The mutableness of God

Studying Exodus 32-34 recently (the record of the golden calf incident and its aftermath), it became clear to me how un-God-like God is at times. He is strikingly changeable, emotional, and downright human on occasion. Examples:

• In reaction to the making of the golden calf, God burns with anger. He tells Moses to “let Me alone, that My anger may burn against [the Israelites] and that I may destroy them” (Ex. 32:10).
• Four verses later, He changes His mind in response to Moses’ pleas.
• In ch. 33 he tells Moses to go on into the promised land, but says that He will not go along, “because you are an obstinate people, and I might destroy you on the way.”
• In 33:5, God indicates His uncertainty about what to do with his people, telling them to “put off your ornaments from you, that I may know what I shall do with you.”

God appears strikingly mutable. He changes his mind, regrets past actions, is subject to anger, and argues with his people. These might not fit neatly in our western conceptions of God as omniscient, sovereign, and unchanging, but they are biblical descriptions. Says Peter Enns in the NIV Application Commentary on Exodus (Gen. ed. Terry Muck [Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2000]),

Again, we see a very “human” portrait of God. The Lord does not know how he might react at some point in the journey; he does not seem to trust himself to control his anger. Thus, it is better that he not go at all. We should resist the temptation to gloss over this description of God. This is God’s Word and this is how he is described. We should not dismiss it on the basis of what we “know” God to be like. As we have seen above, the writer is not concerned to reveal to us the absolute, abstract essence of God, but God in the context of his dealings with his people. (578-9)

He goes on to suggest,

Too often, it seems to me, despite our biblical literacy, we think of how God ought to be rather than how he has actually portrayed himself. (592)

Worth considering.

God to Moses: No substitutionary sacrifices allowed

With the doctrine of substitutionary atonement on my mind lately, I was intrigued reading Exodus 32. The idea of atonement through a substitutionary sacrifice is pretty central to Christianity, but what is striking about this chapter is that God is presented as rejecting substitution as a legitimate method of making atonement.

Here’s the setting: Exodus 32 relates the story of the golden calf and Moses’ subsequent intercession before God on behalf of the Israelites.

After making the people grind up their golden idol into powder and drink it, Moses returns to God on the mount and offers his life on behalf of the Israelites so God will not destroy them:

Then Moses returned to the LORD, and said, “Alas, this people has committed a great sin, and they have made a god of gold for themselves.

“But now, if You will, forgive their sin–and if not, please blot me out from Your book which You have written!”

The LORD said to Moses, “Whoever has sinned against Me, I will blot him out of My book.

“But go now, lead the people where I told you Behold, My angel shall go before you; nevertheless in the day when I punish, I will punish them for their sin.” (Exodus 32:31-34)

As Peter Enns notes in the NIV Application Commentary on Exodus, Moses is actually acting in keeping with the divine command to offer sacrifices for sin: he suggests himself as a sacrificial offering. “By being blotted out of the book of life, perhaps he can bring life to his people. The death of one will bring life to the many” (590).

But interestingly, even though God spares Israel, He rejects Moses offer of himself as a substitute.

Why? According to God, it’s because the guilty should be punished, not the innocent. Enns again:

Moses’ death will not make things right because his actions did not make things wrong in the first place. God says he cannot simply transfer the people’s guilt onto one man. Guilt stays with the person who sins and who must pay the price. (590)¹

No further thoughts here, except that it seems to me this story has potential to augment the traditional evangelical understanding of Christ’s substitutionary atonement for humanity. How does God decide when to allow substitutionary atonement, and when not to allow it?

—

¹ Note: I should make clear that Enns does believe in substitutionary atonement. In his commentary on this passage, he says that Moses was rejected as a substitute because he was not sinless himself. What was needed was a blameless substitute who actually could bear sin, and this is why Christ can make a substitutionary sacrifice for us where Moses could not:

This is the great mystery of the death of Christ. He was guilty. Our sins were put on him and conversely taken off of us. He was worthy of bearing our guilt because he himself was without guilt. (590)

Enns might have a point, but his particular logic here is not persuasive to me. God rejected Moses’ offer of substitution not because Moses was sinful, but because it is not right to punish the innocent in place of the guilty. Still, the biblical story, and Enns’ commentary on it, is thought provoking, so I thought I’d share.

