For this I have been born, and for this I have come into the world.
John 18:37 NASB
Once again Charlie Brown, struggling with a bout of insomnia, was musing in bed. He reported to no one in particular that he sometimes lies awake at night and asks the age-old question, “Why am I here?” Rolling over on his back to stare unconsciously at the ceiling, the melancholy boy then added that at such times the proverbial voice from nowhere responds nonchalantly. “Where do you want to be?” the voice asks.
Why am I here? Where do I want to be in life? What am I seeking to accomplish? We are constantly confronted with crucial questions about our vocation and calling.
Jesus faced questions such as these as well. In fact, Satan’s temptations focused on matters related to his personal identity, vocation, and calling in life. Yet throughout his ministry, our Lord revealed a profound sense of mission. He knew that his Father had entrusted him with a goal to reach, a task to accomplish. In short, he was a man with a vocation.
What did Jesus come to do? What was his calling? Throughout its history the church has spoken about these matters.
In chapter 5 we said that Jesus is our example and our resource. He came to show us how to live and to provide us with his Spirit so that we might live as we ought. Now we build on these insights.
Our chief concern in this chapter is to speak about Jesus as God’s antidote for our sinful situation. We now seek to answer questions such as, In what sense did Jesus’s life and death alter our relationship to God? How is it possible that the mission of a man who lived two thousand years ago affects us today?
The Vocation of Jesus of Nazareth
What did Jesus come to accomplish? This is no new question. During Jesus’s lifetime our Lord’s sense of mission challenged the greatest religious teachers of Palestine. And after his resurrection, Jesus’s faithful followers diligently sought to understand the implications of what they had experienced of “the Word of life” (1 John 1:1–4).
The early Christians believed that Jesus played a unique role in God’s program. He had received a special calling, a vocation from God. And he was totally obedient to that calling.
What was this vocation that Jesus’s heavenly Father delegated to him? Our Lord’s vocation dominates the pages of the New Testament. The apostolic writers consistently assert—in keeping with Jesus’s own declarations—that our Lord came in accordance with the Old Testament. He is God’s gracious fulfillment of the promises God had given to Israel through the Old Testament prophets. Hence, Jesus is God’s response to the expectations and hopes of generations of righteous Hebrews from Abraham to Simeon and Anna. For this reason we rightly sing at Christmas: “The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.”1
Specifically, Jesus came as
More important than any one of these separate roles, however, is that Jesus weaved these diverse expectations into a profound unity of purpose. And this unity became the driving vision behind his sense of vocation.
Jesus: The Fulfillment of the Old Testament Hopes
Following the example of the New Testament writers, we read the life of Jesus in the context of the Old Testament. We claim that Jesus fulfilled the hopes and expectations embedded in the Hebrew Scriptures. Let us look at three of these:
Jesus is the Messiah. First, we acknowledge that Jesus is the Messiah of God—“the anointed one.”
Jesus’s messiahship—that he is the Christ—has been central to the proclamation of the church throughout its history. In this confession we are merely echoing the early believers, who routinely spoke of Jesus as the Christ (i.e., the “anointed one” or “Messiah”). In fact, this title (“Christ”) became so common that it soon fused with his earthly name. “Jesus the Christ” was shortened to “Jesus Christ.”
During his earthly sojourn, however, Jesus was reticent to use this title to characterize his mission. Only after the resurrection does our Lord speak of himself as Messiah (Luke 24:26, 46).
Why? Jesus was reluctant to be connected with the title “Messiah” because he rejected the widely held anticipations surrounding the Messiah’s coming. Our Lord did not come to fulfill the misguided expectations of the people of his day. Instead, he desired to clarify what the Messiah would do. God’s true Messiah would not come as a military hero. His goal would not be to overthrow the Romans. Rather, when the Messiah came, he would save his people—and indeed the whole world—from their sins (Matt. 1:21).
As the angel who announced his birth predicted, Jesus did not come as a military conqueror. He came instead as the Savior Messiah who would provide true liberation and eternal peace for sinful humankind.
Jesus is the Son of Man. Our Lord also came as the Son of Man. Jesus used the designation “the Son of Man” in several ways.2 Most importantly, however, by speaking in this manner our Lord linked himself with a figure in one of Daniel’s visions. The Old Testament saint reported seeing someone “like a son of man, coming with the clouds of heaven.” This son of man came into the presence of the Ancient of Days and “was given authority, glory and sovereign power,” so that “all nations and people of every language worshiped him” (Dan. 7:13–14).
