Anselm's Cur Deus Homo

I'm going to interrupt my series on N. T. Wright's Surprise By Hope to post a lecture I prepared and delivered this week in an introductory course in Systematic Theology at PTS. I'll return to the fifth and final installment of my series on Wright next week, which will address the pastoral implications of his argument, specifically as it relates to funeral practice. But this week, enjoy a taste of Anselm.

Text: Romans 5.6-11
[6] For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. [7] Indeed, rarely will anyone die for a righteous person--though perhaps for a good person someone might actually dare to die. [8] But God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us. [9] Much more surely then, now that we have been justified by his blood, will we be saved through him from the wrath of God. [10] For if while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of his Son, much more surely, having been reconciled, will we be saved by his life. [11] But more than that, we even boast in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received reconciliation.

Prayer:
Most merciful and just God, we praise you for being a God of mercy and thank you for showing your mercy to us even while we were still sinners. In your son Jesus Christ you have shown your love for us, saving us from the threat of wrath and reconciling us to you as your dearly loved children. Through his death we have been reconciled and through his life we will be saved. Lord, teach us this hour to boast in you and you alone. Teach us through your son's example to act justly and to love mercy and walk humbly with you. Equip us with knowledge and wisdom so that we may speak your word of reconciliation and do your work of reconciliation. We eagerly anticipate what you will teach us as we converse with your servant Anselm, relying on your Spirit to guide us into all truth. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Amen.

When I was 11 years old, I drove my mom's Honda Accord through our garage door. A few months earlier my dad had taught me how to start a car, and so my folks would let me start it when I was waiting for them in the morning before school or after church while they talked to their friends. The car needed to warm up, especially during the winter. You'd start it and it would be all revved up for a few minutes and then eventual drop to a normal idle. So I thought I was really helping out by starting it, even though I suspect they were just trying to get me off their backs. One morning I thought I would help my mom out even more by putting the car in gear. Needless to say, I had no idea a car in reverse would just go without pressing the gas, but it did. And unfortunately this particular morning I apparently forgot to open the garage door, and so the neighors saw a 4-door maroon sedan crash through our garage door that morning, eventually coming to a screaching halt in the middle of the road.

Now the crash woke my father, who ran out terrified. That was his first response: fear. But fear quickly turned to a combination of disbelief and anger that I had done such a thing. There was no immediate consequence, other than showing up a little late to school. But eventually my father approached me with a plan: I would work so many hours of new duties and projects around the house to help pay for the new garage door. The amount of hours seemed astronomical to me, an impression I imprudently shared with my parents. They explained to me that my hours of work did not come close to paying for the new door. In fact, they did the math and showed me I was theoretically getting paid $60 per hour. My folks had required a justifiable payment from me which I could not pay in full, and so they found a way for me to learn a lesson about responsibility and restitution even while they foot the bill.

This is my story. But you all have stories like these. Stories of the strange interplay of justice and mercy. And many of you have heard these stories in sermons as a way of illustrating the saving significance of Jesus's death. These stories of justice and mercy highlight a certain line of soteriological thinking, embedded in refrains such as "Jesus died for your sins," "Jesus took my sins away," "Jesus was punished in our place," and "Jesus paid it all."

Our task today is twofold. First, I want to show you where this line of thinking comes from. Out of respect for Anselm, we must acknowledge this deep influence he has had on Western Christian soteriology even today. And out of respect for other streams and movements within Christianity, we must acknowledge that this is not the only way of thinking about salvation in Christ, but rather a particular formulation with its own particular genesis and development.

Second, I want you to see that much of what passes for a representation of this line of thinking today is a distortion of a rich tradition, even as we learn to acknowledge the problems inherent in this tradition. Earlier this week, my brother-in-law saw me reading Anselm on the shuttle. He asked me what my take on Anselm was. I said, "He's not as bad as everyone says he is, but there certainly are some problems." My hope is that those of you who have acquired a prejudice against Anselm and all he represents will begin to respect and even enjoy him, while those of you who consider yourselves champions of Anselmic soteriology will take pause and engage in some self-criticism.

To achieve these ends, let's engage in an analysis of Anselm's Cur Deus Homo, deploying the skills you have been honing in your weekly papers. In order to get a sense of the big picture, I'll organize my analytical commentary today around a narrative analysis of the text. Instead of just walking you through this rather long text, I have asked, "What story is Anselm telling us?" This is a good question to ask, provided one's reconstruction of the narrative is and remains rooted in the text itself and that one's reconstruction does not over-determine the interpretation of the text. With this big picture narrative in front of us, we will be able to engage in a conceptual analysis of selected passages along the way. Also, and especially in our discussion of the later stages of the story, we will seek to open ourselves up to be formed spiritually by the text. We'll do this by means of a rhetorical analysis, asking: "What is Anselm trying to do to us?" So, we begin with a narrative analysis to provide an overall structure within which we will also engage in conceptual and rhetorical modes of analysis. The pay off for employing these modes of analysis in tandem with each other is not only a deeper understanding of the text but also a deeper understanding of the God of whom the text speaks. Specifically, the honor of God, the justice and mercy of God, and the beauty of God will all come to the fore at key intervals within our commentary. So, without further ado, let's get into it.

In order to get a bird's eye view, let's transpose Anselm's argument into a story. Three basic elements of a story are character, setting and plot.
Who are the characters in Anselm's story?
• God.
• Angels, both good and bad (fallen).
• The Devil, chief among the fallen angels.
• Humans.
• Christ, the God-human.

Where does the story take place?
• Heaven, God's created abode where Christ and the Angels come from and where humans are destined to enjoy eternal happiness
• Earth, where both the fall and the incarnation take place.

What is the plot? Here we need to take a little more time. Remember Freytag's five stages of drama from high school English lit? Exposition, Rising Action, Climax, Falling Action, Denouement. Let's use those stages to get a skeleton of the story before us, and then walk through each of stage in order to engage in a closer analysis.

1. Exposition: Humans are created for immortal happiness.
2. Rising Action: Humans fail to give honor to God but can’t repay it.
3. Climax: Christ, the God-human, dies to pay humanity's debt.
4. Falling Action: Christ gives his reward to humans, who imitate him in humble obedience.
5. Denouement: Humans enter the heavenly city, restoring order to the cosmos and enjoying divine blessedness forever.

Okay, with that in front of us, let's go through the story step-by-step, stopping along the way to assess the coherence of the narrative, clarify the concepts of the argument, and open ourselves up to the formative influence of the God of whom Anselm speaks.