The problem of the ascension

One of my professors quotes Philip Yancey (from The Jesus I Never Knew) in one of the early chapters of his own book, which I read this semester. I was intrigued by the quote, and its suggestion that the ascension might pose a difficulty for faith:

So many times in the course of writing this book I have felt like one of those disciples, peering intently at a blank blue sky. I look for some sign of Jesus, some visual clue… Like the disciples’ eyes, mine ache for a pure glimpse of the One who ascended. Why, I ask again, did he have to leave?… I have concluded, in fact, that the Ascension represents my greatest struggle of faith—not whether it happened, but why. It challenges me more than the problem of pain, more than the difficulty of harmonizing science and the Bible, more than belief in the Resurrection and other miracles.¹

Until I read this quote, I admit it had never occurred to me that the ascension might pose a problem. But now I recognize that it is indeed puzzling, in a way. Why did Christ leave? And why the delay until the end of the world?

I know the answers my own denomination poses in response to this question, but I’m curious about the perspectives of my readers. How big of an issue (for you) is this puzzling delay? And how good of an answer does Christianity in general have to the problem?

—

¹Yancey, qtd. in Roy Gane, Altar Call (Diadem: Berrien Springs, 1999), 15-16, emphasis mine.

The Giver

A late merry Christmas to the two or three loyal people who still bother to check back here in spite of my month-long silence. I haven’t posted for several weeks, but that hasn’t stopped me from thinking about topics to post about. Now that the semester is over and I can write for pleasure (!), here goes the first of all my backlogged ideas…

One of the gifts I got for Christmas was the Newberry award-winning novel for young adults entitled The Giver. One of its major themes is the relationship between love, freedom, and pain.

The story centers on a young boy named Jonas, who grows up in a carefully controlled, essentially perfect community. All choices about spouses, jobs, and children are made by a committee of elders; there are no choices left to the citizens, and no individuality or freedom. The benefit of such strict control, however, is that there is also no pain or suffering.

At age 12, Jonas is selected by the committee to receive special training from the Giver, the only member of the community who holds the memories of real pain and pleasure. Through his relationship with the Giver, Jonas comes to realize that the life he knows is not all there is, and he wants to know why his community has been deprived of freedom and its attendant joys and sorrows. Speaking about the foster child his family is currently caring for, Jonas asks:

“What if we could hold up things that were bright red, or bright yellow, and he could choose. Instead of the Sameness.”

“He might make wrong choices.”

“Oh.” Jonas was silent for a minute. “Oh, I see what you mean. It wouldn’t matter for a newchild’s toy. But later it does matter, doesn’t it? We don’t dare to let people make choices of their own.”

“Not safe?” The Giver suggested.

“Definitely not safe,” Jonas said with certainty. “What if they were allowed to choose their own mate? And chose wrong?

“Or what if,” he went on, almost laughing at the absurdity, “they chose their own jobs?”

“Frightening, isn’t it?” The Giver said.

Jonas chuckled. “Very frightening. I can’t even imagine it. We really have to protect people from wrong choices.”

“It’s safer.”

“Yes,” Jonas agreed. “Much safer.”

But when the conversation turned to other things, Jonas was left, still, with a feeling of frustration that he didn’t understand. (98-99)

As the novel develops, a clear relationship is established between pain, freedom, and love: Love necessitates freedom, and freedom necessitates the possibility of pain. Since Jonas’s community has chosen against pain, they have necessarily deprived themselves of freedom, and by extension have also deprived themselves of love. Hence, when Jonas asks his parents if they love him, they do not even know what he means, stating that the word is “so meaningless that it’s become almost obsolete” (127).

