Forsaken by the Father

A brother of mine pointed to this article, where the author challenges that idea that the Father turned his face away from the son on the cross. To state my opinion up front, I disagree with this guy (and the five other blog posts I read that made almost an identical point). Frankly, I feel like he dismantles something that he doesn’t manage to really put back together. He admits he might just nit-picking the term, but I think in nit-picking it he’s unintentionally undermining the theology contained in the whole”Father’s face” short-hand. For instance, I don’t think the statement “the weight of sin caused Him to experience God-forsakenness, yet…the Father’s face wasn’t turned away” makes any sense. What is God-forsakenness if not the absence of the Father’s countenance?

But I’m getting ahead of myself…

Anyhoos, here’s my point by point rebuttal–which honestly, I’m writing pretty quickly and I may find that I’ve made some glaring errors in my critique. So, I’m quite open to being challenged here.

  1. Ben’s first point is that “Jesus never addressed His Father as ‘God’ in all His years of ministry.” First, that’s a pretty narrow way to put that. Both John 20:17 and Rev 3:2,12 contradict the statement at the outset. I daresay that pretty much dismantles the point. But second, I’m unconvinced that using the exact language of Psalm 22 marks this as a different intention of how Jesus addresses the Father. Perhaps he just wants to make the allusion clearer. But does that really mean that “Jesus wanted it to be heard specifically differently from the way He usually spoke about Father”? Nah…
  2. His second point relates to some of the things Jesus says after the “Eloi, Eloi” statement are addressed to the Father and would negate the idea that God’s face was turned away from Jesus. As for his use of the term “Father”, I’ve already addressed that above. As to how it these words negate the forsakenness Jesus is experiencing, it doesn’t further his point at all because it doesn’t solve anything for him either. In his own argument, the forsakenness that Jesus supposedly went through is still a problem because in his own view, Jesus isn’t really forsaken because God still hears him. I would rather suggest that just as Jesus existing as fully God and fully man is a mysterious duality, Jesus existing as God in direct fellowship with, well, himself in the Godhead while also completely forsaken isn’t really any different. It’s a duality that occurs because of who Jesus is and what he did. I mean, seriously–one God in three persons? This kind of paradox is a persistent idea in Scripture.
  3. Ben’s third point is that the “Father went with Jesus all the way to and through the cross”, again refuting that the Father withdrew from Jesus. He uses John 16:32 as his proof, where even after the disciples desert Jesus, the Father will still be with him. To which I say: I agree. That’s exactly what happened. The disciples deserted Jesus, but the Father was still with Jesus. But all the way “to and through the cross”? Again, the verse doesn’t prove that. It allows it as a possibility, but doesn’t definitively prove either his side or mine. Putting that text aside, my second point above, I think, still addresses that tension between Jesus being “one with the Father” but also fully forsaken, too.
  4. The fourth assertion is that 2 Cor 5:19 contradicts the Father deserting Jesus because “God was in Christ reconciling the world to Himself”, meaning that there “was a wholesale involvement with Christ in the middle”. I read this on a couple of other blogs, too, and really don’t even get how this furthers their point. Of course God was reconciling the world to himself by forsaking his very Son, whom he loved. That’s the core of the gospel. Acts 2:23a says, “This man was handed over to you by God’s deliberate plan and foreknowledge.” It was absolutely the Father accomplishing reconciliation in Jesus–or perhaps it could be said it was through Jesus. I mean, just look two verses later in 2 Cor 5: “God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” God wasn’t making himself sin, but the Son. Jesus was the (one and only) agent through which the Father accomplished this reconciliation. Not by being in Jesus when it occurred, but by making it occur in Jesus. Unless I’m just missing the point he’s trying to make…
  5. Here, Ben is appealing to the OT passages that prophesy about Jesus and how in the midst of them God is still with the author in the midst of the desolation described. Ben’s sixth point is similar, so let me address this here in one way and then wrap it up in the next bullet. Let me just make a broad statement about how the NT uses the OT: they totally jack up context left and right. Here’s an easy example. Matt 2:15 says that Jesus and his parents going to Egypt was to fulfill “what the Lord had said through the prophet: “Out of Egypt I called my son.”” That’s a quotation from Hosea 11. Go check it out. That passage, in context, is about how God delivered his people from slavery in Egypt but then they turned from him to follow idols. So, if we’re going to follow Ben’s approach, that prophecy shows that Jesus was sent to Egypt because he’d been a slave there and he would later chase idols. Say what!?!? Of course not! My point is that the NT regularly ignores the grammatical-historical context of the OT passages–and it’s Spirit-inspired, so we can’t say they got it wrong. This is where typology is a more helpful way to understand it, but even that doesn’t solve all the issues. That’s just to say that appealing to the OT context doesn’t solve anything. And that being the case, the suffering servant passages Ben brings up neither further nor hinder his point. And the same for me.
  6. Now, I think Ben has built up to this as his most important point, so let me also let this be mine as well. Ben’s point is that in Psalm 22, the source of, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” the psalmist also says, “He has not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; nor has He hidden His face from him; but when he cried to Him for help, He heard.” And thus he claims that the same must be true for Jesus. Again, I reiterate my fifth point that just because it’s in the context of the OT passage, that doesn’t mean it transfers to the NT context. Regardless, let’s ignore that and ask the question, “Why didn’t God turn his face away from David?” It’s not answered in the psalm, but we know it’s because of the mercy of God. We know from Habakkuk that “your eyes are too pure to look on evil; you cannot tolerate wrongdoing” and from Isaiah that “your eyes are too pure to look on evil; you cannot tolerate wrongdoing.” Is it that David was righteous and that’s why God would listen to him? Check Psalm 51. No way that’s it. So why? Because of the mercy of God. And how could God apply his mercy to David? Because of Jesus.