1. Exposition: Humans are created for immortal happiness.

In the opening scenes of a dramatic narrative, the characters are introduced. God populates heaven and earth with angels and humans in proper proportion and harmony with each other and God. God as creator deserves the honor of his creatures, expressed through absolute obedience to his will. Such honor and obedience is not demanded arbitrarily, but precisely as the means to human happiness (II.1). Humans are destined for immortality, but their immortality is not guaranteed; they are able to die (I.18). They must persist in choosing the good to achieve true immortality, being not able to die, and so enjoy God's blessedness forever. Note the opening note of beauty, order, and harmony. Following the tradition, the beginning and end rhyme for Anselm. The beauty, order and harmony of the cosmos in relation to God and to itself is the goal that drives the narrative. This is easy to lose track off when we get into the ugliness of sin and atonement (note: the ugliness of the latter is only apparent). This is one of the benefits of narrative analysis: it keeps our mind on the big picture in the context of which we should understand the details, many of which are troubling at first glance and even at second glance. Well, on to those juicy details.

2. Rising Action: Humans fail to give honor to God and cannot repay it.

The exposition concludes with the inciting action: the first humans fall from grace by not giving God his due. The bad angels fall as well, but that's not the main line of the narrative. Although under the devil's influence, humans are culpable for dishonoring God. Now Anselm goes out of his way to say that God's honor cannot in fact be besmirched (I.15), as his honor is a se and immutable [review these terms]. But the revelation of God's honor on the world's stage can be besmirched. And this is not just a problem of appearances, because so dishonoring God wreaks havoc on the created order. And as Anselm repeatedly reminds us, God does not let anything go unregulated in his kingdom (I.12). So God must restore his honor on earth.

How does God restore his honor? Per his custom, Anselm lays out a couple options for rational consideration. Either (a) God can annihilate humans, (b) God can punish humans, or (c) humans can repay the debt of honor owed to God. So: (a) annihilation, (b) punishment, or (c) satisfaction. Now it is not hard to see the influence of Anselm's sociopolitical context here. In the context of medieval feudalism, the vassal owes honor to the lord of the realm. A lord cannot simply overlook a snub or insult from a vassal, because the security of the whole hierarchical system would be undermined. And so the lord would either punish the vassal or the vassal would find a way to make it up to the lord through assorted acts of devotion.

But here is where the analogy breaks down. For, contrary to many of his critics, Anselm does not paint God as a demanding thug consumed with his reputation. Rather, God's concern for his honor is good for us. The restoration of God's honor is the means by which human happiness is restored. This can be seen in the way Anselm sets aside option (a) annihilation. Anselm argues that if God annihilated his creatures then they would have been created to no avail. But God created humans with a purpose: namely, to attain blessed happiness in the vision of God (II.1, II.4). This reasoning is important because it reveals that Anselm is not solely concerned with the restoration of God's honor; he is also deeply concerned with the restoration of humanity to its destined happiness in God. So the divine dilemma is not only self-referential but concerns us and our well-being.

Having set aside the annihilation option, the only remaining options are punishment or satisfaction. Punishment versus satisfaction. That's the basic dilemma that drives the first book of Anselm's Cur Deus Homo. [Note: not penal substitution; cf. Hieb] Since this is a crucial conceptual pair, let's take a closer look at a particular passage. Turn with me to book I, chapter 11.
- question: logic of forgiveness
- sin = not giving God his due (i.e., injustice)
- debt = absolute submission to God's will
- sinner's debt: repay honor ... with interest! (restitution)

That's our problem. But now let's view this problem from God's perspective. Turn the page to the next chapter (I.12):
- divine forgiveness is not by mercy alone
- because of divine righteousness, sin is either punished or satisfied.
- the means of forgiveness must befit God's nature, which is just
So God must either punish or be repaid on account of his justice. Unregulated forgiveness is not an option. Now this may seem strange to your ears because you have heard that God loves you unconditionally. But the language of satisfaction as internal to the process of forgiveness would be familiar to Anselm's readers. The term “satisfaction” in fact comes from the practice of penance. The three acts of the penitent: contrition, confession, satisfaction. The act of the priest as God's representative: absolution. So satisfaction was seen as a natural part of the process of absolution or forgiveness.

But this sacramental background to satisfactionary thinking is not the whole story. For the sacramental system of penance itself rests, at least in Anselm's mind, on the doctrine of God. The reason that satisfaction is internal to forgiveness is because God is a just God. Now Anselm could affirm the grain of truth in the statement that God loves us unconditionally, inasmuch as the just requirements of the law are not imposed on God from without. But Anselm would argue that there are restraints that are internal to God's own nature. What is "necessary" for God is only what befits his consistent character (1.12; II.5). The one God is both merciful and just (I.24; II.20). So, unlike human judges, God need not and cannot choose between mercy and justice when God forgives. Divine forgiveness must be both merciful and just, or it is it not divine forgiveness. One of the ironies of the Anselmic tradition is the tendency to pit God's mercy and justice against one another, when Anselm's whole point is that they go together. There is a divine dilemma, but it's not between mercy and justice, but between punishment and satisfaction. Anselm's point is the God seeks a just means of satisfaction so that we might be shown mercy.

Shifting gears back from a conceptual to a narrative mode of analysis, we can see that this divine dilemma supplies the tension or rising action of the second act of the drama of salvation. The tension rises in Anselm's account by showing the impossibility of humans paying God back for their sin of dishonor (I.19-25). Unlike offences on the creaturely plane, a single act of disobedience to God is of cosmic proportion, on account of God's infinite worth. So nothing we can give God is sufficient to pay the debt we owe. Unless some alternative means of recompense presents itself, the only option left is punishment, which in this case means death and therefore the loss of eternal blessedness. The last portion of Book I is designed to let us hang for a little while in this suspense. Anselm is not only setting up for his argument in Book II, but also getting us to take a serious look at the problem that we have got ourselves into. By what means can we be saved? There seems to be no way out. Punishment awaits us. Who can save us? Enter the God-human, whose action constitutes the climax or turning point of the story.

3. Climax / Turning Point: Christ, the God-human dies to pay humanity's debt.

Look at II.6 with me for a moment: "If, therefore, as is agreed, it is necessary that the heavenly city should have its full complement made up from members of the human race, and this cannot be the case if the recompense of which we have spoken is not paid, which no one can pay except God, and no one ought to pay except man: it is necessary that a God-Man should pay it." Salvation comes through recompense, paying humanity's debt to God. Only a human ought to pay. But on account of the enormity of the debt, only God has the infinite worth at his disposal to pay it. And so the only means of recompense is a mediator who is both God and human.