The implicit question posed by the book is whether or not the trade-off is worth it. After all, the people in the community think they are happy: they don’t actually know that they lack freedom and love, so is it all bad? Jonas eventually demonstrates his conviction that the trade-off is not worth it (a position I have elsewhere agreed with), but the question is a complex one that I find perpetually interesting.

Not saved, but being saved

While reading E. P. Sanders’ Paul and Palestinian Judaism (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1977) this evening, I was intrigued by Sanders’ observation that the apostle Paul almost always uses the verb “save” in the present or future tenses. Only once, in Romans 8:24, does he use the verb in the past (aorist) tense.

Typical of Paul’s usage is Rom. 5:9, which says that “we shall be saved through him from the wrath,” or Rom. 10:9, which says that we “shall be saved” if we confess and believe.

Elsewhere, in 1 and 2 Corinthians, Paul uses the present passive participle “being saved” in contrast with “being destroyed.” For example, 1 Cor. 1:18 – “the word of the cross is folly to those being destroyed but the power of God to those being saved.”

Interesting that Paul views salvation as a work in progress, not as something completed. I wonder how he would react to the man in the pew who claims he was saved at a tent meeting in ’79?

[Oops: I forgot the page numbers in Sanders and already returned the book, but this discussion was on p. 450 or immediately thereabouts. Sorry.]

Why not speed? (pt. 2)

Continued from my last post, here are the final two reasons why I decided to quit speeding.

2. Faithfulness in little things prepares one for faithfulness in much.

I grant that speeding is not (usually) a very big deal. However, the insignificant decisions I make today are habit forming and affect the more significant decisions I will make later. If I cultivate a habit of faithfulness and respect and discipline in small matters today, I will reap the rewards on higher stakes issues tomorrow.

Gordon MacDonald, speaking about his temptation to leave his cross-country running team when the going got hard, shares this rebuke he received from his coach:

Every time you quit, said the coach, “‘you will have inadvertently reinforced a dangerous character trait: specifically that whenever you are faced with a challenge you don’t like, or that seems too difficult, or that asks from you too great a sacrifice, you will find it easier and easier to walk away from it’…in other words, to quit.” (A Resilient Life, 3-4)

By contrast, each time a runner presses forward to the finish, it gives him that much more stamina to finish the next, harder race.

The same is true in matters of obedience: practicing disobedience to law in small matters cultivates a habit of carelessness with respect to law (whether civil or moral), deadening the conscience. Showing disrespect for a particular civil authority makes it that much easier to fudge on moral precepts as well.

3. It is surprisingly comforting to live within the limits of the law.

This last reason is purely practical, but significant nonetheless.

When I first decided to stop speeding, it was hard to make myself go the speed limit. I fought myself constantly and felt very stressed about disciplining myself to go slower.

Something strange happened after a few weeks, though. Once I developed a habit of going the speed limit, I felt far more relaxed than I had before. I was no longer rushed or pressured to get to wherever I was going; the discipline of going the speed limit was surprisingly liberating.

There’s probably a theological lesson there: The irony is that human nature tends to chafe against law, yet it is unexpectedly comforting to live within the law’s limits. As Gordon MacDonald observes, “We are most free when we are under discipline” (151).

The added benefit? I save a lot on speeding tickets, too.

Why not speed?

Two people have asked me recently about the statement in my profile that I don’t speed. This isn’t an issue on which I like to hit people over the head, but since I’ve been asked about it, I decided to share my thinking. Besides, it’s a good chance to meditate on the concept of law in general.

There are three basic reasons why I quit speeding (first one below; the other two will come later this week):

1. Observing civil laws communicates respect for God’s law and for His holiness.

Contemporary Christians often are not big on law, viewing it as a bad thing and preferring to emphasize that Christians live under grace.

