Friends often tell me that they’ve long struggled to reconcile the God of the Old Testament with that of the new.  For them, God always represented a harsh judge, someone who would hold your feet to the fire (literally) when you did something bad.  Jesus, by contrast, was something of the “other parent.”  When things went poorly, you could count on the embrace of Jesus’ loving arms.  It was an image that was often reinforced by stale Sunday School pictures of Jesus, complete with soft feathered hair and always absent-mindedly petting a sheep.

In 2013, Daily Beast writer Andrew Sullivan captured a nation’s attention with a cover story for Newsweek Magazine.  The cover read: “Forget the Church: Follow Jesus.”  Sullivan rightly sees Christianity in a state of crisis.  His solution?  To move away from “theological doctrines of immense complexity” to return to the “simple ethics of Jesus.”  For Sullivan, what you think about isn’t nearly so important as how you live it out.  On the surface, this is refreshingly commendable.  But press deeper, and you begin to realize that when we recast Jesus as a social visionary, we bend his message into something that suits our own agenda—including an angry indictment against capitalism.

What is the common thread here?  When we fail to comprehend Jesus’ message and purpose, we fall in love not with the real Jesus but our own portrait of him.  For some it is the consoling figure holding a lamb.  For others it’s the hipster Jesus who came to overthrow capitalism and corporate greed.

And, frankly, both visions of Jesus are much more socially acceptable than the image found in orthodox Christianity.  Sin?  Bloodshed?  I don’t want a Jesus who offers mercy; I want affirmation.  I don’t need forgiveness; I need empowerment.  I don’t require transformation; I demand acceptance.  But all of those things only betray a failure to understand our most basic problem: our problem is sin.

A number of years ago, a magazine asked readers to write in a response to the question: “What’s wrong with the world?”  G.K. Chesterton famously responded with two words: “I am.”  I am what’s wrong with the world.  So while it’s comforting—or even fashionable—to blame capitalism, greed, religious abuse, racism, sexism, etc., we can’t escape the fact that sin is both systemic and individual.  The darkness that enshrouds our culture dwells within my heart—or at least it would if not for the transformative power of the gospel.

So in Hebrews we continue looking at the life-giving doctrine of atonement—that means by which God eradicates sin and guilt through the blood of Jesus.  It is Jesus that fulfills what all the former sacrifices could not:

15 Therefore he is the mediator of a new covenant, so that those who are called may receive the promised eternal inheritance, since a death has occurred that redeems them from the transgressions committed under the first covenant. 16 For where a will is involved, the death of the one who made it must be established. 17 For a will takes effect only at death, since it is not in force as long as the one who made it is alive. 18 Therefore not even the first covenant was inaugurated without blood. 19 For when every commandment of the law had been declared by Moses to all the people, he took the blood of calves and goats, with water and scarlet wool and hyssop, and sprinkled both the book itself and all the people, 20 saying, “This is the blood of the covenant that God commanded for you.” 21 And in the same way he sprinkled with the blood both the tent and all the vessels used in worship. 22 Indeed, under the law almost everything is purified with blood, and without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins. (Hebrews 9:15-22)

Do you understand what this is saying?  Purity—of both heart, places of worship, everything—comes through Jesus.  The author makes reference to the sprinkling that occurred through Moses at the inception of the covenant through Moses (that is, the arrival of the Law).  But we may see this as fitting into the larger framework of the sacrificial system.

Do you recall our discussion on the Day of Atonement and the two goats?  One was sacrificed; the other was driven into the wilderness, symbolically bearing away the nation’s sins.   On the cross, Jesus embodied both of these meanings—and we even attach specific words to these achievements.

• Propitiation: This word—meaning to “render favorable”—refers to the way that God deals with our actual sin. In this sense, we can say that propitiation also deals with our guilt—our negative feelings about our actions.
• Expiation: This word—meaning “to cleanse”—refers to the way God deals with the defiling effects of our sin. In this sense, we can say that expiation deals with our shame—our negative feelings about ourselves.

Are these complex doctrines?  Sure.  But do they have specific benefit?  Absolutely.  First, they help me deal with my own guilt and shame, and in that sense can be said to be psychologically beneficial.  But they also help me see the love, justice, and mercy of God all at the same time, for which reason these doctrines can be said to be spiritually beneficial.

If you follow Jesus—or at least try to—there is an important lesson here.  Too often we don’t come to Jesus because we feel we have to “clean ourselves up” first.  Think about it: have you ever avoided entertaining guests because you felt your house was a mess?  You didn’t want people to see the dishes in your sink, or the laundry piles in the hallway, or the crayon marks on the walls.  So you avoid people.  Well, we do the same with God.  We want to make sure we deal with our own shame and guilt first, and then we can feel “spiritual” enough for God.  But it doesn’t work that way.  In fact, the old covenant reminds us that our attempts to fix externals only results in more bloodshed—and more mess.  I don’t clean myself up to come to Jesus.  I come to Jesus to get cleaned up.  I don’t repent so I can come to Jesus.  I come to Jesus to help me repent.  When we get this backwards, we turn God into someone bent on rewards and punishment.  When we understand the gospel properly, we see that these dry, complex doctrines only serve to maximize our joy.

Why all the blood?