On the basis of this vision, the Jews believed that the divine Son of Man would come at the end of time as the judge of humankind. He would then elevate Israel to prominence in the world.
Like Daniel, Jesus pierced the veil of our world. He spoke about the hidden realm where the Son of Man is seated “‘at the right hand of the Power,’ and ‘coming with the clouds of heaven’” (Mark 14:62 NRSV). Jesus announced a day when this Son of Man would return to judge the nations and inaugurate God’s reign (Matt. 25:31–46). And he promised his disciples that they would participate in that glorious reign (Matt. 16:27–28; 19:28), for at his coming the Son of Man will acknowledge those who confess his name (Mark 8:38; Luke 9:26; 12:8).
Jesus did not merely point to the Son of Man, however. He declared that he is this Son of Man.3
Jesus is the Suffering Servant. Finally, our Lord came as the one sent to die.
The likelihood that he would die at the hands of his opponents came as no surprise to Jesus. As his conflict with the Jewish leaders intensified, our Lord became increasingly vocal in declaring what would mark its climax (Mark 12:1–8). Just as the prophets had suffered at the hands of God’s enemies, so Jesus’s opponents would put him to death. And as a prophet, he would die in Jerusalem (Luke 13:33).
Yet Jesus’s attitude was not mere passive acquiescence to the inevitable. Instead, our Lord saw this event as the climax of his mission. He had come to die, and therefore he would willingly give his life (John 10:11, 18). Jesus sensed that his dying marked the highest obedience to the will of his Father (John 12:28).
For this insight that obedience to God meant suffering and death, our Lord would need to look no further than to a specific prophecy that he undoubtedly knew well. His special mission in the program of God meant that he was to fulfill a role the prophet Isaiah had described in detail centuries earlier. He would be God’s Suffering Servant (Isa. 42:1–4; 49:1–6; 50:4–11; 52:13–53:12).4 He would glorify God by humbly obeying the Father’s will, even to the point of suffering and death.
With Isaiah’s prophecy in mind, Jesus willingly became his Father’s obedient servant, eventually laying down his life on the cross. Thereby, he modeled his own teaching about the pathway to life. Losing our life is the means to finding life. And he commanded his disciples to follow his example (John 13:12–15).
But Jesus’s obedience to the point of death does more than show us the way to true living. It makes available to us the divine power necessary to live in obedience to God.
Jesus drew a principle from nature to illustrate the life-giving provision of his death: “Truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds” (John 12:24). The meaning is clear. Jesus must give his life in order that new life can spring forth for his followers.
During his final supper with his disciples, Jesus again illustrated the point. He offered them bread and wine. The bread symbolized his life, which he would soon give in death for them. The wine represented the new covenant that would soon be ratified through his sacrifice on their behalf. Through his self-giving act, his disciples would be able to participate with him in God’s coming reign.
Indeed, Jesus came as the Suffering Servant.
Jesus’s Vision of His Mission
The church confesses that Jesus is Messiah, Son of Man, and Suffering Servant. Taken individually, however, none of these gets at the heart of Jesus’s understanding of his vocation. He did not simply choose among the roles delineated in the Hebrew Scriptures. Rather, Jesus drew together these three aspects of the Old Testament expectation into a unified vision of his task.
Following Jesus means living as obedient servants of his heavenly Father and ministering—even suffering—for the sake of others.
Jesus’s genius lay in his unparalleled insight that the three great expectations—the longing for a kingly Messiah who would save Israel, the anticipation of the Son of Man who would be the righteous Judge, and Isaiah’s prophecy of a Suffering Servant—were to be realized in one person. And he was that person!
This vision motivated Jesus’s earthly ministry, which was characterized above all by servanthood. The Master understood his task as that of suffering in obedience to his Father and on behalf of the people. He knew that he must experience rejection, even death, in fulfillment of his vocation. Only then would the promised glory follow. In short, Jesus knew that the pathway to fulfilling the task of Messiah and Son of Man required that he travel the footsteps of the Suffering Servant (Luke 24:26).
Consequently, it is as the Suffering Servant that Jesus is also the Son of Man and the Messiah.
We noted in chapter 5 that Jesus is the true human, the revelation of God’s design for human living. In his vocation as the Suffering Servant Jesus shows us what that design is. Because he is the revelation of God’s purpose for human life, Jesus is the righteous Judge and the standard against whom we are measured. Like him, we should live as obedient servants of our heavenly Father and minister—even suffer—for the sake of others.
