while Moses is having his mountaintop experience, calamity strikes his people back on the desert floor. Assuming that Moses isn’t coming back, they demand that Aaron make them a visible representation of the gods (Ex 32.1)—and he does. This just days after they have received (orally) the Ten Commandments—including the Second One.

At the sight of the orgy, Moses is enraged. He breaks the stone tablets of the Law and destroys the idol—and forces the idolatrous people to drink the powdered gold (Ex 32.20). And then, in a surprising turn, he intercedes with God for the people (Ex 32.31-32).

God tells him there are still things to be resolved between Him and Israel, but he promises to send his angel to accompany the nation into the Land (Ex 32.34). Moses erects a tent outside the camp where he can communicate with God (Ex 33.7). (This is evidently not the Tabernacle, since it clearly hasn’t been constructed yet [Ex 35-40].) And there, hidden from the people, he meets with God and talks “face to face” (Ex 33.11).

But despite all this interaction. Moses is not satisfied with his sight of God. There in the tent he says, “I’m begging you—show me your glory!” (Ex 33.18).

And God replies, “I can’t do that; you wouldn’t survive. No one can see me—really see me—and live.”

Such is the glory of the God of heaven, the Creator of heaven and earth. For Moses, there is no way that he can fulfill his desire to know God that intimately. The distance—the gap—is far too great.

But God offers him a consolation prize. “I’ll put you in a crevice on the face of the mountain,” he says, “and I’ll cover you with my hand to protect you from my glory, and for just a split second I’ll take away my hand and let you see my back. That’s all you’ll be able to endure” (Ex 33.20-23).

And so, for all the special privileges Moses has been given, for all the revelations and meetings and face-to-face conversations, his deepest desire remains unfulfilled. He wants to know God clearly, accurately, fully. He wants to commune with his Maker at a level beyond what a mere creature can survive.

As creatures made in God’s image, we all have within us that desire to know God, to understand him, to love him. Since the Fall, of course, most of God’s images distort that desire into something grotesque. But it’s there, deep inside.

There’s another man in the Bible with a similar longing. We’ll meet him next time.

Part 2

Photo by Gabriel Lamza on Unsplash

What Peter Learned in the High Priest’s Palace, Part 5: Witness

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Part 1: Introduction | Part 2: Growth | Part 3: Sacrifice | Part 4: Praise

Peter has one more principle to share from his painful failure in the high priest’s palace.

11 Dearly beloved, I beseech you as strangers and pilgrims, abstain from fleshly lusts, which war against the soul; 12 Having your conversation honest among the Gentiles: that, whereas they speak against you as evildoers, they may by your good works, which they shall behold, glorify God in the day of visitation (1P 2.11-12).

If we’ve been altered so radically by God’s selection of us, it ought to make a difference in our thinking, our outlook (and thus even our facial expressions!), our decisions, our day-to-day behavior. Peter has already stated as much in verse 9. Moving from darkness to light certainly changes the way you see things.

But here he restates the contrast between the old and new life, and then he draws yet another consequence of that change.

His emphasis here turns from what God has done to and for us, to what we ought to do in response. Here comes an imperative: abstain. The object he chooses is “fleshly lusts,” which includes a lot more things than we typically envision. When we hear the word lusts, we immediately think of sexual lusts—which this term definitely includes—but really it envelops any of our inclinations that are primarily for our own benefit; fleshly doesn’t have to mean physical. Paul uses the word flesh frequently for anything related to “the old man,” the former way of life. I don’t think it unlikely that Peter might have picked up that use of the word as well.

In the old days, he says, we used to make our choices based simply on our own self-interest. (And here his mind could well have gone back to that fateful night in the high priest’s palace.) Now, he says, we act in God’s best interest.