One objection you might have to Christianity is this peculiar focus on blood.  Sure, it may have been excusable in the era of the Old Testament.  After all, these were a primitive people, right?  Surely we can move beyond this.  But no, in the world of the first century, the cross of Christ emblemizes the devotion to Jesus.  In the second century, a writer named Tertullian wrote that “at every forward step and movement…in all the ordinary actions of daily life, we trace upon the forehead the sign [of the cross].”  You might recognize this as the origin of “crossing oneself,” tracing the shape of the cross in the air above your face and chest.  Yet when Mel Gibson’s Passion film was released in the early 2000’s, film critics were mortified.  One critic even dubbed the film “Jesus chainsaw massacre,” while others complained that the film focused too graphically on the manner of Christ’s death rather than the teachings of his life.

Perhaps this is a good point.  Of all the sermons Jesus ever preached, of all the miracles he ever performed, of all the acts of love, compassion, generosity, humility—the symbol of the Christian faith is an instrument of torture and disgrace.  Why?

First, we must understand that for Jesus, his death was not a tragedy, but a victory over sin and death (cf. Colossians 2:15).  Second, Jesus was no unwilling victim. “No one takes my life from me,” he says.  “I lay it down of my own accord” (John 10:18).  But most significantly, the blood connects us to the understanding of both life and sin.

Leviticus tells us that “life is in the blood” (Leviticus 17:11).  This lent a sense of reverence to rituals involving sacrifice and death.  But blood disgusts us as well; I know people who faint at the mere sight of blood.  So, in an indirect way, the sacrificial system was God’s way of saying: Sin is as disgusting to me as blood is to you. 

When the writer of Hebrews describes the sacrificial system, he reminds us of both the necessity and inadequacy of bloodshed.  Necessity—because “without blood there is no forgiveness of sins” (Hebrews 9:22).  Inadequacy—because no animal sacrifice could possibly pay the infinite debt against God.

So the writer says:

11 But when Christ appeared as a high priest of the good things that have come, then through the greater and more perfect tent (not made with hands, that is, not of this creation) 12 he entered once for all into the holy places, not by means of the blood of goats and calves but by means of his own blood, thus securing an eternal redemption. 13 For if the blood of goats and bulls, and the sprinkling of defiled persons with the ashes of a heifer, sanctify for the purification of the flesh, 14 how much more will the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered himself without blemish to God, purify our conscience from dead works to serve the living God. (Hebrews 9:11-14)

The temple system is “handmade” (v. 11).  It is finite, only a symbol of man’s true purpose for relationship with God.  The blood of animals might have granted priests access to an earthly temple, but we could never possibly hope to stand before the actual living God and expect mere external rituals to save us. No; we needed something more, something that would purify us so that we could move beyond the superficial nature of the temple system and into fellowship with God alone.

Growing up, I hated “church clothes.”  I still hate dressing up, frankly (try and look surprised).  Coming from a more traditional church, I grew up with khaki pants and button-up shirts (always neatly tucked in, mind you), uncomfortable shoes and the occasional necktie.  Sunday afternoons were great; they represented the longest span of time before the next time I had to put on my church clothes again.  I think a lot of people feel that way about religion in general and probably Christianity in particular.  Religion seems like a lot of work, a lot of effort to put on our Sunday best.  Our sacrifices get repeated week by week by week—not to mention a host of activities such as Bible studies, small groups, and church events.  Don’t get me wrong, we do those things for a reason.  But the reason isn’t so you and I can look good.  In fact it’s quite the opposite.  When we come to Jesus, we can’t possibly dress ourselves up enough to impress him (I can hear God saying: “Armani suit?  You know I made the Orion Nebula, right?”).  Instead we come with what rags we have, because in our transparency, in our authenticity, we are given fine linen to put on, to be clothed in his righteousness alone.

Humans have an innate need for punishment.  Perhaps ingrained from childhood, we tend to view our guilt as deserving of pain.  It’s only been recently that contemporary psychology found a name for it.  The Dobby Effect—named for the self-punishing Harry Potter character—refers to our tendency to “atone” for misdeeds by seeking either avoiding pain or avoiding contact with those we’ve wronged.  Researchers at the University of Brisbane conducted a study to confirm this.

62 volunteers were split into three groups.  Two groups were asked to write about a time they “rejected or socially excluded another person.”  The third group wrote about normal social interactions.  Afterwards all participants received questionnaires to measure feelings of guilt.  After that, some were asked to immerse one of their hands in ice water, while others in warm water.  Following that, guilt feelings were re-measured.  I know this is a bit confusing, so let’s try and summarize in a table:

Not only did the ice water make guilt parties feel roughly half as guilty as their counterparts, they also tended to leave their hands in the water substantially longer than those who wrote about normal interactions.  The lesson is clear: guilt makes us seek out punishment, and the act of punishment seems to have a relieving effect.

According to one of the researchers, these forms of self-punishment send “a signal by which a [wrongdoer] shows remorse to his or her victim when there are no other less painful means available, such as giving a bunch of flowers.”

Yesterday we re-discovered the Israelite temple as a symbol of Eden’s beauty.  But because of sin, many of the temple’s elements—particularly the curtains that segregated the outer courts from the Holy of Holies—reminded worshippers that their sin resulted in both physical and relational distance.

Now, the writer of Hebrews turns from the general to the specific, describing the activities performed in the temple—that is, the sacrificial system.

6 These preparations having thus been made, the priests go regularly into the first section, performing their ritual duties, 7 but into the second only the high priest goes, and he but once a year, and not without taking blood, which he offers for himself and for the unintentional sins of the people. 8 By this the Holy Spirit indicates that the way into the holy places is not yet opened as long as the first section is still standing 9 (which is symbolic for the present age). According to this arrangement, gifts and sacrifices are offered that cannot perfect the conscience of the worshiper, 10 but deal only with food and drink and various washings, regulations for the body imposed until the time of reformation. (Hebrews 9:6-10)

Sacrifices were not unique to Israel, nor were they unique to the days of Moses.  The earliest sacrifices go back to the pages of Genesis 4, where outside the garden the first family learned to worship God by offering sacrifices.  Sacrifices likewise became an occasional part of the life of Abraham and his descendants.  It was only through Moses, some 1500 years before Jesus, that sacrifices became codified into a system of atonement.