Similarly, he is our Messiah. Through his suffering he liberates us so that we can live in conformity with his own perfect life.
But how does his obedience to the Father’s will give us life? This question takes us to what Christians have traditionally considered to be the center of Jesus’s work—his death.
Jesus’s Death on Our Behalf
Jesus’s entire life was molded by his profound awareness that God had sent him to die for the salvation of others. Our Lord’s own teaching, therefore, led the early Christians to proclaim that Jesus is the atonement for human sin.
This is the central declaration of our faith: “Jesus died for us.” But how are we to understand it? What is the significance of our Lord’s death? And how does Jesus’s sacrifice affect us?
Ultimately, we cannot understand the full meaning of the cross of Christ. We can only stand in silence before it, acknowledge its wonder, and submit to its power. Nevertheless, we desire to understand the depth of Christ’s work on our behalf and to speak about the salvation we have experienced.
Explanations of Jesus’s Death
Christians throughout the centuries have joyously accepted the New Testament message of God’s provision in Christ. Christian thinkers have sought to understand this message by bringing together the various themes of that New Testament message into a single “theory” of the atonement. Their goal has been to assist God’s people in grasping the significance of Jesus’s work and then in articulating the gospel of available salvation to others.
Three basic proposals have been most prominent in the church.5 Each of them focuses on a different aspect of what Jesus has done on our behalf.
Jesus and evil: The dynamic image. Some Christians understand Jesus’s work primarily as a new power, a new “dynamic” released in the cosmos. Specifically, Jesus won the victory over the “principalities and powers” that enslave humankind.
At first, the cross appeared to be Satan’s great triumph, the victory of evil and death. But viewed from the vantage point of the resurrection, Jesus’s death actually marked the defeat of all the evil powers that reign over humankind (Col. 2:15). Jesus has rescued, or ransomed, us from the prison of sin and death.
The use of dynamic imagery to explain Jesus’s work dates at least to the church father Irenaeus (140–202). In fact, Irenaeus is often cited as the first proponent of what is called the “ransom theory.”6
Humankind was in bondage through sin to the devil, Irenaeus theorized. Our bondage required that we be bought back by a ransom to which the devil would also consent. Jesus gave himself as this ransom. In so doing, he freed us from our captivity to Satan.
Irenaeus probably never intended that we understand this image literally. He did not believe that the cross involved an actual, historical transaction between God and Satan. Instead, Irenaeus was merely offering a way of picturing the meaning of Christ’s victory.7
Other thinkers, however, were not as careful as Irenaeus. They began to speculate about the details of this glorious transaction. Some even suggested that God used trickery in gaining our release.
For example, one church father, Origen, theorized that the devil was jealous over human happiness and therefore seduced Adam into sin. The power Satan exercised over his victim, however, fed his pride. Consequently, when Satan saw the goodness of Jesus, the devil wanted to destroy him. But the devil failed to see the deity that was veiled in the human Jesus. Satan, therefore, swallowed the “hook” (the Godhead) with the “bait” (Jesus’s humanity).8
At first glance we might find the ransom theory objectionable at this point, for it seems to cast God in a bad light. This picture of the atonement suggests that by hiding deity within humanity, God played a trick on the devil. And how could God do such a thing?
To objections such as this, some early proponents responded by claiming that God’s trickery was actually intended for Satan’s own good. God is like a physician who engages in a “beneficent deception,” like a doctor who prescribes a placebo rather than real medicine to “trick” a patient into overcoming a psychosomatic illness.
With the possible exception of the Eastern Orthodox Church, contemporary believers do not generally think of the cross as Jesus’s victory over Satan.9 Yet the ransom theme emerges repeatedly in our hymnology.
There’s a sweet and blessed story
Of the Christ who came from glory,
Just to rescue me from sin and misery;
He in loving kindness sought me,
And from sin and shame hath bro’t me,
Hallelujah! Jesus ransomed me.10
And we acknowledge the victorious aspect of the cross when we heartily sing:
O victory in Jesus, my Savior forever,
He sought me and bought me with his redeeming blood;
He loved me ere I knew Him and all my love is due Him,
He plunged me to victory, beneath the cleansing flood.11
Jesus and God: The objective image. Irenaeus’s ransom theory was the reigning conception of the atonement for the first several centuries of church history. Although it remains important among the Eastern Orthodox Church, contemporary Western Christians have been more deeply influenced by a theologian who lived nearly a millennium later. The foundation for this understanding lies in a little book, Why God Became Man (Cur Deus Homo?), written by Anselm, archbishop of Canterbury (1033–1109).
