Now I would remind you, brothers, of the gospel I preached to you,
which you received, in which you stand, and by which you are being saved, if
you hold fast to the word I preached to you — unless you believed in vain. For
I delivered to you as of first importance what I also received: that Christ
died for our sins in accordance with the Scriptures, that he was buried, that
he was raised on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures . . . . (1
Corinthians 15:1–4)
The word gospel
simply means “good news.” The central message of the Bible is the gospel, or
good news, about the person and work of Jesus Christ. In his letter to the
church in Corinth, Paul provided them with a very succinct summary of the
gospel: the man Jesus is also God, or Christ, and died on a cross in our place,
paying the penalty for our sins; three days later he rose to conquer sin and
death and give the gift of salvation to all who believe in him alone for
eternal life. I wish I could be that brief.
The great
reformer, Martin Luther, rightly said that, as sinners, we are prone to pursue
a relationship with God in one of two ways. The first is through religion/spirituality,
and the second is by way of the gospel. The two are polar opposites. Religion
says that if we obey God He will love us. The gospel says that it’s because God
loved us through Jesus that we can obey. Religion says that the world is filled
with good people and bad people. The gospel says that the world is filled with
bad people who are either repentant or unrepentant. Religion says that you
should trust in what you do as a good moral person. The gospel says that you
should trust in the sinless life of Jesus because He alone is the only good and
truly moral person who will ever live.
The goal of
religion is to get from God things like health, wealth, insight, power and
control. The goal of the gospel is not the gifts God gives, but rather God – as
the gift – given to us by his grace. Religion is about what I have to do. The
gospel is about what I get to do. Religion sees hardship in life as punishment
from God. The gospel sees hardship in life as sanctifying affliction that
reminds us of Jesus’ sufferings, and is used by God, in love, to make us more
like Jesus. Religion is about me. The gospel is about Jesus. Religion leads to
an uncertainty about my standing before God because I never know if I have done
enough to please God. The gospel leads to a certainty about my standing before
God because of the finished work of Jesus on my behalf on the cross. Religion ends
in either pride (because I think I’m better than other people), or despair
(because I’m constantly falling short of God’s commands). The gospel ends in
humble and confident joy because of the power of Jesus at work for me, in me,
through me, and sometimes … in spite of me.
“You mean to
tell me God became a baby … The one asking the question was clearly puzzled.
His thick eyebrows were furrowed in doubt and incredulity; his eyes were squinted
in caution, but bordering on bemusement. Though there were plenty of places to
sit, he preferred to stand. Apparently, he wanted to stay safely behind the
crowd, unsure, yet intrigued by what he was hearing. Throughout the lecture he
listened intently, occasionally uncrossing his arms to stroke his chin. Now,
however, he stood upright, punching the air with his finger as he queried.
… And that he
was born in a sheep stable?” Truth is, he looked as though he’d just walked
in from a sheep stall himself, and sounded as if he honestly didn’t know if the
story he was hearing was just an urban legend, or the gospel truth. “Yes, that’s what I mean to say,” the
lecturer responded. “And then, after becoming a baby he was raised in a
blue-collar home? He never wrote any books or held any offices, yet he called
himself the Son of God?” “That’s right.”
The lecturer being questioned was Landon Saunders, the voice of the
Heartbeat Radio program. Nobody can tell the story of Jesus like Landon. “He
never traveled outside of his own country, never studied at a university, never
lived in a palace, and yet asked to be regarded as the creator of the
universe?” “That’s correct.” The
dialogue was a bit unnerving.
“And this
crucifixion story. . . he was betrayed by his own people? No followers came to
his defense? And then he was executed like a common junkyard thief?” “That’s the gist of it.” The
authenticity of the questioner didn’t allow you to regard him as a cynic, or
dismiss him as a show-off, or a whacko. To the contrary, he seemed a little nervous
about commanding such attention, and his awkwardness betrayed his inexperience at
public speaking. But his desire to know was just a little heavier than his
discomfort. So, he continued. “And after the killing he was buried in a
borrowed grave?” “Yes, he had no
grave of his own, nor money with which to purchase one.”