In Anselm's narrative, the cross is the turning point. He talks a lot about the incarnation, and that's because he is trying to prove that the incarnation is the necessary precondition for the cross. But Christ's ontological constitution is not itself saving, as it was for, say, Gregory of Nyssa. Rather, Christ's ontological constitution makes him to be the kind of person who can save us through his death as a distinct act. [This is the crucial difference between D-soteriologies and A-soteriologies, despite the many motifs (restoration, imitation, etc.) they may share.] How does Christ's death save us? By sharing in our humanity, Christ is able to die. By sharing in God's divinity, Christ is unable to sin and so does not strictly have to die. On account of the infinite worth of this one divine-human person, the giving up of himself in death is a sufficient recompense for any and all dishonor shown to God. In other words, Jesus paid it all.

Now we need to stop here to assess what Anselm has accomplished. First of all, he has presented a masterful argument for the coherence of Chalcedonian Christology with the larger body of Christian thought (cf. I.8; II.7). He has shown that the incarnation is not some sort of oddity attached to the Christian faith, but a logically necessary belief for those who believe everything else Christianity teaches. [FQI] Of course, the irony is that he has turned the doctrinal tradition on its head by arguing from his own idiosyncratic soteriology to the dogmatically secured doctrine of the incarnation. He thereby gives the impression that his soteriology is more dogmatically secure than Chalcedonian Christology, when the reality is opposite. Now I say "impression," because in the context of Anselm's procedure of faith seeking understanding no one doctrine forms the foundation for all the others. Rather, this is a coherence argument. But the impression is nevertheless there. I, for one, find the argument to be both powerful and beautiful, so much so that it lends credence to his soteriology. But we must be careful to not grant it dogmatic status too quickly.

In the process of making this masterful argument, he has made two major shifts in the way the story of redemption is told: one regarding the characters and the other regarding the plot. Regarding the characters, he has found a way to sideline the devil's role in the story. The devil is still there, but his role is significantly diminished. This move is not an accident, but a direct though respectful critique of Augustine. Augustine and other patristic theologians would also say that in the death of Christ God rendered a payment. But they understood this payment as a ransom, with the devil as its recipient. Anselm says No to this whole way of thinking, because it gives the devil too much authority and turns redemption into a gladiator game. Instead, the payment is an act of devotion and obedience, with God as its recipient (I.7; II.19). The positive consequence of this shift is that the mythological cosmic battle with the devil is de-centered so that the moral encounter between God and humanity may take center stage. The negative consequence is that dual protagonists in this story (God and humanity) are at the same time the antagonists, God in terms of his wrath and humanity in terms of its sin. This is one of those points where the tradition flowing from Anselm becomes so easily distorted, painting God as a bloodthirsty tyrant who thinks being human is a capital crime. I believe these distortions can be overcome, but it requires considerable care and constructive energy.

Regarding the plot, by making the cross (as a distinct act apart from the incarnation) the climax of the story, Anselm managed to forget the resurrection. Now observing what is missing is always a tricky endeavor. I've encouraged my preceptees to beware of arguments from silence. Why? Because Cur Deus Homo is not the only treatise Anselm wrote, and so he may say much about the resurrection elsewhere (in documents either extant or lost, or in his undocumented preaching and teaching). Furthermore, noting a missing element in a text does not imply that the person does not believe in it, but only that it performs no function in the text at hand. Lastly, an argument from silence places on the one making it a heavy burden of proof to demonstrate that the missing element should be there. With these caveats in place, however, we can justifiably ask: Whatever happened to the resurrection? If atonement is finished on the cross, what is the purpose of the resurrection? Now many answers have been provided to this question throughout the development of second millennium Western Christian theology. But the fact that it even needs to be asked shows that Anselmic soteriology can be fully formulated without reference to the resurrection. I, for one, consider this a problem. [And in the interest of full disclosure, my dissertation research is focused on the doctrine of resurrection in conversation with the modern Anselm, Karl Barth].

Okay, enough assessment. Back to the story.

4. Falling Action: Christ gives his reward to humans, who imitate him in humble obedience.

Although Anselm does not spend much time explicitly addressing the here and now appropriation of salvation, he does directly address the effects of the climactic action of Christ in terms of reward and imitation in book II, chapter 19. Here's a revealing quote: "On whom is it more appropriate to bestow the reward and recompense for his death than on those for whose salvation, as the logic of truth teaches us, he made himself a man, and for whom, as we have said, he set an example, by his death, of dying for the sake of righteousness? For they will be imitators of him in vain, if they are not to be sharers in his reward" (II.19). Since Christ's life is of infinite worth, he not only can give up his life to God the father as a recompense on our behalf but also is in no need of a reward from God the father for this great act of self-sacrifice. And so the reward of eternal blessedness, which Christ deserves but does not need, is shared with his human brothers and sisters. But with which of his many brothers and sisters is this reward shared? Well, obviously those who are like him, those who imitate him in his love for justice.

Cast in the light of this concluding call to imitate Christ, the whole of Cur Deus Homo can be read as a description of divine pedagogy: the life and death of the God-human teaches us how to live. Why did God become human? The answer is not only "to die for our sins," but also "to teach us how to live." In Christ God has taught us to be merciful in our execution of justice and just in our acts of mercy. In Christ God has taught us to obey him in all things whatever the circumstance. In Christ God has taught us to live righteously not for the sake of reward but out of sheer love for God. In Christ God has taught us to give of our own self for others. Now all the proper caveats need to be introduced here: we are not God, and so we cannot punish sinners justly, demand infinite restitution for dishonor, subsist in two natures, die for the sins of the world, or give and receive honor within a communion of three persons in one being. [Note: response to 'divine child abuse' line of criticism]. Anselm introduces such caveats from time to time (e.g., I.12). But the caveats are not the point. The point is that in Christ God has introduced us to his character and calls us to "Be imitators of God, therefore, as dearly loved children and live a life of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God (Eph 5:1-2). May it be so with us.

5. Denouement: Humans enter the heavenly city, restoring order to the cosmos and enjoying divine blessedness forever.

In the final stage of a comedic drama, we find the protagonist in a situation as good as, if not better than, where they started. Humans are in a sense restored, but not in the sense of a do-over (and so with the potential of falling again) but in the sense of finally reaching the destiny for which God created them. What is this destiny? To be forever happy in the enjoyment of God. It is impossible for a sinner to enter into happiness, both because of the affront to God's honor within the created order and because the debt owed to God would spoil the enjoyment of God. So the recompense paid by the God-human is the means by which this barrier is removed. But salvation is completed not in the removal of the barrier but in arriving at the goal.

Having come to the end of the plot, you can see how the "death of Christ" and "going to heaven" are so closely tied in contemporary preaching and evangelism. But the reduction of salvation to these two foci is a distortion of Anselm's intentions, even if he left the door wide open to it. Anselm understands the salvation of humanity as instrumental to God's restoration of the cosmos. He makes this point by means of his claim that the number of restored humans makes up for the number of the fallen angels. The excursus on angels (I.16-18) is not irrelevant to his soteriology, and the conclusions of that section reappear at crucial moments (e.g., II.6). In sending Christ to atone for our sins, God is restoring order to the universe. So the restoration motif provides the context for Anselm's atonement-driven soteriology. Losing sight of this will inevitably lead to a reductionistic "die and go to heaven" understanding of salvation.