And that means acting in the interest of others as well: we “have our conversation honest” (“conduct honorable” ESV) or live honestly in our interaction with others. We don’t take advantage of them; we don’t deceive them; we don’t speak critically of them; we don’t take actions that lower their value or interfere with their progress toward worthy goals. (Yeah, after I finish writing this post, I really, really need to go mow my lawn. It’s lowering the property values of the whole neighborhood.)

And what happens when we live out among our neighbors the changes that God has made in us?

They “behold.” They see. They notice. This word see is the word for an eyewitness in a legal case. The eyewitness reports what he has seen; he testifies to the validity of the evidence. Just as DNA evidence is proof positive of identification, so also God has placed in us his DNA, if I may say so, and the evidence of his work in us should be indisputable. We are evidence in the court of history. Are we convincing?

Note that others do notice, despite their predisposition to reject us; though “they speak evil against you as unbelievers,” they still notice. And Peter says that they will respond to the genuineness they see: they will “glorify God.”

Does this mean that they will come to Christ because of what they have seen? or merely that they will be forced, despite their unbelief, to bow the knee to him at the end of it all? I’m not sure; it could involve either. I would certainly prefer the former, but we know that final submission will come to all (Ro 14.11; Php 2.10-11).

Peter says that our observers will glorify God “in the day of visitation.” When is that? Well, the phrase literally means “the day of oversight [or overseeing],” and that could mean a lot of things. Maybe it’s the day when they come to conversion—that’s certainly a day when they would glorify God. Or maybe it’s the day of judgment, when every knee shall bow.

But in any case, God will be glorified, and some of that glorification will be the direct result of the good work he has done in us.

Peter learned a lot in that palace. He was changed, painfully, from someone who was interested only in promoting his own agenda and benefit to someone who called himself a “servant” of Jesus Christ (2P 1.1), the very one he had betrayed. May we be changed as well.

Photo by Joshua Earle on Unsplash

What Peter Learned in the High Priest’s Palace, Part 4: Praise

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Part 1: Introduction | Part 2: Growth | Part 3: Sacrifice

Peter turns now to a deeper meditation on what God has done to us, and for us. He writes,

But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light (1P 2.9).

There’s a lot to consider here.

Peter has listed 4 different labels, we might say, delineating 4 statuses that God has bestowed on his people. Each one of them is worth a look.

  • We’re a chosen generation.
    • Some modern translations ues the word race or people. I don’t much use the word race anymore, because it doesn’t have any agreed-upon meaning among sociologists and thus doesn’t typically contribute any clarity to a conversation. The Greek word here is genos, which speaks essentially of a group of relatives, large or small, or of beings with a shared characteristic or interest. It’s the word Moses uses in Genesis (in the Greek translation, at least) that’s translated “kind” in the creation account.
    • So what’s Peter saying? God has chosen us, His people, to be of a certain kind, distinct from others, but united by his choice. We know from elsewhere in Scripture that he didn’t choose us because we were inherently different from others; it is our relationship to him that has now distinguished us.
  • We’re a royal priesthood.
    • We should note here that in Israel it was impossible for one person to be both a king and a priest. The king had to be from the tribe of Judah, and the priests had to be from Levi, and specifically from Aaron. Even Jesus was not qualified to be an Aaronic priest—and so the author of Hebrews notes that he was appointed by the Father to be a priest in a different order, that of Melchizedek—which, as the author notes, is a superior order to that of Levi (He 7.1-17).
    • So it is a special privilege for us, like our elder brother Christ, to be both kings and priests.
  • We’re a peculiar people.
    • I’m using the familiar wording of the KJV here, but we all know that with the changes in the English language since 1611, peculiar doesn’t mean what it once did, with the result that this expression is, well, peculiar. The modern versions have mostly settled on the expression “a people for his own possession”; we might say “his own private property.”
    • So we belong especially to God. We are set aside for his enjoyment and use. He delights in us the way someone delights in his boat, say, or in his coin collection—but in fact far more than that, because his delights are greater than ours, and perfect.
  • We’re a holy nation.
    • This phrase combines a couple of earlier concepts. Holy speaks of the same kind of setting-apart that peculiar does, while nation speaks of the same kind of common identity that generation does.
    • But I think nation (ethnos) might carry a connotation a little different from genos. For one thing, I note that in Israel, the term was used for “the nations”—that is to say, the Gentiles. To Peter’s Jewish readers—and probably to Peter himself—this would have been a little uncomfortable at least. Is Peter saying that God is making a new nation, distinct from Israel? It would seem so. The ramifications of that concept have led to a good many theological arguments, which we won’t take time for here.