Anselm rejected the ransom theory because he believed it did not fit the feudal society that had developed in Western Europe since the days of Irenaeus.12 According to feudal law, people in any domain must serve the sovereign over the region, even if that person had usurped the position of the rightful ruler.
The legend of Robin Hood reminds us of the situation in feudal England. While King Richard was involved in the Crusades, Prince John usurped authority in the land. To the Sheriff of Nottingham, John assigned the uncomfortable task of capturing Robin Hood, whom he wanted killed as a common outlaw. Because John was the de facto ruler of England, the sheriff and his poor soldiers had little recourse but to serve the wicked prince in his diabolical scheme. Only when Richard returned home and reasserted his sovereignty could the hero of the story be exonerated as a loyal subject of the rightful sovereign.
In a similar way, Anselm saw in the ransom theory a debilitating fallacy. It excused humans who serve Satan. Read from the perspective of feudal society, the biblical story suggests that the devil is the de facto monarch over the earth. According to feudal law, as de facto sovereign Satan exercises legal right over humans. And we, in turn, have legitimate cause for serving him until God reasserts his sovereignty.
Anselm wanted to protect the biblical teaching that all creatures (including even the devil himself) have only one rightful allegiance—to God. To this end, Anselm envisioned our seduction by Satan as that of a mutinous slave persuading others to join in a rebellion. Consequently, Jesus’s death cannot be directed to the devil, as the ransom theory suggested.
Rather than a payment to Satan, Anselm declared that the cross was directed toward God the Father. Jesus’s death is an event in the history of God’s dealings with humankind, not God’s relationship with Satan.
Anselm declared that the cross effected a change in our status before God. Thus, he offered what we might call an “objective theory” of the atonement. Christ’s death is an event in history that inaugurated a new historical reality.
To explain the workings of the cross, the archbishop proposed what is known as the “satisfaction theory.” He based his theory on the customs of feudal society.
We are God’s vassals, Anselm declared. As his vassals we are obligated to give God the honor due him as our Sovereign. But rather than doing so, we have become rebellious vassals. We refuse to acknowledge God as our King, and thereby we deny God the honor that is rightfully his.
According to Anselm, our refusal to honor our Sovereign is an outrage that demands recompense to God’s honor. But we are helpless to provide the required satisfaction. We cannot recompense God’s violated honor merely by pledging absolute obedience in the future. Ongoing obedience is what we rightfully owe our Sovereign.13
In short, we are unable to settle our account with God by our own efforts. Satisfaction can only come through someone who is both human and divine. He must be human, in order to recompense God for the honor we owe. But he must also be divine, in order to live completely without sin. This, Anselm concluded, is the reason why “God became man.”
But why did Jesus need to die?
According to Anselm, the satisfaction our Savior rendered could not consist in his holy life. Perfect obedience to God was also Jesus’s duty as a human being. Satisfaction came through the voluntary death of the Sinless One. Because Jesus’s death was more than what living as God’s vassal required of him, this act brought infinite honor to God. Because Jesus’s death is a meritorious act, it provides forgiveness for our sin.
Anselm’s theory underwent an innovative alteration during the Reformation. John Calvin, the Genevan Reformer, argued that Christ’s death did not satisfy God’s honor, as in Anselm’s view. Instead it satisfied God’s wrath with its sentence against sin.14
Calvin likened our situation to a human law court. Just as a human judge must condemn a convicted felon, so also God must condemn us for our sin. Out of love, however, God sent Christ to turn aside the punishment that the Judge of the world must require of all lawbreakers. Because of its connection to human law courts, this view is known as the “penal substitution theory.”
The penal substitution theory became the standard view among Protestants until well into the nineteenth century.15 We use it today whenever we speak about Jesus “taking our punishment.”16 Consider a story that Christian evangelists often tell.
A young man became the proud owner of a new sports car. In his exuberance he took it out on the freeway to see how fast it could travel. Unfortunately for him he was picked up for speeding—one hundred miles per hour in a fifty-five zone. Now in the traffic court, the young man states his plea, “Guilty, your honor.” He then hears the judge’s sentence, “The fine required by law is $200.” But the young man’s wallet is empty—he faces a stiff jail term if he cannot come up with the money.