The writer of Hebrews alludes to this elaborate system, which largely defines man’s relationship with God under the “old covenant.”  We note at least two things: (1) the need for a priest and (2) the need for sacrifice.  Though the nature and exact purpose of the sacrifices varied (Leviticus records as many as seven different types of regular sacrifice), the allusion made here is to Yom Kippur—the Day of Atonement that we discussed last Friday.

Yet as unique and significant as that day may have been, the writer of Hebrews ultimately concludes that these rituals deal with external things—and never truly man’s inner conscience.  So wait—so why was the system ever in place at all?  The sacrificial system served as an elaborate—and bloody—object lesson, a lesson that pointed toward the need for a once-for-all sacrifice in the future.  In his commentary on Leviticus, Gordon Wenham says:

“The sacrificial system therefore presents different models or analogies to describe the effects of sin and the way of remedying them.  The burnt offering uses a personal picture: of man the guilty sinner who deserves to die for his sin and of the animal dying in his place.  God accepts the animal as a ransom for man.  The sin offering uses a medical model: sin makes the world so dirty that God can no longer dwell there.  The blood of the animal disinfects the sanctuary in order that God may continue to be present with his people.  The reparation offering  [i.e., the “guilt offering”] presents a commercial picture of sin.  Sin is a debt which man incurs against God.  The debt is paid through the offered animal.”

But Wenham would later note that “Christ’s death…made [the sacrificial system] obsolete…It is no longer necessary to attempt to compensate God for our failure by bringing a ram or a lamb to the altar.  Our spiritual debts have been written off in the sacrifice of Christ.”

Think about it.  Isn’t the Dobby Effect really just another form of selfishness?  After all, it has more to do with alleviating personal guilt than addressing the brokenness to begin with.  If you wreck my car, I might appreciate that you’re sorry—but I’ll still demand you pay the debt of repair.  What about things where a simple “I’m sorry” won’t do?  How can we repair trust?  Remorse can’t reverse the effects of infidelity and betrayal.

Something similar is going on here.  A sacrificial system may have allowed many devout Jews to feel a sense of relief.  But now they’re hearing that such rituals can’t fix the real problem—the problem that goes deeper and darker.  Only a perfect sacrifice can produce true atonement, true purity.  This is the point our author is building to.

If you’re skeptical regarding the Christian faith, I understand.  My gentle challenge to you is to evaluate how justice can ever coexist with a society of radical individualism.  If morals and ethics are (largely) man-made, do we not have the freedom to unmake them?  Why, then, does guilt universally persist?  And why does our education and our technological advances not help us move beyond such feelings?

If you seek to follow Jesus, this passage raises another challenge.  Do I trust in God’s forgiveness through Jesus, or am I still trying to bring a sacrifice?  Do I still think of Christian virtue as “being really hard on myself?”  Perhaps you’re in a season where you’ve experienced the need to “get really serious this time.”  While there is value in a life of devotion, you can’t turn your spirituality into means to an end.  Jesus is the end of all such means.  The pain we bring on ourselves can melt into sweet, sweet joy.  Spirituality, therefore, transforms from a quest to earn God’s approval into a glorious state of affairs where we finally learn to rest in God’s approval.

Compromise has its distinct advantages.  For the original readers of Hebrews, the cultural collision of values presented them with a binary choice.  They could soldier on, keeping the faith in a faithless world—only to endure the ridicule and shame of their friends and neighbors.  Alternately, they could abandon their faith, sliding backward into the culturally acceptable traditions of Judaism.  The letter to the Hebrews arose from the fact that many opted for the path of least resistance.

Today’s world is no different.  No one wants to be labeled a “fanatic.”  So yes, we may admit to being Christians, but we make sure to clarify that surely we’re not one of those Christians—you know the type: either flaunting their moral superiority or trying to cram religion down everyone’s throats.

Such attempts say more about us than we realize.  As much as we might try to justify ourselves for “defending the Christian message,” it’s really our own reputations that we’re trying to shield.  That’s not faithful confidence; that’s pride.

If the writer of Hebrews were working in our day, he might publish a helpful guide on how to navigate a post-everything world.  It would probably contain very helpful suggestions on how to communicate your faith and how to understand cultural objections to it.  Don’t get me wrong: such books are incredibly valuable.  But they don’t necessarily address the question of “first things.”  What do we mean by “first things?”  We speak of those core beliefs that give rise to all others.  Beliefs we live for.  Beliefs we would die for.

So the writer of Hebrews turns his focus to Jesus.  He exalts the person and work of Christ as if to say: This is the standard to which you are called.  This is the standard by which you are measured.  All other matters are secondary.  Therefore Hebrews 9 continues the exaltation of Christ by further developing the idea of Jesus as the true and better high priest.  While previous sections focused on what a priest is, these sections focus on what a priest does.  To that end, the writer of Hebrews begins by describing the symbol-laden architecture of the Hebrew Temple.