Against this antinomian attitude, however, the Jews perceived law as a gift and a blessing. Psalms 119, for example, is a very lengthy psalm written as a meditation on God’s law and in praise of His commandments. A few excerpts:

Open my eyes, that I may behold
Wonderful things from Your law. (vs. 18)

Remove the false way from me,
And graciously grant me Your law. (vs. 29)

Behold, I long for Your precepts;
Revive me through Your righteousness. (vs. 40)

Why does the psalmist praise the law? Because the law shows people the path to right living and the path to happiness. It is given as a light, as an illumination, and it reveals God’s desires for his people.

Accordingly, law should not be seen as a bad thing, but as the basis of orderly, decent, harmonious societies. It’s something to be celebrated. When we abide by civil law, we communicate our appreciation for the concept of law generally, which by extension communicates respect for God’s law and His just government.

More to the point, the book of Romans specifically instructs Christians to obey civil authorities on the grounds that those civil authorities are placed there by God:

Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God. Therefore whoever resists the authorities resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment. (Romans 13:1-2, ESV)

Civil authorities, therefore, are an extension of God’s government and should be obeyed as such.

::

Reasons two and three coming within a couple days. Until then, comments on the value of law and/or Christian attitudes toward it?

Marriage as a calling

One of my Old Testament professors, who is completely blind, was discussing his marriage last week in class. He is a fairly young man and has been married for several years to a woman who is probably 20 years older than he is.

In class, this professor suggested that anyone who marries a blind person—or any disabled person, really—is doing it because of a calling. Not that these two don’t love each other, but he recognizes that the marriage is not a conventional scenario of marriage for love.

His is a rather untypical view of marriage, obviously, and doesn’t really fit with Western conceptions of love and marriage.

On the other hand, I think this professor and his wife do love each other, and from all appearances, they are happy.

Thoughts on this? Should marriages be for love, or is it acceptable to view marriage as a calling? Is it only marriages of disabled people that are a calling, or should every marriage be viewed primarily as a calling?

Suffering as redemptive

In a Bible study on suffering last weekend, we discussed the purpose of suffering and why God allows “good” people to suffer.

Repeatedly, the discussion leader suggested that suffering is redemptive. I know the redemptive nature of suffering is important in Catholic theology, but the idea really made me curious.

Is it actually true that suffering is redemptive? If so, in what sense?

Now, I can see that suffering is educational (which the discussion leader also acknowledged). After all, suffering shows us what not to do, and it is a powerful way to communicate the consequences of transgression.

But redemptive? How is suffering redemptive?

For His name’s sake

10/29/07 – Post edited for clarity.

Both DocLucio and Stephen challenged the argument of my last post (Just to forgive), which was that God’s mercy is the result of his justice.

DocLucio pointed out (correctly) that the single text I used for illustration—1 John 1:9—was not by itself persuasive. Stephen stated (again, correctly) that 1 John 1:9 may simply be stating that because we confess our sins, it is just that God forgive us.

So I want to elaborate a little more on my contention that mercy is an extension (or even a requirement) of justice rather than a contradiction to justice. To do so, I’ll analyze two case studies:

1) Moses’ petition to God on behalf of Israel in Exodus 32
2) David’s pleas to God for mercy throughout the book of Psalms

As I’ll explain below, all the passages in question involve the argument that God should forgive his people for the sake of His own reputation. Each passage implies that God’s name (his righteousness? his justice?) will be tarnished if He does not grant mercy, and each passage consequently suggests that God’s mercy flows from and demonstrates His righteousness.

Now for the nitty gritty:

Moses’ petition to God on behalf of Israel (Exodus 32)

Exodus 32 records the story of Israel and the golden calf: Moses has been gone for too long up on Mt. Sinai talking to God, so the Israelites decide to create for themselves a new god, a golden calf.

Up on the mountain, God informs Moses of the proceedings below. “Let me alone,” He says, “that my anger may burn against them and that I may destroy them.” It’s as if Moses is somehow obstructing God’s ability to exercise His omnipotent power.

But Moses does not let God alone; instead, he pleads on behalf of Israel. Note the nature of the appeal:

“Oh Lord, why does Your anger burn against Your people whom You have brought out from the land of Egypt with great power and with a mighty hand? Why should the Egyptians speak, saying ‘With evil intent He brought them out to kill them in the mountains and to destroy them from the face of the earth’?