Then something marvelous happens. The judge takes off his legal robe, descends from the bench, pulls out his wallet, and places two $100 bills on the counter. The judge himself has paid the fine, and the guilty young man has been spared incarceration. But why would the judge do such a thing? The judge is none other than the young man’s loving father!
This, the evangelist reminds the hearer, is what Christ has done for us. We have violated God’s laws, but Jesus paid the fine that divine justice demands from us.
Why did the penal substitution theory, with its focus on satisfying God’s just wrath, replace Anselm’s idea of payment to God’s honor? The answer may lie in social changes that were occurring in Europe.
At this point in Western history, the old feudal order was giving way to the new system of national governments. The honor of the ruler was no longer the foundation for social order. The new societies that were emerging built upon the idea of civil government as lawgiver and upholder of the law. Civic duty, in turn, now meant obedience to the law of the land.
As in every era, Christians were concerned to articulate the drama of sin and salvation in this new context. To meet this challenge, Christian thinkers sought to understand the New Testament teaching about Christ’s death in a way that could speak to the emerging social order. In the process they were drawn to the biblical emphasis on Jesus’s willingness to suffer the punishment due us for our transgression of the divine law.
Jesus wins our allegiance: The subjective image. But what kind of a God could be pleased by the blood of an innocent person? Or what concept of justice allows an innocent person to suffer for the guilty?
Anselm’s younger colleague, Abelard (1079–1142), raised the first question immediately after the archbishop proposed his satisfaction theory.17 And since the Reformation, critics have appealed to the second query in responding to the penal substitution theory.
Abelard believed that the idea of satisfaction harbors a false view of God. He concluded that Jesus’s death cannot satisfy God’s honor, because only a cruel and barbaric God would delight in the death of his sinless Son.18
What, then, is the significance of Jesus’s selfless act? Abelard offered an alternate answer. Rather than placating God, Jesus’s death is directed toward us. The goal of the cross is not to effect some great transaction in God but to woo our hearts.
But how does God accomplish this? Abelard declared that Jesus’s death is the grand exhibition of God’s great love for humankind. When we see the cross, this display of divine love frees us from our fear of God’s wrath and kindles in us a desire to love God.19 This desire fulfills all that God demands and allows God to forgive our sin.
In this manner, Abelard replaced Anselm’s objective understanding of Christ’s death with a subjective approach. Through Jesus’s death the loving Father seeks to draw sinful humans to himself. From the twelfth century to the present, Christians who have been repulsed by the idea of God who welcomes the suffering of the innocent Jesus have generally gravitated to variations on Abelard’s “moral influence” alternative.
Despite its shortcomings, the penal substitution theory remains the dominant explanation among believers. Yet our hymns tend to focus on the subjective dimension of Jesus’s death. We rightly sing of how our Savior’s death has won our hearts—how we love him because on the cross he demonstrated his love for us.
When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of Glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride. . . .
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.20
Let us now summarize the most important theories of Christ’s atoning work on our behalf.
| View | Theory | Major Theme | Proponent |
| Dynamic | Ransom | Christ won the victory over evil | Irenaeus |
| Objective: A | Satisfaction | Christ recompenses God’s honor | Anselm |
| Objective: B | Penal substitution | Christ bore our punishment | Calvin |
| Subjective | Moral influence | Christ displays God’s love | Abelard |
Jesus’s Death and Us
We have reviewed how Christian thinkers have sought to assist the proclamation of the gospel by bringing the themes of the New Testament into a unified understanding. Our survey indicates that Christians have viewed Christ’s death from several angles. This observation is instructive, for it reminds us that no single understanding is the sole correct view. On the contrary, just as our human predicament has many sides, so also Jesus’s death is God’s multifaceted provision for human sin and failure.
Now we must return to our central question. In what sense is Jesus God’s provision for the crucial needs of humanity bound in sin? How may we today view Jesus’s death?
Jesus’s death and our predicament. We begin by reminding ourselves that God sent Jesus to be the divine answer to our human need. Our discussion of sin in chapter 4 led us to see several central facets of the awful reality of our human fallenness. The Bible indicates that sin leaves us alienated, condemned, enslaved, and depraved.
As Christians we proclaim that Christ is God’s provision for our fallen condition. As God’s provision, Christ overcomes sin in its many aspects.