Now even the first covenant had regulations for worship and an earthly place of holiness. 2 For a tent was prepared, the first section, in which were the lampstand and the table and the bread of the Presence. It is called the Holy Place. 3 Behind the second curtain was a second section called the Most Holy Place, 4 having the golden altar of incense and the ark of the covenant covered on all sides with gold, in which was a golden urn holding the manna, and Aaron’s staff that budded, and the tablets of the covenant. 5 Above it were the cherubim of glory overshadowing the mercy seat. Of these things we cannot now speak in detail. (Hebrews 9:1-5)

The Jewish temple—and the mobile tabernacle before that—had an essential function.  Like every other major culture, the Jewish people understood their temple as the location where God uniquely dwelled.  If you could have walked inside the temple, you’d see a wide array of symbols and images—all designed to invoke the concept of a garden.  Well, not just a garden.  The garden, to be sure.  The Garden of Eden was the one place where man was able to directly interact with God.  Yet when sin entered the picture, this garden was lost, defiled, and man was disbarred by the flaming sword of God’s angels (called cherubim).

The temple was designed to evoke similar imagery.  Man would be reminded of his deepest purpose: to connect with God.  But the series of barriers—designed to maintain a separation between man and God—reminded God’s people that their sin kept them at a physical and relational distance.  So much so that no one—save for the yearly entry of the high priest—could enter the “Most Holy Place,” where God’s glory had historically been specifically manifest in a great cloud.

The rest of the architecture contained the “furniture” that was used in Israel’s sacrificial system.  The ark of the covenant contained the broken tablets of God’s law—but also, we’re told, the staff of Aaron and manna.  If you paid attention in Sunday School, you might be aware that nowhere in the Old Testament does it specify that the ark contained anything other than the tablet fragments. Further, the ark is described as in front of the temple curtain—not behind. So what’s going on here?  A non-Biblical text (2 Baruch 6:7) suggests that prior to the destruction of the second temple (in 70 A.D.) an angel of the Lord came and removed the ark from the Holy of Holies.  It’s possible that both Hebrews and Baruch share a similar source of interpretation.  What this means for temple worship is unclear—especially since the passage of time caused temple worship to evolve and change.

What remains clear is that man’s truest purpose is found in temple worship.  We’ll expand on this in the coming days, but for now we can conclude with one basic idea.  What were you made for?  This question is easy to ask about our car—it was made for driving.  Tools are made for building, speakers for listening, books for reading…you get the idea.  But ask the same question about man and, well, you won’t get a straightforward answer.  An ancient writer once famously said that “man is the measure of all things.”  But that can’t possibly be true.  Man is deeply broken, deeply flawed, indelibly stained.  To measure oneself, to continually reinvent oneself—these are the ill-fated attempts of a creature ignorant of either purpose or destiny.  Guilt and shame hover over us like a low-grade fever.  What if things could be different?  What if we were truly made for more?  What if we could find purpose, find meaning, find solace not in the meanings we invent for ourselves, but in the truth and beauty and goodness found only in God.  We were made to love, to be loved, and to worship.  Discovering this purpose is the first step toward radical joy.

What distinguishes fact from opinion?  The question came up recently in an op-ed piece which highlighted something from the common-core curriculum for second grade.  The curriculum made the distinction as follows:

Fact: Something that is true about a subject and can be tested and proven.

Opinion: What someone, thinks, feels, or believes.

What do you think?  For the op-ed columnist, Justin McBrayer, this division between “fact” and “opinion” has only contributed to our children’s inability to ask and answer moral questions.  Why?  Because, McBrayer notes, the definitions above create a false division between fact and opinion.  Can’t opinions be informed by facts?  And can’t our interpretations of facts be influence by our opinions?  Granted, the teaching was aimed at second graders, but McBrayer was able to stump his son:

Me: “I believe that George Washington was the first president. Is that a fact or an opinion?”

Him: “It’s a fact.”

Me: “But I believe it, and you said that what someone believes is an opinion.”

Him: “Yeah, but it’s true.”

Me: “So it’s both a fact and an opinion?”

The blank stare on his face said it all.

(Justin P. McBrayer, “Why Our Children Don’t Think There are Moral Facts,” in The New York Times, March 2, 2015)

For many, faith occupies the broad realm of “opinion.”  It’s something we believe, sure, but it’s hardly something we can test or prove.  Atheists such as Sam Harris and Richard Dawkins have built a cottage industry from accusing religious believers of being “deluded” and believing in spite of the lack of evidence.  You’ve surely heard of the Flying Spaghetti Monster?  It’s a mythical creature concocted by atheists to mock religious belief—after all, you can’t disprove the existence of a Flying Spaghetti Monster any more than you can disprove God.  Though atheists remain a small minority, many apply such similar reasoning to say that no religion can really “get it right.”  Right?

But this confuses the whole issue.  If you study philosophy long enough, you can eventually convince yourself that it’s impossible to know anything (!).  We might, after all, just be plugged into a giant computer like in the movie The Matrix.  But obviously, some things are more reasonable to believe than others, right?  Ah, there we are.  Knowledge and faith might better be placed on a larger spectrum—one in which yes, some beliefs have greater warrant than others.  There may be greater warrant for believing in God than a Flying Spaghetti Monster, and there may be warrant for believing the words of Christ are true.