God has changed our status in all these ways—for what? Peter isolates a single purpose: “that we should show forth the praises of him.” NASB and ESV say “proclaim the excellencies.” Now, this isn’t saying that we ourselves should praise him, so much as that we should speak and live in such a way that others are moved to praise him. The excellencies of how he has changed us should incite wonder and worship in those who see us.

That’s a complete turnaround from the way Peter was thinking in the high priest’s palace. And it’s a radical change for us as well.

Part 5: Witness

Photo by Joshua Earle on Unsplash

What Peter Learned in the High Priest’s Palace, Part 3: Sacrifice

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Part 1: Introduction | Part 2: Growth

Peter learned something else the night he betrayed his Master. He writes,

You also, as living stones, are built up a spiritual house, a holy priesthood, to offer up spiritual sacrifices, acceptable to God by Jesus Christ (1P 2.5).

The Scripture uses several metaphors for God’s people. We’re a body (Ro 12.4-5); we’re a kingdom (Re 1.6); we’re a bride (2Co 11.2). Here Peter says that we’re a temple. And individual believers are living stones who make up the temple, as well as being the priests who work in the temple. Peter’s point here isn’t that the stones are beautiful and that together they compose a beautiful building—though that is certainly true. His emphasis is more practical, purposeful, utilitarian than aesthetic. We are a temple, and priests in that temple, for the purpose of offering up sacrifices to God.

So, it turns out, following Jesus isn’t really about us.

Oh, there are benefits to us, of course: forgiveness, eternal life, love, joy, peace, fellowship—and on and on it goes. But it’s primarily about making sacrifices to the one who is ultimately great and good, to the one who planned and accomplished all those benefits that we have reaped. Our focus is on him, not our benefits.

Peter had bragged about his devotion and assured faithfulness. But when faced by public pressure—from a couple of servant girls—he collapsed. He was thinking entirely of his own felt needs—reputation and self-preservation, mostly—and abandoned “the Christ, the Son of the living God” (Mt 16.16) in his Master’s time of much greater need.

The way someone acts in a crisis tells him what his most primal needs are. Peter demonstrated that he cared more about himself than anyone else.

As do we all.

But with this new birth, this discarding of the old life for the new, this utter reversal of focus, we are called to count “but dung” (Php 3.8) our former fascination with ourselves, our needs, and our desires, and to give what we have, to sacrifice, to God.

That raises a question.

What can we give him? Why should he want our junky stuff? Of what use to him is rifling through our yard sales?

Good question.

Peter speaks to that. Our sacrifices, he says, “are acceptable to God by Jesus Christ” (1P 2.5).

How about that.

Our new life isn’t just a chance to start the same kind of life over again; it’s a different kind of life, and it’s a change of both nature and location.

We are, as Paul repeatedly says, “in Christ” (Ro 8.1; 12.5; 1Co 1.30; 2Co 5.17; Ga 3.28; Ep 2.13; Php 1.1; Co 1.2; 1Th 2.14; and elsewhere). And in Christ, the Father is well pleased (Mt 3.17). When we offer sacrifices to God, he sees them as coming from his Son, and he is delighted with them. When we “present [our] bodies a living sacrifice” (Ro 12.1), God accepts and treasures them.