Let’s now draw the biblical images together by filling in the middle column on the chart we introduced in chapter 4. Doing so will illustrate how Jesus is God’s complete provision for human sin.
| Human Condition | Christ’s Provision | Spirit’s Application |
| Alienation | Reconciliation | |
| Condemnation | Expiation | |
| Enslavement | Redemption | |
| Depravity | Substitution |
In chapter 4 we explored how sin leaves us hostile toward God. We have become God’s enemies, but Jesus entered this situation to become our reconciliation (Rom. 5:10–11).
Through Jesus, we now enjoy a new relationship with God. Because of Christ, we who were God’s enemies now can experience fellowship with the Father. Our Lord replaces our enmity toward God with peace (Rom. 5:1). We must keep in mind, however, that it is the Father himself who effects this restored relationship through Jesus’s death. We must avoid any suggestion of a split within God—a gulf between the wrathful Father and the placating Son. On the contrary, the Father sent Jesus to be the means to reconcile us to himself. God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ (2 Cor. 5:18).
Jesus’s reconciling work extends to human relationships as well. On the cross, he destroyed the barriers dividing human beings (Eph. 2:11–22). As a result, we can enjoy fellowship with others through our common loyalty to Jesus our Lord.
Christ’s reconciling work even has cosmic implications. Because of Jesus’s death, the structures of existence (mentioned in chap. 3) once again find their center in the Lord, so that their hostility toward us can give way to harmony (Col. 1:19–20). The biblical writers also envision the reconciliation of humankind with the entire creation. Because of Christ’s work, one day the animals will live in harmony with each other (Isa. 65:25), and the leaves of the trees will bring healing to the nations (Rev. 22:2).
In chapter 4 we spoke of how we have offended God’s justice by our actions. We stand condemned before a righteous and holy God. But Christ’s death turns aside God’s righteous disposition against us.
This idea is closely connected to the old Hebrew sacrificial system described in the Old Testament. Each year on the Day of Atonement, the high priest entered the inner sanctum of the tabernacle or temple to offer the appropriate sacrifice for the sins of the people. This occurred at what was called the “mercy seat” (Heb. 9:5 NRSV). There the blood of the animal that had been sacrificed would drip down on the floor below, symbolically covering the sins of Israel.
The author of Hebrews compares Christ’s work with that of the Old Testament high priest. Jesus came in order that “he might make atonement for the sins of the people” (Heb. 2:17). Christ is the High Priest who offers an atoning sacrifice for us.
But our Lord introduces one important alteration. He is that sacrifice. The cross replaces the mercy seat. Like the blood of slain animal sacrifices, Jesus’s blood shed on the cross covers our sin. Hence, Christ provides an “expiation” for us.
Yet the question remains: How does this sacrifice effect our salvation? Paul responds by explaining that Jesus’s death vindicates God’s righteousness (Rom. 1:17; 3:21–26). God sent Christ to be the atoning sacrifice for the sins of the world (1 John 2:2; 4:10). Because Jesus’s blood “blots out” our sins, his sacrifice turns aside God’s anger—his set disposition toward sin—from us. God can now forgive our sins and declare us righteous. God can bring into his presence all who express faith in Jesus (Rom. 3:26). God sent Jesus to die as an atoning sacrifice. Jesus’s blood covers our sin, so that God’s righteous verdict of condemnation need no longer fall on us.
The idea of redemption was understandable in the first-century world. Residents of the Roman Empire knew that when the Roman armies conquered new territories they would bring back the best and brightest of the subjugated peoples to be sold at auction as slaves. But they also knew that occasionally temple priests would outbid other merchants and then set free those whom they purchased. Through this act they “redeemed” or provided a “ransom” for the formerly enslaved persons. And as a response, the freed slaves would often serve in the temple the rest of their lives.
This is what Jesus has done for us. But what—or who—is involved in this transaction?
Jesus’s death redeems us from something. He rescues us from our sinful living—from our “wickedness” (Titus 2:14) and the “empty way of life” handed down to us from our ancestors (1 Pet. 1:18). More significantly, the cross likewise marks Jesus’s victory over the principalities and powers, which hold us in bondage (e.g., Col. 2:15), including the law (Gal. 3:13). But above all, he has rescued us from the sinister power of death with its connection to sin (Rom. 8:2) and from the devil, who holds the power of death (Heb. 2:14).
How is this so? As we noted in chapter 4, our offensive conduct emanates from the core of our being, because an alien power dominates our lives. Jesus’s death won the victory over this alien slave master. Whether we see ourselves under slavery to the principalities and powers, to sin, to the devil, or to death, Jesus died to purchase our redemption. Because he has died, we need no longer serve any hostile power that seeks to entrap us and destroy our lives.