For Christians, this saves us from turning faith into a flying leap into the dark, or reducing Christianity to blind faith.  Instead, faith rests on the secure promises of God.  These aren’t opinions formed by feelings or personal thoughts, but a promise made from God to man long ago.  So the writer of Hebrews now turns to the story of God and Abraham:

For when God made a promise to Abraham, since he had no one greater by whom to swear, he swore by himself, 14 saying, “Surely I will bless you and multiply you.” 15 And thus Abraham, having patiently waited, obtained the promise. 16 For people swear by something greater than themselves, and in all their disputes an oath is final for confirmation. 17 So when God desired to show more convincingly to the heirs of the promise the unchangeable character of his purpose,  he guaranteed it with an oath, 18 so that by two unchangeable things, in which lit is impossible for God to lie, we who have fled for refuge might have strong encouragement to hold fast to the hope set before us.19 We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain, 20 where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf,  having become a high priest forever after the order of Melchizedek. (Hebrews 6:13-20)

You recall the story?  In 2000 B.C., God reached into human history to save a man named Abram.  Do you recall what Joshua would later say?  He said: “your ancestors, including Terah the father of Abraham and Nahor, lived beyond the Euphrates River and worshiped other gods” (Joshua 24:2).  Abram’s family worshipped other gods—presumably the moon gods prominent during that era.  So if God saved Abram—later giving him the name Abraham—it wasn’t because of the purity of Abraham’s devotion but because of God’s great blessing and promise.  And if you read Genesis, you get a glimpse of how God sealed this promise:

7 And he said to him, “I am the Lord who brought you out from Ur of the Chaldeans to give you this land to possess.” 8 But he said, “O Lord God, how am I to know that I shall possess it?” 9 He said to him, “Bring me a heifer three years old, a female goat three years old, a ram three years old, a turtledove, and a young pigeon.” 10 And he brought him all these, cut them in half, and laid each half over against the other. But he did not cut the birds in half. 11 And when birds of prey came down on the carcasses, Abram drove them away.

17 When the sun had gone down and it was dark, behold, a smoking fire pot and a flaming torch passed between these pieces.   (Genesis 15:7-10, 17)

What’s going on here?  In context, such practices reflected the magical rituals of Akkadian civilizations.  But the symbolism here is striking.  It’s as if God is saying: “If I fail to keep my promises to you, then let me experience the same fate as these dismembered animals.”

When the writer of Hebrews draws from this tradition, he’s telling us at least two things.  First, he’s reminding us that—like Abraham—our salvation has always been something God accomplished for us, never by us.  Second, he’s reminding us of the unchanging promises and character of God.

So when we consider the nature of faith, we must therefore remember that we aren’t basing our lives on the fearful uncertainty of spiritual speculation.  Instead, we rest on the certainty of God’s amazing promises.  Our beliefs are anchored in historical encounters with a living God—all of which ultimately point to the greatest encounter of all, Jesus, the true and greater high priest.  This is what forms an “anchor” for the human soul—all other forms of spirituality and thinking only reflect the person asking the question.  Christian faith anchors us, secures us, and gives us hope.

Is religion a good thing or a bad thing?  Now there’s a question that cuts both ways.  Many people today would answer with some variation of: “It’s good for the individual but bad for society.”  That is, religious belief may offer significant psychological benefit, but when religious belief is forced on others it’s bad for society as a whole.

For many, Christianity has become sort of the opposite of the American Express card—whatever you do, leave home without it.  A generation or so ago, Christianity was much more prominent in our social landscape.  But in today’s post-Christian America, Christianity has become virtually synonymous with intolerance and oppression.  So much so that non-Christians lament the power that Christianity has tried to exert in the political and social worlds.  In a recent article by Frank Bruni, he affirms the right to religious liberty all the while asserting that such liberties should not extend beyond the doorsteps of the church:

“I respect people of faith. I salute the extraordinary works of compassion and social justice that many of them and many of their churches do. I acknowledge that we in the news media, because we tend to emphasize conflict and wrongdoing and hypocrisy, sometimes focus more on the shortcomings of religious institutions than on their positive contributions. And I support the right of people to believe what they do and say what they wish — in their pews, homes and hearts. But outside of those places? You must put up with me, just as I put up with you.” (Frank Bruni, “Your God and My Dignity: Religious Liberty, Bigotry, and Gays,” in The New York Times, January 10, 2015)

Now that Christians are collectively viewed as the problem, not the solution, it’s tempting to feel discouraged by this collision of values.  Christianity has sparked centuries of progress: think of all the art and charitable work inspired by Christianity over the years.  Yet today such advances are glossed over in favor of condescending reminders of Christianity’s darker expressions, namely the Crusades or the (selective) defense of slavery.

In a pivotal scene from Saving Private Ryan, a German tank is bearing down on Captain Miller’s (Tom Hanks) position.  Worn out, deprived of his primary weapon, he pulls out a pistol, and starts taking shots at the tank—with obviously no effect.  If you seek to live out your faith in today’s world, if you seek to share the good news of the gospel, then you may begin to feel a bit like Captain Miller vs. the tank.  Your every word returns ineffective, and in return you’re only further embattled by those who reduce your faith to a position of bigotry and intolerance.

As we’ve noted previously, the readers of Hebrews occupied a world dominated by the competing values of honor and shame.  In such a world, Christian faith was looked down upon.  So when the author of Hebrews issues a “warning” about the possibility of falling away from the faith, he does so also with the encouragement that yes, despite all appearances, their faith matters.

9 Though we speak in this way, yet in your case, beloved, we feel sure of better things—things that belong to salvation. 10 For God is not unjust so as to overlook your work and the love that you have shown for his name in serving the saints, as you still do. 11 And we desire each one of you to show the same earnestness to have the full assurance of hope until the end, 12 so that you may not be sluggish, but imitators of those who through faith and patience inherit the promises. (Hebrews 6:9-12)

His message remains clear—if not repetitively so.  Endure.  Why?  Because while there are plenty who fall away, there are many more reasons to keep pursuing Godliness in an ungodly world.  We have the assurance that while our words may seem wasted on our friends and neighbors, God does not “overlook [our] work” or our “love…shown in his name” (v. 10).