As we come to the end of the story, we see that it rhymes with the beginning. The original beauty, order and harmony of the cosmos are restored. With this goal in mind, everything else takes on a different hue. The work of God in Christ is the rational and just means by which the wise God skillfully orchestrates the masterpiece of his creation. The human works of humble obedience bring us into harmony with Christ as his imitators and into harmony with God's good creation. By our little acts of submission to God we are "maintaining the beauty of the universe" (I.15). And even the work of theology because an aesthetic exercise. As Anselm explains in the opening lines of this treatise, Christians seek to perceive the logical coherence of Christian doctrines, the "utility and beauty of its logic," "in order that they may take delight in the understanding and contemplation of the things which they believe" (I.1). This aesthetic appreciation for Christian doctrine is not only enjoyable in itself but also useful for training us to be "ready always to give satisfaction to all who ask the reason for the hope that is in us [I Pet 3:15]" (I.1). May our time spent wrestling with Anselm today help you to catch a glimpse of the beauty and utility of theology.

Any thoughts?

Bibliography

Aulen, Gustaf. Christus Victor: An Historical Study of the Three Main Types of the Idea of the Atonement. New York: Macmillan, 1969.

Balthasar, Hans Urs von. Theo-Drama. Vol. IV. Ignatius Press, 1994. Cf. ch. 3, esp. pp. 255-261.

Browning, Don S. Atonement and Psychotherapy. Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1966. Cf. ch. 3.

Charry, Ellen. By the Renewing of Your Minds. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997. Cf. ch. 7, esp. 168-172.

Eckardt, Burnell F. Anselm and Luther on the Atonement: Was it "Necessary"? San Francisco: Mellen Research University Press, 1992.

Fortin, John R., ed., Saint Anselm: His Origins and Influence. Lewiston, N.Y. : E. Mellen Press, 2001. Cf. esp. chs. 1, 4, 6.

Heyer, George S. "St. Anselm on the Harmony Between God's Mercy and God's Justice," in The Heritage of Christian Thought, eds. R. E. Cushman and E. Grislis. New York: Harper & Row. Pp. 31-40.

Murphy, Jeffrie G. and Hampton, Jean. Forgiveness and Mercy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988.

Steindl, Helmut. Genugtuung: Biblisches Versöhnungsdenken, eine Quelle für Anselms Stisfaktionstheorie? Freiburg, Switzerland: Universitätsverlag, 1989. An English-language book review by Colin Gunton can be found in Journal of Theological Studies 43:1 (Apr 1992), pp. 283-286.

Williams, George Huntston. Anselm: Communion and Atonement. Saint Louis, MO: Concordia, 1960.

The Seven Words from the Cross, Part V - I am thirsty (John 19:28)

We are past halfway done with our series on the seven last words of Jesus (you can click the following links for the first four words, click here: I, II, III, IV). The next two words come from the Gospel of John: "I am thirsty" and "It is finished." They appear close together and are related, but we will following the traditional arrangement by treating them separately.

After this, knowing that all things had already been completed, Jesus, in order to complete the Scripture, said, "I am thirsty." A jar full of sour wine was standing there; so they put a sponge full of the sour wine upon a branch of hyssop and brought it up to His mouth.

- John 19:28-29

Now storytellers have to make selections. They can't just tell every little detail that happened. They have to pick the most salient details. So any story the evangelists bother to tell they probably tell for a reason. Despite our perennial interest in the gory details, they give us very little by way of the physical aspects of Jesus' passion and death. Yet John bothers to mention that Jesus declares his thirst from the cross. He was probably also tired, hungry, short of breath and in agonizing pain. But they don't tell us about this. They do, however, tell us he was thirsty. Or, should I say, he tells us he is thirsty.

Why does John bother to tell us this? What is the significance of Jesus' declaration of his thirst?

Well, it probably won't surprise you that, since we are dealing with John's Gospel, there's probably some subtle (and not-so-subtle) symbolism going on here. The interpretative problem here is not so much whether there is a symbolic gesture here but which symbolic gesture is the key to understanding the passage. There are a number of possible symbolic connections to other Johannine themes and Old Testament motifs. Perhaps all of these are operating at some level. However, some prioritizing judgments probably need to be made to interpret the passage coherently. Let me just note some of the symbolic possibilities of some key elements of the passage for you to consider in your own wrestling with the text.

First of all, there is the rather obvious reference to Jesus doing this so that the Scriptures being fulfilled (technically "completed," but more on that next week). But what Scripture is fulfilled by Jesus saying he is thirsty? He does not appear to be directly quoting any specific verse.

There are two standard options given by interpreters. The first is that there is a reference being made here to Psalm 69:22, "for my thirst they gave to me vinegar to drink." That gets the language of "thirst" in play as well as the reference to "vinegar," which is what Jesus drinks. The second is that the dry mouth of Psalm 22:16 is being echoed here. Given the detail, the former is probably more likely. But the latter cannot be ruled given the significance of Psalm 22 throughout the passion narratives of all four Gospels and early Christian preaching. Perhaps John is playing off both. Whatever Scripture is being alluded to here, the point is that the mode of Jesus' death is a fulfillment of Scripture. That means it is not an accident. Jesus didn't just have a bad weekend in Jerusalem. Nor was it even a bad thing which God later made into something good, as we so often speak of evils in our lives. Rather, Jesus was knowingly and willingly fulfilling the plan of God in his death.

Second, there is the opening line that Jesus says this knowing that everything had been completed. Now this taps into a larger theme in John concerning Jesus' knowledge of his mission. The last events of his life are introduced by a similar reference to Jesus knowing that the time had come for him to leave this world and go to the Father (13:1). Later, Jesus is said to know all the things that were about to happen to him as he initiates the arrest sequence (18:4). Earlier in the gospel of John there is much talk of Jesus' knowledge of the Father and of the Father's will for him. This theme reaches its apex here, were Jesus is said to know that the things which he was sent to do have taken place. They are completed.

Noting this thematic connection is important because it seems to imply that Jesus says he is thirsty in order to "wrap things up" so to speak. The declaration of his thirst is not intended as window into his experience on the cross, but rather as a witness to his own freedom and purposiveness. Jesus is Lord even in his death. Regnum crucis: he reigns from the cross. "I lay down my life ... no one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down" (10:17b-18a).