The key here is not what is offered; Peter says we offer sacrifices (1P 2.5), but he doesn’t seem to have any interest in specifying what it is that we offer. The key, I think, is that we offer at all. In the high priest’s palace, Peter wasn’t thinking about Jesus’ benefit; he was thinking merely of himself. That night he learned that our decisions, because we are followers of Christ, need to be focused on him. What will please him? What will advance his kingdom? What will further his purposes? What will enhance his reputation?

In human relationships, we know that the real value of a gift is not in the gift itself; it’s in the fact that it’s given. It indicates that we were thinking about the person to whom we gave it. Our thinking is oriented toward that person.

There you have it. In this new life, Peter says, we live as oriented toward God and not toward ourselves.

So, unlike Peter, we make sacrifices. In the face of public scorn, we point to heaven and say, “I’m with Him.” We take a stand.

No waffling. No hesitation. No regrets.

Part 4: Praise | Part 5: Witness

Photo by Joshua Earle on Unsplash

What Peter Learned in the High Priest’s Palace, Part 2: Growth

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Part 1: Introduction

Peter begins his second chapter by describing his audience as babies (1P 2.2).

That’s not normally a compliment; nowadays, when you call somebody a baby, you’re saying that he’s acting immaturely, selfishly. You’re saying he needs to grow up.

In some places, them’s fightin’ words.

Peter’s point, however, is not at all hostile or demeaning. He’s telling us something he learned through his failure.

When you come to Christ, you’re not just getting your sins forgiven and escaping from judgment; you’re starting a whole new life. This is happening in the spiritual sphere rather than the physical, but there are significant points of comparison between the two. When you first come to Jesus, you’re a spiritual baby, and like a physical baby, you desperately need to grow up spiritually. This isn’t an accusation; it’s a fact. We don’t denigrate babies for being babies; we nurture and protect them—and we feed them like crazy: all they want, whenever they want. We rearrange our lives around the baby’s hunger pangs.

If babies don’t grow, they die.

That’s true in botany as well as human development. Some people—we say they have a “green thumb”—can make plants grow seemingly without effort. Others—including yours truly—kill everything they touch. I once killed a barrel cactus.

Do you know how hard it is to kill a barrel cactus?

The growth principle is true in business too. You can’t just create a system and cash checks while the system hums along smoothly; you need to grow, constantly adapting to new market conditions. If you don’t, your competitors will eat you alive. (See under “Howard Johnson’s Restaurants.”)

Children know that they need to grow. They follow their advancing age a half a year at a time: “I’m not five; I’m five and a half.” They mark their advancing height on the closet door frame. They talk about what they’re going to do when they’re whatever age.

I recall when my daughter turned 6 and was allowed to go to the stage productions on campus. Her first one was an opera—Barber of Seville if I remember correctly—and when the overture started, she slid forward in her seat and hardly moved for the rest of the night. What a delight it was for her to experience growing up.

Children talk about it all the time: “When I grow up, I’m gonna … “ I’ve never gotten over that; I’ve enjoyed every year more than the one before.

We love to grow, to mature, to get better at things we enjoy. Growth is good.

One dark night Peter learned that in his life in Christ, he was a baby; he had a lot of growing to do.

What makes a baby grow?

Nutrition. Lots of it. He eats and eats and eats, and eats some more.

That’s how we grow spiritually as well; we need to eat spiritual food, as much as we can hold. So Peter says, “As newborn babies, crave the unadulterated milk of the Word” (1P 2.2). He has just observed that “the Word of the Lord endures forever” (1P 1.25); there’s no better or more powerful source of spiritual nutrition than that.

We need to feed hungrily on the Word, filling our minds and hearts with it, building spiritual muscle, gaining wisdom and experience, so we’re not likely to do the spiritual equivalent of running out into the street and getting hit by a car.

That’s pretty much what Peter did in the high priest’s palace.

But by the power of the Word, and the Spirit, Peter began a new life. Not a perfect one, by any means (see Galatians 2), but a generally healthy and productive one.