If you’ve ever worked out—whether running, lifting weights, etc.—you know the physical feeling of resistance.  Resistance builds strength as your body works against it.   I discovered not long ago that as much as I enjoy running, I enjoy everything about it except the actual “running” part.  I love thinking about my next goal.  I love the feeling of accomplishment I get after.  But during an actual run, it’s hard to think of those things when you’re just trying to make it up another hill, or the next mile.  Spiritual resistance is like that.  We experience it.  We feel it.  But we also have the assurance that when we persevere God blesses our efforts.  And that’s an important distinction—that is, allowing God to bless our efforts rather than expect our efforts to “work” on their own.  After all, this whole section has been something of an interlude in a larger passage talking about the superiority of Jesus.  If our efforts have any impact at all, it’s not because of our greatness, but the power of the gospel.

Notice as well that we are encouraged to be “imitators of those who through faith and patience inherit the promises” (v. 12).  We need each other.  We need the church.  The impact we have won’t be a result of a spiritualized Lone Ranger routine.  We need a band of brothers and sisters, men and women to come along side us and share their stories, their frustrations, their successes, their failures—all so that we, too can be assured that the gospel has an impact larger than any one of us.  In short, we need to replace our idol of “efficiency”—that my efforts will routinely “work”—with the promise of “effectiveness”—that God will bless my efforts through His power.

In Saving Private Ryan, Miller’s pistol rounds do no damage to the exterior of the tank.  It’s only when an allied plane flies overhead and destroys the tank from above that Miller is spared from the tank.  If you’re feeling much like Captain Miller, armed with only your pistol against a raging culture, then you have two truths you can lift from the Hebrews passage above.

First, God has placed you with a whole team of friends and family who wish to share this journey with you.  You neglect your church family only to your own peril, and you nurture your church family only to your mutual benefit.

Second, try to hang on.  The battle isn’t over yet.  God’s promises will one day explode before you—before all of us—and reveal truth in a great firestorm of restorative justice.  And on that day we can confidently say that we, too, have had a part in the building of this great Kingdom, though only through the power of God working through us.

Just a few weeks ago the popular website The Gospel Coalition posted a quote to their Facebook page.  The quote was from pastor John MacArthur, who said: “If you could lose your salvation, you would.”  The quote sparked a firestorm of debate.  Some of the comments were firm, yet respectful.  Other commenters fell significantly short of loving.

It’s an important question, one whose responses could easily fill whole libraries.  And it’s also the sort of question that defies a middle ground—we must either answer “yes” or “no.”

Why should this matter?  For some, these sorts of questions might seem to only elicit the kinds of in-fighting that makes you wonder if Christians really have any love at all (!).  To be fair, it’s certainly true that well-meaning Christians can get in fights over points of theology.  If I ever needed proof that the devil is real, it’s that theology students can get in fights over the definition of “love” (no, seriously).  Yet the way we answer this question reveals our view of God’s character, and it also sheds light on personal situations we all may have witnessed.  Because surely you may have known someone who seemed such a strong believer—growing up in youth group, serving on missions trips, listening to worship albums, etc.—who now seems to have abandoned their faith as they’ve grown older.

The question is raised by today’s passage from Hebrews—a passage that appears as part of the larger warning expressed in Hebrews 5:11-6:14:

For it is impossible, in the case of those who have once been enlightened, who have tasted the heavenly gift, and have shared in the Holy Spirit, 5 and have tasted the goodness of the word of God and the powers of the age to come, 6 and then have fallen away, to restore them again to repentance, since they are crucifying once again the Son of God to their own harm and holding him up to contempt. For land that has drunk the rain that often falls on it, and produces a crop useful to those for whose sake it is cultivated, receives a blessing from God. 8 But if it bears thorns and thistles, it is worthless and near to being cursed, and its end is to be burned.  (Hebrews 6:4-8)

Does this passage teach that a Christian can lose his or her standing with God?  Let’s explore both positions.

YES WE CAN

First, let’s admit that this is the most natural reading of the Hebrews text.  John Wesley—who strongly believed that losing one’s salvation was possible—called this a “plain relation of fact.”  The various descriptions used here seem hard to separate from someone who really, truly is a Christian.

Yet if we examine the text more closely we can see that while this might be the case, it’s not really a necessity.  The word “enlightened,” for example, has a range of meanings in both Jewish and Greek culture.  The Greeks might have associated it with their own mystery religions, while Jews would have understood it in light of God’s provision of light in the desert.  Other evidence suggests it might only have referred to Christian baptism.  So it’s hard to connect this word directly to Christian salvation.

But what about having “shared in the Holy Spirit?”  This seems perfectly clear: only a believer can share in God’s Spirit, right?  The Greek word (metochos) can indeed mean a direct connection, as it does in Hebrews 3:14 where believers are said to “share in Christ.”  But the same word is used elsewhere to refer to Jesus’ earliest followers—some of whom were fishermen by trade—working together on their boat (Luke 5:7).  So the word may refer to close intimacy, but it may equally be used to describe work associates.  In other words, there’s no conclusive evidence in this passage to indicate that the people referred to are, in fact, genuine Christians.