Third, there is what he is given to drink in response to his thirst. The vinegar bit seems clearly linked to the Scriptural fulfillment, and it is shared with some other gospel writers. But John makes a major change from the synoptics by indicating that the vinegar was not given to Jesus via a "reed" but on a "branch of hyssop." This change should catch our attention. The possibility of a symbolic connection here is hard to miss, for hyssop appears throughout the Old Testament, most significantly in Exodus 12:22 in conjunction with the Passover Lamb. Now we don't want to make a theological mountain out of a textual molehill, but this symbolic reading is validated by the repeated references to the Passover Lamb through the book of John (cf. 1:29; 19:14; 19:33, 36). So it is reasonable to suggest that John is narratively presenting Jesus as the true Passover Lamb, even as he has been presented as the true King and true Priest earlier in the passion narrative.

Fourth and finally, there is the significance of thirst itself. John loves to talk about thirsting, drinking, pouring, etc. It is a very liquid gospel. And not just passing references to water baptism and changing water into wine, but whole discourses playing off thirsting and drinking, such as Jesus' conversation with the Samaritan woman (John 4), the streams of living water that flow from those that come to him (John 7:37-38), and the cup which Jesus is resolved to drink (18:11). Thirsting and drinking are intimately connected with what Jesus was sent to give to us and give up for us. He thirsts as the one who gives us drink. He takes our bitter cup (and takes it away!), and gives us his fresh, living waters, which flow from his side. Blessed is he who hungers and thirsts for righteousness, for he shall be filled.

Any thoughts?
Are there some interpretative possibilities that I have neglected to mention?
Do you find some of these interpretative possibilities more plausible than the others?
Is there any one aspect mentioned above that you think is the key for understanding this word from the cross?
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The Seven Words from the Cross, Part II - Today you will be with me in paradise

Last week we introduced our Lenten series on the Seven Words from the Cross. The second word in the tradition also comes from Luke. Let's look at this word in context:

39One of the criminals who hung there hurled insults at him: "Aren't you the Christ? Save yourself and us!" 40But the other criminal rebuked him. "Don't you fear God," he said, "since you are under the same sentence? 41We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong." 42Then he said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.[a]" 43Jesus answered him, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise."

Here's a few thoughts that come to mind when I read this passage.

(1) Solidarity

The first thing that stands out to me is that Jesus is found here hanging between two criminals, or "wrongdoers." In Mark and Matthew, they are referred to as "bandits." We are not just talking about "thieves," as it is typically put, which might be romanticized ala Robin Hood. No, these are violent criminals. They had to make enough trouble to get the attention of the Roman officials and their "make-an-example-out-of-you" form of punishment, crucifixion. Remembering this makes it all the more striking that Jesus is found with them. He has submitted himself to association with criminals. Of course, we've seen this trajectory all along in Jesus' life, as he eat with tax collectors and sinners and welcomes prostitutes into other people's homes. At here at the culmination of his mission he is found alongside the worst of the worst. He is in solidarity with sinners. The point for us as we reflect on the cross is to be reminded for whom Christ died. He came to seek and save the lost. Are there those whom we've deemed beyond the pale? Are we willing to see ourselves as truly lost and in need of redemption?

(2) Innocence

The second thing that jumps out at me is that the content of the other criminal's confession. He does not say anything about Jesus' identity as the Son of God. He does not discuss Jesus' Messianic status or his ability to save them from their predicament. He merely indicates Jesus' innocence. They, he admits, deserve their punishment. But he does not. He is innocent. He has does nothing wrong. He is punished unjustly, for he is just. This fits Luke's way of telling the story of Jesus, for upon Jesus' death the Roman centurion does not say "surely this was the son of God" as he does in Matthew and Mark, but rather says "surely this man was righteous." And throughout Luke-Acts emphasis is laid on the uprightness of Jesus and his followers by both Jewish and Gentile standards. Apparently it is important that Jesus is righteous, and the criminal is a witness to Jesus' righteousness. Unlike the sinners with whom he is found, Jesus is innocent.

(3) Solidarity + Innocence = Promise

When you add together the first two observations, you get the good news of the gospel: that he who knew no sin came among sinners for us that we might be called the righteousness of God. The one truly righteous one became the one true sinner, so that sinners might be made righteous. And so Jesus can turn and speak this promise to the criminal, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise." The innocent one is with us sinners so that we sinners may be with him in the innocence of paradise. Sinners may come to him because he first came to them. His solidarity with us and his innocence for us are the ground of his promise to us.

Any thoughts?
- Does this line of reflection illuminate this word from the cross?
- What function does Luke's emphasis on the righteousness/innocence of Jesus have?
- What thoughts have you had about the criminals alongside Jesus?
- What are some additional observations that would add to, adjust, or go against this line of reflection?
_

The Seven Words from the Cross, Part I - Father, forgive them, for they known not what they do

Lent begins next week on Ash Wednesday. This Lent I am going to do a series of reflections on the so-called seven last words of Jesus. I say "so-called" because they do not in fact appear together in the gospels. Rather, each gospel has its own set of words from the cross. In the context of Good Friday liturgies, however, these words have been collected together. I will follow the traditional ordering in this series because it makes sufficient narrative sense. But since they are a collection of lines from different narratives, we'll need to be careful as we go along to understand each of these statements in their original literary and historical context.

Well, enough throat-clearing, here are some thoughts on the first word:

Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do (Luke 23:34).

Our first word comes from the book of Luke. Interestingly, so does the last word in the traditional ordering. Coming first fits, because Luke places this line at the beginning of Jesus' crucifixion: "When they came to the place called the Skull, there they crucified him, along with the criminals—one on his right, the other on his left. Jesus said, 'Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing'" (Lk 23:33-34a). What is the meaning of this first word of Jesus from the cross? What is its significance for understanding his death?

Father ...

I think it is significant that Jesus' first word from the cross is a word of invocation. He addresses his father in prayer. This places the whole event of the cross as one which takes place before the face of God the father. The cross is first and foremost not about us, but about God. It is about us. We'll get to that. But the reason why this tragic event of history that took place there and then can be an event that took place for us here and now is that is is an event in the life of God. The incarnate son of God died before the face of God the father.

The cross does not only begin in prayer, it also ends in prayer. The last word in the traditional ordering, which also comes from Luke, reads "Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit." Furthermore, the central word in the traditional ordering, which is the only word spoken from the cross in Matthew and Mark, is "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" So, we could say not only that the event of the cross is set in the context of prayer, but also that the event of the cross is an act of prayer. In his death, Jesus addresses God.

So, if the cross of Christ is a prayer, what kind of prayer is it? Well, to answer that question we must return to the content of the first word.

... forgive them ...

Jesus does not ask to be delivered from the cross. He already got his answer to that question in the Garden of Gethsemane. Rather, he asks for forgiveness, not for himself but for those who are crucifying him. When you think about what they were doing to him, it is all the more striking that Jesus asks that they would be forgiven. Jesus asks that his torturers and killers be forgiven. Now that is a true act of mercy.