So how’s your growth going? How do those little pencil marks on the closet door frame look?

Part 3: Sacrifice | Part 4: Praise | Part 5: Witness

Photo by Joshua Earle on Unsplash

What Peter Learned in the High Priest’s Palace, Part 1: Introduction

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Among Bible students, Peter has become almost a stereotype of himself. We all feel like we know him: outspoken, impetuous, the bull in the china shop, lots of braggadocio with comparatively little accomplishment.

Some would say that’s the early Peter, before the Lord changed him at Pentecost. He famously went from “the fear of the Jews” (Jn 20.19) to facing down the Sanhedrin’s threats (Ac 4.5-20) and even to being soundly asleep in prison the night before his scheduled execution (Ac 12.1-7). That’s an astonishing change, not one to be sniffed at.

But then he disappoints us again, allowing the presence of Judaizers in Antioch to intimidate him into withdrawing fellowship from Gentile believers and apparently returning to Mosaic dietary restrictions (Ga 2.11-12)—and this after a vision from God (Ac 10.9-16) affirming what Jesus had taught during his earthly ministry: that all foods were now clean (Mk 7.19).

We can say confidently at least that during Jesus’ earthly ministry, Peter the coarse, tough fisherman indeed fit the stereotype. He was brimming with confidence, speaking out of turn (Mt 17.4), boasting of what he would accomplish (Mt 26.35), even rebuking his Master for a solemn pronouncement (Mt 16.22), and earning a greater rebuke in return (Mt 16.23)—and that shortly after proclaiming him “the Christ, the Son of the Living God” (Mt 16.16).

But as we know, his world came crashing down one dark night in Jerusalem. Despite his boasting (Mt 26.35), he did indeed deny his Master, not once, but three times (Mt 26.69-74)—and a threefold cord, the Preacher tells us, is not quickly broken (Ec 4.12). His denial of Jesus came from fear of a couple of servant girls (Mt 26.69-71). Crashing down, indeed; “he went out,” Matthew tells us, “and wept bitterly” (Mt 26.75).

A hard lesson in the high priest’s palace.

But the Lord has plans for Peter. After the resurrection the angel at the tomb makes special mention of Peter to the women: “Go your way, tell his disciples—and Peter—that he’s going before you into Galilee” (Mk 16.7). And in Galilee, while several of the disciples are fishing on the lake, the resurrected Jesus invites them to come join him for breakfast on the beach (Jn 21.12). After they eat, he invites Peter, and apparently only Peter (Jn 21.20), to go for a walk on the beach. In a tender conversation, he gently reminds Peter of his threefold failure of love (Jn 21.15-17), each time calling his failed disciple to return to service: “Feed my sheep.” And with a stronger threefold cord, not breakable at all, he binds up Peter’s spiritual wounds.

And then he tells him the greatest news of all: Peter is going to serve Jesus until the day he dies (Jn 21.18-19).

And he does. That service lasts a long time, more than three decades according to well-attested tradition. He stays in Jerusalem for some time, during which he faces down the Sanhedrin, as we’ve noted already (Ac 4.8ff); he miraculously establishes order in the Jerusalem church by exposing a lie (Ac 5.1-9); he exposes a false convert in Samaria, while also serving as the vehicle by which the Holy Spirit is given to the Samaritans (Ac 8.14-25); he raises a saint from the dead at Lydda (Ac 9.32-43); he brings the gospel to the first Gentile to believe (Ac 10.44-48); he survives an attempted execution (Ac 12.1-16); and he helps lay a solid foundation for the unification of Jews and Gentiles in the body of Christ by his biblical and theological contribution at the Council of Jerusalem (Ac 15.7ff). According to tradition, he helps start the church at Rome and ministers there.[1]

And later yet, after long service, he writes two letters to believers in what is today Turkey, to encourage them during persecution and to urge them to be faithful until the return of Christ.