At the same time, Jesus’s death also redeems us for something. Through this act, he has purchased for God a people from every nation (Rev. 5:9). As those who know Christ’s costly redemption, we gladly serve in the courts of his Father.
As we noted in our discussion of sin, we are destitute, hopelessly unable to remedy our situation or to please God. But Christ came as our substitute. In his death Jesus has accomplished for us what we are helpless to do for ourselves. He died for us (2 Cor. 5:21; Gal. 1:4; Eph. 5:2; Heb. 9:28).
But in what sense is this so? To understand this, we must differentiate between two important dimensions of his act. Jesus died as the substitute for our sins. And our Lord died our death.
The New Testament teaches that Jesus is the vicarious sacrifice for our sins. As we noted above, the Savior bore our iniquities—became our substitute—so that the dire effects of sin need no longer come upon us.
This act does not mean that all negative results of human failure are suddenly rendered inoperative. Indeed, each of us individually, we together, and even creation itself continue to suffer many of the consequences of our personal and corporate iniquity. Christ’s death does not necessarily negate these. It means, rather, that we need no longer bear the ultimate consequences of sin.
And what are these ultimate consequences? The Bible links sin with death. Indeed, sin’s awful, abiding product is death (Rom. 6:23). The good news of our faith is that Jesus tasted death for us. But in what sense? Does Jesus’s death on our behalf mean that we no longer need to die?
Above all, Jesus’s death means that we need not undergo eternal separation from God. On the cross he was forsaken by God; he bore “Godforsakenness” on our behalf so that we might enjoy eternal fellowship with God.21
Does this also mean we need not experience physical death? No and yes.
No: Our Savior’s death does not mean that we will never know death as a physical reality. Christians do die.
We can face life—and death—knowing that nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ.
Yes: Nevertheless, even here he remains our substitute. He went through death on our behalf, in order to transform the experience for us. We may die. But because Christ has died for us, even this evil foe cannot “separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Rom. 8:39).
We die. But the death we die is now different. We do not suffer the hopeless death of those who have not met God through Christ. Rather, we die as those who are always surrounded by the love of the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. Knowing that we die into God’s love means that death has lost its terror.
Jesus’s death and divine community. Viewing Jesus’s death as God’s provision for our human predicament reminds us that our Lord died in order to bring about God’s purpose for creation. Indeed, the Bible declares that God’s ultimate goal does not end with providing for human sin and failure. God wants to save us from sin so that he can bring creation to a higher purpose. God wants us to participate in an eternal community. God’s desire is to create a redeemed humankind, dwelling within a redeemed creation, and enjoying the presence of the Triune God.
Through his death, Jesus fulfills the central role in God’s overarching program for creation. We will now look more closely at this role.
We noted earlier that Jesus embodied the divine principle of life. God created us to live in obedience to the Creator and for the sake of others. Viewed from the perspective of the resurrection, the cross marks the climactic moment of Jesus’s entire life. His death gloriously displayed what our Lord proclaimed in his teaching and modeled in his life—namely, that the fullness of life comes through the giving of one’s life. Jesus’s death, therefore, is the revelation of true life—life in community.
But Jesus did not only show us how to live. He also opened the way to life. Through his death he made it possible for us to participate in God’s community. Jesus’s death accomplished this in two ways.
Jesus’s sacrifice covers the sin that evokes God’s condemnatory verdict against us. As a result, the wall of guilt need no longer bar us from enjoying reconciliation with God. Further, Jesus dethroned the alien powers that reign over us. Stripped of their power, these forces need no longer bind us. They cannot stop us from returning to our heavenly Father. Nor can they separate us from God and his love (Rom. 8:38–39).
A cessation of hostilities never comes without costs. Think about how you may have experienced such a cost. Suppose someone dear to you has wronged you. Even though you are the wronged party, your loved one has rejected you! What will it take to overcome this awful situation and restore harmonious peace into this relationship?
Of course, your first response may be to wait for the offending person to take the first step. After all, he or she has injured you. But after some reflection, you decide to make the first move. You go to your loved one and whisper your desire that the rift be healed. And you even offer a symbolic overture—sending flowers, for example—to show your sincerity.
In each of these acts you are bearing the cost of initiating reconciliation. However, the greatest cost is the pain you experience as you take upon yourself the evil of the severed relationship. Even though you are the innocent, injured person, you shoulder not only the burden of your own hurt but also the enmity of the other. You take the place of the guilty person; you carry the shame of the offending act, so that your loved one who has turned away from you might return. And despite the pain, you do so willingly.