We might ask ourselves about the scope of the referent of "them." For whom was Jesus asking forgiveness? Was it only for his executioners? Or was Jesus also in some sense asking forgiveness for any and all sinners? Was Jesus praying, "Father, forgive them," on our behalf too? Perhaps. Just raising the question helps to expand how we think of the work of the cross. We often speak of the cross as Christ's vicarious suffering--his suffering on our behalf. And we are right to do so. But we might also speak of the cross as Christ's vicarious repentance--his turning to God and asking for mercy on our behalf. Some have developed whole atonement theories along these lines. I am not necessarily endorsing these views, but I think it is worth thinking through this side of Christ's work on the cross. Another way of putting it is that Christ's priestly office includes both a sacrificial and intercessory aspect. However it is conceptualized, the point is that there is a deep connection between Jesus' prayer, his cross, and our forgiveness.

... for they know not what they do.

I have always found this clause to be odd. Isn't it enough to ask that they be forgiven? Why does it matter than they do not know what they are doing? Is it their ignorance that makes them candidates for forgiveness? Is Jesus assuming a distinction between intentional and non-intentional sin? And is it really true that they do not know what they are doing? Are they accidentally nailing him to the cross? Are they inadvertently lifting him up so that he will suffocate? It seems at first glance that this clause undermines the seriousness of the sin which Jesus is asking his father to forgive.

Of course, they do know they are crucifying Jesus. In that sense, they know what they are doing. So this must mean something else. And, in another sense, we can say that they do not know what they are doing because they do not know the one to whom they are doing it. They know they are crucifying a Jew. But they do not know that they are crucifying King of the Jews. They know they are crucifying a man named Jesus. But they do not know that they are crucifying the Messiah, the Christ. They know they are crucifying a man. But they know not that they are crucifying the very Son of God. And so the Jewish man Jesus, who is the King, the Christ, and the Son of God, pleads to his father to forgive his killers, for they know not who he is and therefore do not know what they are really doing.

Any thoughts?
Is it helpful to thinking of the cross as a prayer?
What is the scope of Christ's word of forgiveness from the cross?
Is Jesus' true identity the "unknown factor" in the final clause, or is there some better explanation?
_

Fuzzy on the Atonement ...

I often receive questions from students and ministers about the atonement. Here's an edited version of one such email:

"I’m still fuzzy on atonement... [especially concerning] how atonement should be communicated to unbelievers... [I recently heard a preacher] go over substitutionary atonement as what we should be sharing with people to get them saved. Then, after his explanation of that, they had folks from [the church] parade up with signs that they would flip over (eg. Side A-sinner/Side B-saved; side a-broken, side b-whole; side a-living for myself, side b-living for God; side a-cancer, side b-healed.) It was really moving. I know that atonement is at least substitutionary in that Jesus does something for us that we can’t do ourselves. [This preacher] was more particularly talking about Jesus taking the punishment from God that we deserved—that God is able to forgive us because of Jesus taking the fall for us on the cross. As I watched, though, I had a hard time seeing the connect between God’s ability to forgive us because of Jesus’ taking our penalty and some of the life changes that were on the cards. And I wonder why God can’t forgive because of his mercy and not need someone to take the penalty... Ok, John. Tell me what to believe ;-)."

Here's how I responded:

Yeah, its kind of inherently fuzzy, so don't feel bad about that. Although I can't tell you what to believe, I can share some thoughts that may be helpful.

The first is to make a distinction between substitution and penal substitution.

Substitution is the genus: the notion that Jesus takes on something of ours and gives us something of his. The fathers called this the "wondrous exchange," and it permeates the pages of the New Testament. Any account of reconciliation that undermines this pattern is inadequate.

Penal substitution is a species of substitutionary thinking, whereby the penal (forensic/judicial) metaphor is the dominant motif for collecting, ordering, and presenting the substitutionary pattern of exchange. Satisfaction (honor) and Sacrificial (blood, covenant) are additional species of substitutionary thinking, each of which may or may not be easily compatible with the penal motif. All of these motifs appear in scripture, and it is a matter of reasoned judgment of how to employ them. See the introduction to my paper "The Priest Sacrificed in Our Place" for some reflections on relating these species of substitutionary thinking.

The practical pay-off of this distinction is that while you search for more adequate, relevant, and/or illuminating motifs to describe the atonement, be careful to keep the logic of substitution in the background and be open to the breadth of metaphorical explanation it permits. If the judicial metaphor doesn't do it for you, that doesn't mean you should drop substitutionary thinking altogether. Regarding the image of the people with the posters, you can see how that expresses a kind of substitution, provided you believe these changes were wrought by Christ and he in some sense bore the negative side (and bore it away!). The logic of substitution is not restricted to what happened "there and then"; it also characterizes what happens "here and now" on the basis of what happened there and then. In more technical terms, substitutionary thinking provides an arc of continuity between the atonement and justification. Both are substitutionary exchanges, one achieved by Christ in his life, death and resurrection, the other worked out in us by the Spirit of Christ in our particular life-histories.

As for the matter of whether God "needs" the cross to forgive, there is much speculation on the matter, but I am inclined to think in terms of what God has done and infer his character from that, rather than than the other way around. In other words, God became man to die and rise for us, so apparently God can do such things. The cross is the manner and mode of establishing his covenant, which in a principled, speculative sense he doesn't "need" to do, but he did do it, so it must be the way. I trust God's judgment on this account. This is probably not a satisfying answer, but I suspect that going down the speculative road of what God must do or what other options he had will be even less satisfying (we have no information on this; we only known what God has done and must reason from there). The common presentation of the atonement as some kind of "bind" or "problem" in which God is caught and solves with the incarnation and cross is misleading at best, and perhaps has pernicious results. I prefer to just narrate what God has done for us and call people to a life of joyfully obedient witness to such a Lord.

Any thoughts?
Are these distinctions and implications helpful?
Do they make the atonement more or less fuzzy?
What additional insights have helped you speak intelligibly of the atonement?
_

Can one really fill up in one's flesh what is still laking in Christ's afflictions? (Col 1:24)

I am spending some time in Paul's Letter to the Colossians this summer. Just this week I came upon that perpetually perplexing verse: "Now I rejoice in what was suffered for you, and I fill up in my flesh what is still lacking in regard to Christ's afflictions, for the sake of his body, which is the church" (Col. 1:24).

For me, this is quite the Bible Brain Buster: a biblical text that becomes puzzling in light of central Christian affirmations. As with all Bible Brain Busters, it may say more about my assumptions that it does about the difficulty of the text itself. But in this case I think my perplexity is warranted.

