Thin Places

For most of my adult Christian life, I’ve been trying to understand what happened on the cross. I used to give the stock Christian answer: “Jesus died on the cross for my sins.” I still think that statement is true, but I’ve become less and less clear on exactly what it means.

First there’s the problem of individuality. Yes, I’m a sinner. Which is to say, I turn away from God through selfish actions. Little things like harboring resentment towards my husband, snapping at our children, allowing anger to simmer inside when I feel slighted by someone else. And bigger things like neglecting to care for people in need. Moreover, I put myself in the place of God on a regular basis. I could go on and on, but it gets a bit tedious. So I’m willing to admit that I am a sinner, and I recognize that my sin separates me from God’s goodness, and yet it seems like one more exaltation of self to think that Jesus’ death comes down to my personal sin.

What I’m starting to understand is that my sin is included in Jesus’ death, but Sin is a much more comprehensive problem than my own pride and misdirected love. Jesus’ death must have conquered Sin with a capital S—the problem of evil that trickles down into my life.

Then there’s the problem of the word “for.” Did Jesus die because I sinned? Because we sinned? Because Sin exists? The typical orthodox response is that Jesus died as a substitute. He—the sinless one—took our sin upon himself and gave us his righteousness. He became a sinner, that we might become a righteous ne. But the Bible seems to go even further. Paul writes that Jesus “became sin” (2 Cor. 5:21) and “became a curse” (Gal. 3:13).  Both phrases are contested, and I’m no New Testament scholar, but the work Jesus did again seems to go even further than our personal repudiation of God and God’s grace.

Then yet another series of question arise. Did Jesus die because God demanded it or because Sin demanded it? Was the cross the work of sinful humanity or of divine providence? Or the work of Evil in a more broadly defined sense?

I haven’t figured out the answers. Every time I think I understand, something pops up and pokes a hole in my analogy. For instance, I think about Jesus taking the place of me, a convicted felon, and receiving the death penalty in my stead. It captures the wonder of his sacrifice for us, but then God becomes unjust in punishing the wrong person. So I move to a debt analogy–Jesus pays the price I owe. That captures the justice of it but misses the full impact of the sacrifice. And so on.

I wonder if the same thing happened for the writers of the New Testament. They agree on the centrality of the cross and resurrection of Christ. They agree that Sin is a problem and we are all culpable and entrapped by it. They agree that something happened on the cross that overcame Sin and allows us to have access to God. And yet they employ a host of metaphors to try to explain what exactly it was that happened there. Somehow, Jesus’ work on the cross offers healing of brokenness, forgiveness from sin, freedom from slavery, ransom, restoration, payment of debt, satisfaction of wrath, full life with God.

I’m no physicist, but the mystery of the cross reminds me of the Heisenberg uncertainty principle (yes, I checked with my physics teacher friend about this one), which states that you can never measure both the location and the velocity of an electron simultaneously. I’m not sure we will ever be able to pin down the exact nature of the cross. I’m tempted to choose one analogy and try to fit everything else into it. But at the end of the day, I’m satisfied with the knowledge that Christ died for us and God vindicated him by resurrecting him from the dead. I’m satisfied with the mystery of the cross.

I have a new post on her.meneutics, “Should Christians Use Self-Help Programs?” It begins:

We were staying with friends, and I was getting ready for the day in their daughter’s bathroom. It was a typical tween-age space: cute stickers and sayings posted to the mirror, hair products and cotton balls and drugstore makeup on the shelf. A quote on the mirror caught my eye: “I’m Third.” It came from Kanakuk, a Christian sports camp in Missouri. In smaller print, I found an explanation: “God first. Others second. I’m third.”

Something about the quote struck me as off. I knew it came from the Bible. When the teachers of the law ask Jesus, “What is the greatest commandment?” he responds, “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself’ ” (Matt. 22:37-38). I assume the Kanakuk saying intends to echo Jesus, yet the Bible states the command in a less hierarchical manner. Love of God remains at the top of the list, but love of neighbor and self are inextricably related. In fact, Jesus’ command implies that we will know how to love our neighbor only if we properly love ourselves… to keep reading, click here.

A few days ago, William held a stick up to his mouth and pretended to play.

“Are you playing the flute?” I asked.

“No, Mom. The piccolo.” Of course.

Of everyone in the family, it’s William who loves music. He runs to the front of the sanctuary at church so he can see the musicians. He found a book at the library called Meet the Orchestra. We returned a few weeks later, only to have him request it again. He probably spends an hour poring over the pages over the course of each day.

I’ve always liked music, but I’ve never loved it. Concerts are fine, but I generally prefer staying home with a good book. I may or may not remember to turn on the stereo when we’re eating dinner.

For a long while my apathy toward music has puzzled me. First of all, there’s the “ought”—I ought to love music. Everyone else does—whether it’s the pop culture variety or the more intellectual fare. A few years back my dad took a Bach class and then learned to love opera. Peter would watch Bela Flek play the banjo for hours. In addition to the feeling that I ought to like it, there’s the fact that I have some musical ability. I have a nice singing voice. I can read music. I can play the guitar and the piano.

But even as a kid learning how to play, I needed it all spelled out for me. Music never enchanted me. I approached playing Mozart as something for me to master. Piano pieces became vehicles for performance, for competition, rather than something to enjoy in their own right.

William loves music the way I love writing. When he hears a song, he wants to know what different instruments are playing. If he sees musical notes in a book, he wants me to sing accordingly. He wanders around the house with “microphones,” always willing to break into song about anything in his path. We recently found an ancient songbook by Tom Glazer. It’s filled with familiar tunes, and I sing a few of them to William every day. Now when I put him to bed, he wants me to sing something different each time. “Sing about America,” he asks, and I pull out America the Beautiful. “The Bear Went Over the Mountain” has become a lullaby. In the evening, William spends time with his dad on the Ipad looking at different musicians playing the French horn, the banjo, the trumpet. He loves music for the sake of music, not because of what it can do for him. In this, I want to be like William.

Once again, my children are pushing me into new territory, giving me new gifts.

“The often heard lament, ‘I have so little time,’ gives the lie to the
delusion that the daily is of little significance.” 

–Kathleen Norris, The Quotidian Mysteries