The honesty of
the dialogue was spellbinding. It was one of those rare events where two people
were willing to question the holy; two men standing on opposite sides of a deep
chasm, one asking the other if the bridge that stretched between them could
actually be trusted. And then there was a hint of emotion in the questioner’s voice
as he carefully worded his next query: “And according to what’s written,
after three days in the grave he was resurrected and made appearances to over
five hundred people?” “Yes.” “And all
this was to prove that God still loves his people and provides a way for us to
return to him?” “Right.” “Doesn’t
that all sound rather. . .” He paused a second, searching for the
right adjective. “Doesn’t that all sound rather … absurd?”
Christianity . .
. absurd? Jesus on a cross . . . absurd? The Incarnation . . . absurd? The
Resurrection . . . absurd? That’d be like taking my Sunday school Jesus down
from the flannel board. I mean, wouldn’t we rather tell that guy how it made
sense? You know, diagram the dispensations; present fulfilled prophecies; explain
the fulfillment of the Old Law. That’s right. Covenant. Reconciliation.
Redemption. Sure it makes sense. Don’t describe God’s actions as absurd! Are
you kidding me? What God
did absolutely makes sense. It makes sense that Jesus would be our sacrifice
because a sacrifice was needed to justify man’s presence before God. It makes
sense that God would use the Old Law to tutor Israel on their need for grace.
It makes sense that Jesus would be our High Priest. What God did makes sense. It can be taught, it can be charted and it
can be put in books on systematic theology. But why? Okay, now that’s absurd.
Because when you
leave the method and examine the motive, the carefully stacked blocks of religious
logic begin to tumble. That type of love isn’t logical; it can’t be neatly
outlined in a sermon, or explained in a paper. Think about it for a minute. For
thousands of years, using his wit and charm, man had tried to be friends with
God. And for thousands of years he’d let God down more than he’d lifted him up.
He’d done the very thing he promised he’d never do. It was a fiasco. Even the
holiest of the heroes sometimes forgot whose side they were on. Frankly, some
of the scenarios in the Bible sound more like the adventures of Sinbad than
stories for vacation Bible school.
For instance, Aaron.
Right-hand man to Moses. Witness of the plagues. Member of the “Red Sea
Riverbed Expedition.” Holy priest of God. But if he was so saintly, what was he
doing leading the Israelites in fireside aerobics in front of the golden calf?
Or, how about the sons of Jacob. The fathers of the tribes of Israel.
Great-grandsons of Abraham. But if they were so special, why were they gagging
their younger brother and sending him to Egypt? And then there’s David. The man
after God’s own heart. The King’s king. The giant-slayer and songwriter. He’s
also the guy whose glasses got steamy as a result of a bath on a roof.
Unfortunately, the water wasn’t his, and neither was the woman he was ogling.
And the other womanizer? Samson? Yeah, he was swooning on Delilah’s couch,
drunk on perfume, soft music and softer lights. He’s thinking, “She’s putting on something more comfortable,”
and she’s thinking, “I know I
put those scissors in here somewhere.”
Adam adorned in
fig leaves with stains of forbidden fruit. Moses throwing both a staff and a
temper tantrum. King Saul looking into a crystal ball for the will of God. Noah,
drunk and naked in his own tent. These are the chosen ones of God? This is the
royal lineage of the King? These are the ones who were to carry out God’s
mission? It’s easy to see the absurdity. I mean, why didn’t God just give up?
Why didn’t he just let the globe spin off its axis into oblivion? But even
after generations of people had spit in his face, he still loved them. After a
nation of chosen ones had stripped him naked and ripped his flesh with whips,
he still died for them. And even today, after billions have chosen to
prostitute themselves before the pimps of power, or fame, or wealth, he still
waits for them. It’s completely inexplicable. It doesn’t have a shred of logic
or a thread of rationality. And yet, it’s that very irrationality that gives
the gospel its greatest defense: only God could love like that.
Sometimes, we
just don’t see him, do we? Maybe it’s because we’re expecting someone in a
flowing frock with silky-white hands. But Jesus is the lion of Judah, walking out
from the dense forest of theology and ritual to lie down in a brief clearing.
In his paw – a wound – and in his mane – stains of blood. But there’s a royalty
about him that silenced even the breeze in the trees. Bloodstained royalty. A
God with tears. A creator with a heart. God became earth’s mockery to save his
children. How absurd to think that such nobility would go to such poverty to
share a priceless treasure with such thankless souls. But he did. I guess the
only thing more absurd than the gift is our willful stubbornness to receive it.
Grace,
Randy
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