The counterweight notion that renders this text puzzling is the affirmation that Christ's suffering is sufficient. Has he not died once for all? Is his suffering not perfect, lacking nothing? Certainly I can understand that our suffering for the gospel might participate in Christ's sufferings. But to think of our suffering as a supplement to something lacking in Christ's suffering seems odd to me.

Perhaps I am misunderstanding the sense in which Christ's suffering is sufficient. Perhaps I am misunderstanding the sense in which Paul is filling up what is lacking. Perhaps I am misunderstanding both. Perhaps this is just an unresolvable contradiction.

Any thoughts?
What do you think this text means?
Does it seem odd to you in light of the sufficiency of Christ's suffering?
Should we revise our talk of the sufficiency of Christ in light of this passage?
Should we allow our talk of the sufficiency of Christ to control our interpretation of this passage?
_

Probing the Problem Jesus Solves

As Holy Week creeps closer and closer, I've been thinking about our problems. Not generally observable problems (though those are on my mind), but the deep problem that Jesus deals with in his life, death and resurrection. What is wrong? What is at stake? What makes Jesus' work so important?

I don't want to focus so much on the bad news as much as I want to understand the good news of Jesus Christ which casts light on our problems. A particularly poignant passage in this regard is Romans 5:6-11. What is interesting here is that Paul make three parallel statements indicating what we were when Christ died for us. So, for a moment, I want to zero in on these three different aspects of our problem in order to come to a greater appreciation of Christ's work.

(1) When we were still powerless ... [v. 6]

First of all, we are powerless. We are weak. We lack the power to overcome the death and disease and trials of life. We have fallen short. We are deprived of the best of life. Nobody's perfect. The language of powerlessness reminds us that we need help. We are weak, but God is strong. Lent and Holy Week is as good a time as any to contemplate our weakness in light of God's strength.

This is all true, but our weakness is not the whole story. If our problem is only that we are weak, then Jesus need only help us out, give us a hand. As Paul's language shows, there is more to our problem than our weakness.

(2) While we were still sinners ... [v. 8]

We are not only weak, but we are sinners. We are unrighteous. We are not right. We have broken God's law and so have broken God's heart. Not only are we not perfect, having fallen short; we are also sinners, people who have turned away from God and endangered our relationship with him. The language of sin is important to bring out our culpability in our problem. We are not just faulty; we are lawbreakers. Lent and Holy Week is as good a time as any to contemplate how we have sinned in light of God's righteousness.

This talk of sin certainly deepens our understanding of our problem beyond that of mere weakness. But even the language of unrighteousness is not the whole story. If our problem is reduced to sin, then God need only forgive. God in his everlasting faithfulness can uphold our relationship with him. But, once again, Paul's language reveals that there is even more to our problem than unrighteousness.

(3) When we were God's enemies ... [v. 10]

We are not only weak. We are not only sinners. We are God's enemies. We have not only damaged our relationship with God by breaking his law. We have twisted our relationship into one of enmity. We have not only turned away from God; we have turned against God. We are not just slipping into unintentional sin, or falling short because our of weakness. We are in a state of rebellion. We do not want to live in obedient communion with God. We want to follow our own way. And so we need radical reconciliation, which has been achieved in Jesus Christ. Lent and Holy Week is as good a time as any to contemplate how we have rebelled against God and made ourselves into enemies.

Of course, even the talk of enmity alone would not do. It is the most extreme of the three terms and therefore a helpful corrective to our excuses. But because it is so extreme, it needs to be clarified by the first two terms. We are not enemies of God because God hates us and God is a mean-spirited tyrant. No, the problem is not with God but with us. We have set ourselves up as enemies by our willful disobedience. Our unrighteousness is the content of our enmity. Our powerlessness in the face of death breaks us off from eternal communion with God.

... Christ died for us.

Of course, all this talk of our problems is not an end in itself. In each case, Paul brings up our problem in order to draw attention to the solution. When we were powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. When we were God's enemies, we were reconciled to him through the death of his Son. So, even as we probe our problem, we are drawn to celebrate the solution won in Jesus Christ.

Any thoughts?
Do these three terms help to enrich our account of the human problem?
What aspects are not accounted for by these three terms?
Do we tend to focus on one of these to the exclusion of the others?
Is it appropriate to contemplate our problem in order to appreciate the solution all the more? Is there another way?
_

In what sense did Jesus "have to" die? (Bible Brain Busters)

During this Lenten season I have been struck once again by the repeated refrain throughout the New Testament that Jesus "had to" die. I am thinking specifically of the Gospels' ample use of the term "dei," which is usually translated by the phrase "it was necessary" but sometimes simply "must" or "had to." Whatever we say about Jesus' death, the language of the New Testament seems to preclude any thought that it "just happened." Jesus didn't just have a bad weekend in Jerusalem; Jesus had to die.

This Biblical habit of speech is not only a Brain Buster for those who object to any kind of necessity imposed on seemingly contingent historical events. It is a brain buster for all Christians, inasmuch as Christians proclaim the deity of Jesus Christ. For if (a) Jesus had to do something, and (b) Jesus is God, then (c) God had to do something. No matter what kind of metaphysical baggage you associate with God, the statement that God must do something requires clarification and/or qualification. In other words, if we aim to be coherent in our speaking of the gospel, we must specify to the best of our ability in what sense Jesus had to die?

So, in what sense was Jesus death necessary?

The following alternative answers immediately come to mind:

(1) Dramatic Necessity. The first and most qualified sense in which we could understand the biblical language of necessity is in purely dramatic terms. Jesus had to die just like any other character in a good story had to do the things they do. Good stories have a sort of internal logic to them, where a character is driven in a certain direction so that what happens is exactly what has to happen. Perhaps this is all the Evangelists mean when they say that Jesus had to die. This option has the advantage of avoiding more knotty issues of necessity imposed on God. On the other hand, this may make the language of necessity meaningless, killing it by the death of a thousand qualifications. There certainly is dramatic necessity in the gospels; but is the death of Jesus a mere dramatic necessity?

(2) Absolute Necessity. At the other extreme, we might say that the death of Jesus is an absolute necessity. Just because of who God is and/or how reality is structured, God will end up becoming human and dying for us. God knows that his creation will rebel but creates anyway, thus making himself culpable for its rebellion unless he resolves it, which can only be done by the death of Jesus. Some of our presentations of the gospel give the impression that God is under an absolute necessity to undergo death for our sakes. Now this approach has the advantage of taking the biblical language of necessity in its strongest sense. It also locates God's history for us as a consequence of his very being. But it runs into serious objections. The first is that it seems to impose some kind of external necessity on God: God must do this or that to be God. This is a weak objection because this absolute necessity could flow from the absoluteness of God's very being rather than from without. But it is dangerous water nonetheless. There is another, much stronger objection: that the absolute necessity of the cross undermines its gracious character. If God had to do it, then why should it be perceived and celebrated as a gift? The language of grace risks the death of a thousand qualifications if the language of necessity is taken in an absolute sense.