Further, Wayne Grudem notes that the image that follows in 6:7-8 seems to also indicate that these folks were less than true Christians, because they never bore actual spiritual “fruit:”

“When we recall the other metaphors in Scripture where good fruit is a sign of true spiritual life and fruitlessness is a sign of false believers…we already have an indication that the author is speaking of people whose most trustworthy evidence of their spiritual condition (the fruit they bear) is negative, suggesting that the author is talking about people who are not genuinely Christians.”  (Wayne Grudem, Systematic Theology, p. 796)

NO WE CAN’T

Those who say “no we can’t” have approached this passage from several different perspectives, which we’ll address in reverse order of their popularity:

• The situation in Hebrews was historically unique. No one outside the first century culture can commit this type of sin—whatever it exactly was.  But the sin doesn’t seem terribly unique.  People wander from the faith all the time.  And besides, why should we assume this position when we assume other letters (such as Philippians, Colossians, etc.) do apply to us today?  It’s not surprising, then, that few hold this position today.

• It’s purely hypothetical. The writer of Hebrews must be saying: “This is what could happen in you could lose your salvation.”  This is a little better, but for one thing, that’s pushing your theology into the Bible, rather than letting the Bible speak for itself.  Further, if it’s merely hypothetical, it really takes away the force of this warning, does it not?

• Loss of rewards. The writer of Hebrews is referring to those whose loss of conviction leads to a loss of future, heavenly rewards, as well as the joy of fellowship here on earth.  This is a more popular position, but it’s hard to quite fit “rewards” into the passage as it stands.  Still, this view takes the warning quite seriously.

• They were never saved to begin with. This is the most popular view, one that simply says: “The people in view aren’t necessarily Christian, therefore if they ‘fall away’ from the faith it just proves they never really were Christians to begin with.”  This view harmonizes well with other scriptures, such as when John tells his readers that some “went out from us but were not of us” (1 John 2:19).  What sense might we make of the warning, then?  That our only true assurance of salvation is a lifetime of faith.

I personally take the latter view, though I’m sympathetic to those who see a “loss of rewards” here.  Wesley, of course, hated this idea, calling it “fallacious reasoning.”  And I must admit, if this passage in Hebrews was all we had, I might be inclined to agree with him.  But thankfully we can measure this passage against the entirety of scripture, where we find other passages that read:

• I give them eternal life, and they will never perish, and no one will snatch them out of my hand. My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all, and no one is able to snatch them out of the Father’s hand. (John 10:27-29)
• For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable. (Romans 11:29)
• he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ. (Philippians 4:6)
• For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:38-39)

I believe these passages clearly teach something called “eternal security.”  Does that mean I believe “once saved, always saved”?  The answer is a resounding “no.”  Why not?  Because I agree with the “always saved” part—I just disagree with the “once saved” part.  The term “saved” is a carryover from our revivalist heritage, particularly of the 19^th century.  In scripture, salvation is something that takes place over a person’s lifetime—beginning in justification (being declared righteous) but proceeding through sanctification (being made righteous) and culminating in glorification (being totally righteous).  God extends mercy to a variety of people—just think of the thief on the cross.  But the Hebrews warning seems to stress that our surest sign of salvation is a diligent, lifelong commitment of faith.

IMPOSSIBLE?

But wait, doesn’t the text say that restoration is “impossible?”  What do we make of that?  Even if you believe that salvation is something you can lose, you have to wrestle with a God that does not welcome his children back—and that’s a harsh warning indeed.  In his commentary on Hebrews, Peter T O’Brien writes:

“What is meant by this?  It does not imply that God does not have the power to bring back an apostate, since he is the one ‘for whom all things and through whom all things exist’ (2:10), and his word is able to shake the foundations of the universe (12:26).  But he may refuse to restore an apostate.  To say that it is ‘impossible’ for God to lie (6:18) does not suggest that he lacks the power to lie, but that he refuses to do so….By not restoring those who commit apostasy, God allows their firm decision to stand.  He does not force men and women against their obstinate resolve but allows them to terminate the relationship.”  (Peter T. O’Brien, The Letter to the Hebrews, p. 225-6)

If this sort of thing makes you nervous, then the warning in Hebrews has had its effect.  I realize we can’t solve this difficult question in so short a space, but you may already be aware of the dangers of both extremes.  If you believe that yes, salvation can be lost, then you face the danger of judging others—particularly their outward behavior—under the guise of “inspecting their fruit.”  The end result can turn into a works-righteousness, which is ultimately the opposite of what Hebrews is trying to convey.  If you believe that no, salvation is forever, then you face the danger of taking your spiritual life too lightly, taking God’s mercy for granted, and treating salvation as a form of insurance to cover your behavior.

Both extremes are alien to the text of Scripture, and both are alien to the character and mercy of God.  One thing is for sure: we live in a world where it’s both easy and tempting to stifle our growth by abandoning our faith.  What Scripture is saying here is that your life—your character, your actions, your decisions—matter in the grand scheme of eternity.  What impact are you leaving?

A funny thing’s happened in recent years.  It seems as if people have shifted away from eating their food in favor of taking pictures of it.  Through the magic of the “smart phone,” we can take a snapshot of our meal and upload it to the social media platform of our choice.

Why?  Good question.  Among the reasons for the trend is the promise of receiving “likes” on your pictures—confirmation that your meal (or at least its digital likeness) caught the attention and envy of all your followers.