The cost of reconciliation includes taking the first step to end the conflict. In Christ, God took the initiative to terminate our hostility toward him and to renew the fellowship he intends for us to enjoy. By proclaiming God’s offer of salvation through his life and death, our Savior took upon himself the cost incurred in seeking reconciliation.
The cost of reconciliation includes bearing the pain and hostility of the broken relationship. Our sin and failure has caused great harm to God’s creation and great pain to God the Creator. In Jesus, God himself willingly bore that hurt in order to make reconciliation possible.
Because God has carried the cost of human sin, we do not need to bear either the burden of our own sin or the pain of the injuries we have received from others.
But how exactly did God bear that pain? We noted earlier that through his experience of Godforsakenness on the cross, Christ tasted alienation so that we might enjoy reconciliation. All the pain that has ensued from the fall—whether pain that we inflict or pain that we experience—need no longer bar the way to true fellowship between the creature and the Creator, and by extension, true fellowship among us.
However, this does not illumine the full mystery of the dynamic of the cross. The Godforsakenness Jesus bore affected the Father as well as the Son. Just as Jesus endured the breach of community with his Father, the Father experienced the breaking of fellowship with his Son. In this manner, the cross marked the entrance of the pain of human sin into the very heart of God. The consequences of our hostility toward God interrupted the relationship between Jesus and his Father. As a result, however, we can now share in the eternal fellowship between the Father and the Son. How great is the love of our God and Savior!
Through his death our Lord took the pain of our failure into his relationship with the Father. By so doing, Jesus inaugurated a new fellowship of humans—his body, the church. As the disciples of Jesus, we experience a foretaste of the eternal community with God, each other, and creation for which we are created and which we will one day enjoy in its fullness when Jesus returns in glory. Until that great day, the risen and exalted Lord intercedes for us with the Father (Rom. 8:34; Heb. 7:25; 1 John 2:1). Yet he also remains with us, for he is present among us through his Spirit.
Our reception of Christ’s provision. Jesus’s death opens the way to true community. But a final question remains. How do we become the recipients of his act on our behalf?
The New Testament declares that the atoning work of Jesus is an objective, completed fact (1 Pet. 3:18). Our Savior died once for all. This act effected a fundamental alteration in the relationship between God and humankind, and it sealed Christ’s authority over the cosmic powers. But until we personally appropriate the new status he offers, our Savior’s death is of no saving effect. It is of no value unless we respond in faith to the one who purchased our salvation. Despite Jesus’s sacrifice, everyone who does not believe “stands condemned already” (John 3:18).
In view of this, the New Testament also indicates that Jesus’s provision is intended to move us to appropriate its benefits.
But if Jesus’s death inaugurated a new state of affairs, why is our response vital? And why does God also intend that his death move us to respond?
Have we personally responded to the good news of reconciliation?
Perhaps an analogy will help. The president of the United States has the right to pardon convicted criminals. Suppose the president announces a total amnesty for all jailed persons. Such a declaration inaugurates a new situation: all sentences are revoked. But for this new reality to affect a convict, he or she must personally respond to the offer. The convict must walk out of the jail! To be actually effective, therefore, the president’s declaration must not only inaugurate a new legal reality—amnesty for all. It must also be announced everywhere in such a manner that it can evoke both the appropriate response in the heart of the individual languishing in prison—belief or acceptance that the message is true—and the appropriate action—walking out of the jail into freedom.
So also in the spiritual drama. The sin that evokes God’s displeasure is only one side of our wretched human situation. Not only have we offended God, but we are also at enmity against him. We fear and hate the Creator who loves us.
Viewed from God’s perspective, Jesus’s atoning sacrifice has inaugurated a new situation. Through Christ, God is irrevocably reconciled to us. The problem, therefore, is not with him.
Unfortunately, in our sin we remain at enmity against God. We need to turn toward him, so that we might be reconciled to the God who has reconciled the world to himself (2 Cor. 5:19–20).
For this reason, the proclamation of the gospel is crucial. As human messengers declare the good news of Christ’s death for us, they become God’s own voice imploring their hearers to be reconciled to God (2 Cor. 5:20).
This “imploring” is the task of the Holy Spirit, to whom we now turn in chapter 7.
Having Read This Chapter, You Should Know:
For Connection and Application