(3) Conditional Necessity. A common resolution of this problem is to employ the category of conditional necessity. Jesus had to die in the sense that once God had freely decided to create the world and establish a covenant with his people, the fulfillment of God's covenant in the death of Jesus is necessity. If certain conditions are met, this event must happen. This is a nice mediating option and one worth seriously considering. However, one concern needs to be raised: is God really the Lord of his covenant if he is "backed into a corner" in this way? Is there any indication in the New Testament God's covenant requires this sort of solution? It seems just as likely that the covenant was set up precisely as the context in which God would do what he does in Jesus Christ. The logic of conditional necessity is illuminating and I don't want to rule it out. But if adopted, it must be employed delicately so as to avoid the impression that Jesus is an afterthought.

(4) Willed Necessity. An alternative resolution is to see the death of Jesus as a willed necessity: God chooses that this will happen, it does so happen, and so in retrospect we can say it must have happened. One need not argue that God so determines everything that happens in history in order to take this view with regard to Jesus' death. One need only say that in this special case God willed certain events to take place (cf. Acts 4:28). On the basis of God's self-revelation we can infer that God has chosen to become this man Jesus in order to die for us. The question of whether God could have done something else is either left open as unanswerable or banned as an inappropriate question. The advantage here is that the language of necessity is taken in its full weight without imposing anything on God or undermining the gracious character of his actions. Also, the death of Jesus is taken as definitive for our understanding of God, rather than an afterthought of God's character or actions. The problem, however, is that it does not fully satisfy one's curiosity about the nature of this necessity. Could it have been otherwise? Why this way and not some other? These seem to be fair questions, and thoroughgoing answers to them often illuminate the significance of the cross. Perhaps this approach is wise in closing these speculative doors; but I'll have to admit my own desire for a more clear and comprehensive answer.

Any thoughts?
In what sense do you think Jesus "had to" die?
Do these alternatives cover the field of logical options? What's missing?
Are you inclined towards one of these options? Why?
_

Using Biblical Imagery for the Cross

As we celebrate Holy Week and Easter, I have been thinking about the numerous sets of images the Bible employs to describe the work of Christ on the Cross. There is sacrificial language. There is judicial language. There is military language. There is ransom language. For some reason, the Bible does not make it easy for us by simply employing one image set. Rather, we get this collection of images that do not immediately gel together.

The question I have been asking is what to do with all these sets of images. How should we make use of Biblical imagery when presenting the significance of Christ? It seems like we have a few options:

(1) Lowest Common Denominator. One option is to try to ascertain the basic structure of the atonement at the heart of each of these images. Then we can simply present this idea logically without the garnish of images. The potential advantage here is the clarity of presentation. The potential hazard is that something of the richness of Biblical imagery could be lost in the process of boiling down.

(2) Mix-and-Match. Another option is to juggle all the Biblical images. A little ransom here, a little sacrifice there, etc. On the one hand, this method has the strength of sticking closer to the text. It respects the mystery of the cross and the multiplicity of images that it requires. On the other hand, it tends to leave hearers with more questions than answers with regard to their salvation. How do all these images point us to the one work of Christ?

(3) Primary and Secondary. A more bold option is to make a decision to favor one set of images over another. This could be based on the frequency of use, or via a canon-within-a-canon approach, or on the basis of which set of images is the most comprehensive. Some Christian traditions have taken this option, making one set of images dominant, rendering the others as secondary images that cast additional light on the primary image set. The advantage of this approach is that it achieves clarity of presentation without sacrificing Bibilical imagery. The disadvantage is the necessarily problematic move of favoring one set over another, begging the question of justification: why this one and not the other? Also, one might be tempted to interpret the other sets through the lens of the primary set, and therefore run the risk of silencing the unique contribution of these other themes.

(4) Construct New Images. An even more bold option is to take inspiration from these many images and come up with new ones that work better in our context. Judicial and sacrificial language made sense to them. What images make sense to us? The obvious advantage to this approach is that it is more culturally relevant and encourages the creativity of contemporary witness to Jesus Christ. The danger is that the Biblical anchor will be lost, and we may end up talking about something other than the work of Christ.

Any thoughts?
My jury is still out. I would love to hear your thoughts on these options.
Are there any other options I am missing?
Did I describe these options adequately?
Would you lean toward one option over another? Why?

Why Didn't Jesus Just Die Right Away?

If Jesus came to die for our sins, why didn't he just die right away? Why did God not ordain that his son would die under Herod's slaying of the infants? If he was the true incarnation of God in human flesh, why not die as our substitute right off the bat? Certainly he would have already been the spotless sacrifice, for who is more sinless than an innocent child?

Well, we know this is not what happened. It happened that Jesus grew up, called disciples, taught, healed. In other words, he lived before he died. So the biblical history being what it is, I have no interest in challenging its sensibility. But, in order to dive into the sense of the story, we may and even must ask why it happened the way it did. Because there must be some reason why Jesus didn't die for our sins right away.

I would guess that the initial answer to this question is that the time between his birth and death was the time of his teaching. In terms of one classic distinction, Jesus first fulfilled his prophetic office before proceeding to fulfill his priestly office. Certainly there is merit in this retort, especially as it brings to light that Christ came to do more than simply die. However, is this answer really adequate? Can Jesus' teaching and atonement be so separated? Does his life have so little to do with his death? Are his teachings just a "meantime" activity? Such an answer does not do justice to either his life or his death.

A more adequate answer to the question may be found by challenging the assumption beneath the question itself. Could Jesus really have died right away? Is the requisite substitute for our sin only God enfleshed in a sinless human being? Isn't there more to our reconciliation with God than this? Yes! The perfection of Jesus cannot be understood as a static freedom from sin. Rather, the perfection of Jesus is accomplished as a perfecting of our human life extended over history. His whole perfected history stands as a substitute for our failed histories - or, better yet, for the failed history of humanity as a whole. Check out the temptation stories (Mt 4 = Lk 4) in contrast to the Deuteronomy stories which Jesus quotes to catch a glimpse of how Jesus succeeded where we failed.

Thinking about the atonement this way not only answers the question, but avoids splitting Jesus' life and death. For Jesus in his entire history - both life and death - is our substitute. He has re-lived (or "recapitulated") the life that we did not live so that we may live again in him. And Jesus as this perfected one (with his "acquired righteousness" so to speak) has died the death we deserved so that we do not have to die.

Any thoughts?
Does this answer address the concern of the question?
Is the initial answer really as bad as I portrayed it?
How does the resurrection fit in here ... it certainly does - but how?