Technology isn’t a bad thing.  But some forms of it—or some uses of it—cater towards a form of expression without reflection.  And without reflection we stunt our ability to grow.  We’re left instead to find new and better forms of self-expression: How can I “edit” myself to fit in with others?  How can I manipulate you into liking me?  Psychologists tell us that “emotional maturity” is defined by the ability to give and receive love.  But in a culture of “likes,” our penchant for self-expression not only halts our forward progress; it shoves us back into emotional immaturity.  In an op-ed piece for The New York Times, Jonathan Franzen tells us that such forms of self-interest are ultimately counter-productive:

“…liking, in general, is commercial culture’s substitute for loving….But if you consider this in human terms, and you imagine a person defined by a desperation to be liked, what do you see? You see a person without integrity, without a center….If you dedicate your existence to being likable, however, and if you adopt whatever cool persona is necessary to make it happen, it suggests that you’ve despaired of being loved for who you really are….The simple fact of the matter is that trying to be perfectly likable is incompatible with loving relationships. Sooner or later, for example, you’re going to find yourself in a hideous, screaming fight, and you’ll hear coming out of your mouth things that you yourself don’t like at all, things that shatter your self-image as a fair, kind, cool, attractive, in-control, funny, likable person. Something realer than likability has come out in you, and suddenly you’re having an actual life.” (Jonathan Franzen, “Liking is for Cowards; Go for What Hurts,” in The New York Times, May 28, 2011)

 

In our series we’ve been emphasizing the ongoing need to “endure,” to hold fast to the gospel in a world that is open to spirituality in general yet hostile to Christianity in particular.  If you were with us last Sunday, we looked at two passages (4:14-5:10; 7:1-28) that illustrated Jesus’ superior ability to unite us with God—something no human priest could ever do.  Yet sandwiched between those two passages is another “warning” section.  At first it seems out of place—why interrupt his flow of thought like this?  But remember the genre: yes; Hebrews is a letter, but the letter contains content from a sermon or perhaps a collection of sermons.  Those who study ancient speeches note that many times speakers would vary their content like this just to keep their listeners’ attention (I guess this was before Power Point was invented).  By inserting this warning passage here, the author is reinforcing the need to keep going in a culture that mocked their beliefs.  So now the author of Hebrews turns his attention to the concern for spiritual growth:

 11 About this we have much to say, and it is hard to explain, since you have become dull of hearing. 12 For though by this time you ought to be teachers, you need someone to teach you again the basic principles of the oracles of God. You need milk, not solid food, 13 for everyone who lives on milk is unskilled in the word of righteousness, since he is fa child. 14 But solid food is for the mature, for those who have their powers of discernment trained by constant practice to distinguish good from evil. (Hebrews 5:11-14)

What was happening?  Apparently the readers of Hebrews were guilty of measuring their growth by the surrounding culture—the ancient equivalent of finding their worth through Facebook “likes.”  Notice the metaphor he uses here: of milk and solid food.  The author is saying that spiritual development—like all human development—is about improvement and transformation.  Yet how is spirituality anything like food?  It’s simple, really.  With food we have only two real possibilities: we are nourished, or we starve.  There’s nothing in between.   Likewise, we either grow in Christian maturity, or the soul shrivels.  Our ability to love God and neighbor shrinks.  We slide backward into immaturity.

Yet I’m sad to report just how much contemporary Christian culture can serve as an enemy to this process.  In the late 90’s, Gary Burge wrote an article for Christianity Today called “The Greatest Story Never Read.”  He laments the loss of Biblical literacy across all age groups—particularly our nation’s youth.

“I have asked youth leaders whether their students were learning the content of the faith (solid theological categories) or the stories of the Bible (the chronology, the history, the characters, the lessons).  One remarked, “It is hard to find time.  But I can say that these kids are truly learning to love God.”  That is it in a nutshell.  Christian faith is not being built on the firm foundation of hard-won thoughts, ideas, history, or theology.  Spirituality is being built on private emotional attachment.” (Gary M. Burge, “The Greatest Story Never Read: Recovering Biblical Literacy in the Church, Christianity Today, August 9, 1999). 

The last line says it all: “private emotional attachment.”  Only a few years later social analysts would give this a slightly more descriptive (though elaborate) name: Moralistic Therapeutic Deism.  That’s kind of a mouthful, but it’s really as simple as this: it means that I believe God exists, but he’s not terribly involved in my life other than to make me feel better when I’m down, teach me right from wrong and—if I obey well enough—make my dreams come true.

If this attitude truly characterizes today’s young Christians, it should come as no surprise that they would abandon their faith.  For some, it’s because Christianity failed to provide them with personal fulfillment.  For others, if God is here to make my dreams come true, then why not find some other way of making that happen?

So how do we respond to the warning here in Hebrews—or in our own backyards?  We could tighten our grip.  We could become more disciplined.  In many cases, a renewed focus on the text of Scripture could be a welcome remedy.  But we must be careful that we don’t replace a faulty view of God (he offers me fulfillment) with another (we must live up to his standards).

The writer of Hebrews writes this:

“Therefore let us leave the elementary doctrine of Christ and go on to maturity, not laying again a foundation of repentance from dead works and of faith toward God, 2 and of instruction about washings, the laying on of hands, the resurrection of the dead, and eternal judgment. 3 And this we will do if God permits.”  (Hebrews 6:1-3)

I’m sad to say I could find extremely few English translations that reflect the Greek grammar here.  A better translation would be to say: “let us…be carried on to maturity…”  Do you see the difference?  In the first translation (“…go on…”) it implies personal effort.  In the second translation, it implies something that happens.  Spiritual growth is something that happens not by me, but in me.  Growth isn’t a product of good works and sweat equity—it’s an incredible work of grace.

Yet let’s not take that to mean that you and I are wholly passive—just passengers along for the ride.  On the contrary; the writer emphasizes that as we grow in faith, God “permits” us to apply the gospel to every aspect of our lives.  It might not be too far a stretch to say that God does all the work, but we reap the results by responding in faith.

Getting “likes” on tonight’s dinner is no substitute for love.  Nourishing yourself with the feast of God’s word provides far greater satisfaction.  Personal expression is an unending quest for acceptance.  But personal transformation is an unfolding life of joy.