“Turn from Your burning anger and change your mind about doing harm to Your people. Remember Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, Your servants to whom You swore by Yourself, and said to them, ‘I will multiply your descendants as the stars of the heavens, and all this land of which I have spoken I will give to your descendants, and they shall inherit it forever.’

“So the Lord changed His mind about the harm which He said He would do to His people.”¹

The line I want to focus on is the line involving Moses’ concern for God’s fame: “Why should the Egyptians speak, saying, ‘With evil intent He brought them out…?’”

Moses perceives that God’s reputation is at issue in this matter; he perceives that God’s actions with Israel, should He choose to annihilate His chosen nation, would raise questions about His righteousness and His justice.

God has begun a work with His people, and Moses feels God needs to stick it out with His people for the sake of His own name. Thus, the implication of Moses’ argument is that God should extend mercy as a means of demonstrating His own righteousness and His own justice.

David’s pleas to God for mercy throughout the book of Psalms

I recently read through the book of Psalms, focusing particularly on the themes of justice and mercy as they appear throughout the text. One point that stood out to me was David’s frequent requests for mercy toward his sin on the basis of an appeal to God’s reputation. Repeatedly he requests grace “for the sake of Your name.”

Psalm 25:7, 11 is a good example:

Do not remember the sins of my youth or my transgressions; according to Your lovingkindness remember me, for Your goodness’ sake, O Lord. [...] For Your name’s sake, O Lord, pardon my iniquity, for it is great.”

Likewise, Psalm 79:8-10:

Do not remember the iniquities of our forefathers against us; let Your compassion come quickly to meet us, for we are brought very low. Help us, O God of our salvation, for the glory of Your name; and deliver us and forgive our sins for Your name’s sake. Why should the nations say, “Where is their God?” Let there be known among the nations in our sight, Vengeance for the blood of Your servants which has been said.

And again, Psalm 115:1-2:

We have sinned like our fathers, we have committed iniquity, we have behaved wickedly….Nevertheless He saved them for the sake of His name, that He might make His power known [cf. Ps. 51:14; 74:22-23; 98:2; 109:21; 115:1-2; 143:1-3, 11].

In each of these cases, the Psalmist asks that God be merciful toward human sin so that His own name might not be tarnished. The Psalmist perceives, as did Moses, that God’s character is at issue; he also perceives that God is shown righteous, just, and worthy by the fact that He grants mercy.²

Mercy, for God’s own sake

Allow me to get radical for a moment:

It would be wrong to go so far as to say God needs to forgive us, or that we in any sense deserve forgiveness. He could simply annihilate us all, in which case there would be no one around to question his righteousness.

However, based on the above passages, there may be a sense in which it is important for God’s own sake that He extend mercy to His creatures. He is certainly not obligated to forgive, yet His His righteousness and justice are at stake in the matter. If He is truly just and truly righteous, it’s not consistent with His character for Him to simply destroy His creatures.

How, then, does a just God act? He extends mercy (at least specific instances). In providing a means of salvation and opening a window of forgiveness, He is proving His righteousness and evidencing His justice.

Hence, my original contention: Far from being contradictory to His justice, God’s mercy flows from His justice, and is in fact evidence of His justice.

—

¹ I took the liberty of adding paragraph breaks.

² I should acknowledge that one of the major themes of the Psalms is that God should reward people according to their deeds. According to the Psalmist, those who put their trust in God should be granted mercy, and those who spurn God should be destroyed. So the book definitely reflects the idea that justice means rewarding people in accordance with their works, and I don’t mean to minimize that (legitimate) aspect of justice. Still, Psalms includes appeals for mercy, such as those I have analyzed, on the basis of God’s reputation. Apparently the Psalmist sees more than one aspect of justice: Sometimes it involves rewarding people according to their deeds; sometimes it means granting mercy.