In those letters, he leaves a written record of what he learned in the high priest’s palace.

For a few posts we’ll look at just a portion of one of those letters.

[1] Irenaeus (Against Heresies 3.1.1, 3.3.2, and 3.3.3), as well as several citations in Eusebius’s Church History, report this, along with others.

Part 2: Growth | Part 3: Sacrifice | Part 4: Praise | Part 5: Witness

Photo by Joshua Earle on Unsplash

On God As Lord, Part 3

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Part 1 | Part 2

Peter has argued that God is Lord in multiple arenas. He’s Lord over the course of history, including over those who consider themselves his enemies. More than that he takes the evil acts of his enemies and incorporates them into his purpose and plan; the assassination of the Christ was, after all, the most evil act in history, and not only does it not frustrate God’s plan, but it is at the very center of it; God’s redemption of his fallen image in humans cannot proceed without it. He’s also Lord over death, our greatest enemy; Jesus dies—in fulfillment of God’s plan—but is almost immediately, over a weekend, brought back to life, never to die again. And along the way God has demonstrated that he’s Lord over all the cosmos in that he is not bound by the natural laws that he himself created. He can do miracles, and he can even delegate miraculous powers to others. His Son does miracles at will, and he—the Son—delegates those miraculous powers even further, to twelve ordinary men.

This is lordship writ large.

But Peter’s sermon is nowhere near done.

Raising his Son from the dead, it turns out, is only just the beginning of the Lord’s elevating his Son. He gives the Son all authority on earth—Jesus claims that in Matthew 28.18—and extends that delegated authority to the heavens as well—same verse—and then makes that delegation visible by taking the resurrected Son in the clouds, before a group of reliable witnesses, all the way to heaven itself, to the right hand—the authoritative hand—of the Father, where he sits down in his presence (Ac 2.33-34). The images of authority are just piled one upon another.

The Father has more to demonstrate. He gives to his Son another promise, the Holy Spirit—himself a member of the Godhead—and authorizes the Son to pour him out on his followers, with visible evidences that are themselves miraculous: hovering flames over each head, and the ability to speak clearly and fluently obscure tribal languages that they have never spoken or learned (Ac 2.33).

And the Father makes the Son another promise. “I will make your enemies,” he says, “your footstool” (Ac 2.35). He has already demonstrated their defeat by frustrating their purposes in killing the Son, and in raising him from the dead. But frustration is not utter defeat, and the Father is not going to stop halfway. He will prostrate Christ’s enemies visibly and physically before him, under his feet. And while Peter doesn’t include the end of that story, we know from his fellow apostle John that those enemies will be finally and irrevocably judged and sent forever to the lake of fire (Re 20.14-15).

Peter sums up the Father’s delegation of lordship to the Son with a direct statement: “God has made him both Lord and Christ” (Ac 2.36). Only a Lord can make someone else one.

It’s interesting that Peter uses the word “Lord” 5 times earlier in this sermon (Ac 2.20, 21, 25, 34 [2x]), and in 4 of the 5 times he’s quoting or alluding to an Old Testament passage that refers to Yahweh, the personal name of God. So when he says immediately later (Ac 2.36) that the Father has made the Son “Lord,” does he have that specific meaning in mind?

Maybe, maybe not. But calling Jesus “Yahweh” would be consistent with numerous passages throughout the New Testament.

Peter closes his sermon by answering the question of his hearers: “What shall we do?” (Ac 2.37). His answer is simple:

  • Repent. Turn in discontent from your old life. Reject it.
  • Believe. Trust in Christ, the Lord: the effectiveness of his payment for your sins, and the goodness of his will for you.
  • Be baptized. Publicly profess what has happened in your thinking, believing, and doing.

What a privilege it is to serve such a Lord! What confidence and joy such service brings!

I have lived—imperfectly—under his care and direction for more than 60 years. By his grace, I will live with that confidence and joy for the rest of my days. That is my testimony.

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