Let me jump out of the bullets to make this final point: God didn’t turn his face away from David because he did turn his face away from the better David. There was no reason for God to show mercy to David except through his faith in God as redeemer. And who did that redeeming? Jesus did, generations later. Do you see? Psalm 22 shows that David received grace, a gift he didn’t earn. And so the Father didn’t turn his face away as he should have, but regarded David with favor because of the One who did endure God’s wrath and displeasure. Hear it again: “God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” That’s the great exchange. That’s the reason that God did, in fact, turn his face away: so that all the saints–past, present, and future–could become the righteousness of God, not through their merits, but because the Redeemer Jesus had paid the price for their sins. And what was that price? The punishment due for sin, which is “everlasting destruction and [being] shut out from the presence of the Lord and from the glory of his might.” (2 Thess 1:9) That has been paid, by Jesus, the one who endured being shut out from the presence of the Lord and the glory of his might. And all so we could instead share in the glory of King Jesus.

Lest anyone accuse me of just following the typical evangelical line on this, well, just trust me that I find great joy in rocking the boat. But only when I see it. And despite how much I challenge, I will hold gladly and firmly to those doctrines that root the Gospel for us, those who have been chosen by grace, apart from our works. This issue is core to the gospel, not because I particularly care if you much like the phrase “the Father turns his face away”, but because the truth of that statement is core. And that truth is that Jesus was rejected so we’d be accepted, cast out so we could be brought in, and ultimately forsaken for the sins he never committed to that we could be approved for the perfect record we never held.

That is the gospel, through and through.

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From a Book: Bent Creatures Are Full of Fears

I’ve recently been re-reading C.S. Lewis’s Space Trilogy and just finished the first book Out of the Silent Planet. In the book, the word used to describe sin to the inhabitants of Malacandra is “bent”, a word aptly describing how we take the good that God has given and bend it to something other than it’s use. Thus we on Earth (Thulcandra in the book) are all bent. One of the creatures was observing with bemusement how the human visitors had acted so incredibly strangely, full of fear and paranoia. The main character Ransom responded to the creatures who couldn’t understand the fears of their human visitors by saying:

Bent creatures are full of fears.

There’s so much I could say here. So much of my life that is filled with fear. The fear of looking the fool. The fear of getting hurt. The fear of being laughed at. The fear of the future. The fear of my failures. The fear of my successes. The fear of being wrong. The fear of being misunderstood. The fear of being unloved. The fear of my own passions. And on and on and on.

There seems to be a proportional link between our “bentedness” and our fears. Or conversely, the greater our faith, the greater our fearlessness in the hands of a good and wise king. My bentedness is far worse than I lie to myself it is. And the same lies that hide it are also the ones I use to rename my fears as logic and wisdom and reason. But as circumstances have shown lately, I am “laden with guilt and full of fear”, but I hesitate to “fly to thee, my Lord.” Then the blacksmith would have to place me on the anvil and begin to hammer the bends out to straighten me into the image he created me for.

But that would hurt. And I’m afraid of pain.

From a Book: Enchanted as Sin

For [the white witch] knew, though Edmund did not, that this was enchanted Turkish Delight and that anyone who had once tasted it would want more and more of it, and would even, if they were allowed, go on eating it till they killed themselves.

-from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (Book 1 of the Chronicles of Narnia) by C.S. Lewis, Loc 363

In the Name of Love

mirror-with-ornate-frameGet ready for Bill’s duh statement of the day: I can’t see myself. Well, I can see parts of me. But not all of me. And looking in mirrors doesn’t help that much because I still see a backwards version of me. That’s why seeing a picture of yourself (or hearing your own voice, for that matter) is such a shocking thing: we don’t look (to ourselves) the way we actually look (to everyone else).

My soul isn’t any different. I know what I think I’m like on the inside. But I don’t “see” myself clearly. Not at all. Thus trying to diagnose and mend my own soul is a dangerous endeavor–a lot like how it goes when I try to cut my own hair by looking in a mirror.

Well, something happens to me from time to time. It would probably happen more often if I asked Dad for it. But I don’t. I’m usually content in my blissful ignorance of my own failings and sins and temptations. Yet Dad doesn’t always wait around for me to ask for his help–sometimes he sees me headed toward the precipice and he steps in because he loves me.

How this time? A prophecy from my wife. And when she prophesies, it’s really just the Spirit kicking me in the spiritual teeth with words of truth that smart like hell all while she doesn’t even know she’s prophesying. (Yes, prophecy from the Spirit still exists. No, it’s not full of bangs and whistles and fireworks–it’s words from one Spirit-filled Christian to another.) It’s a lot like Eustace having his dragon skin removed by Aslan:

The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. You know—if you’ve ever picked the scab off a sore place. It hurts like billy—oh but it is such fun to see it coming away.

So, what’s my sin? Idolatry. What idol? Get this: her.

Suck.

wooden-heart-2But I love her. Like, I way love her. I would do anything for her. I would sacrifice myself for her. I would go to the end of the world and back for her.

Ah. Yeah. Now I see it. If you subbed in Jesus for all of the “hers” in the last paragraph, all would be hunky dory. That’s the way it’s supposed to be for the King. But not for my wife. At least, not over and above allegiance to and love for the King.

To be honest, I struggled hard in my heart. The way I loved her was good and right. Wasn’t it? How could my love for her and my devotion to her be bad?

Enter another story (I’m apparently in a CS Lewis mood today) called Till We Have Faces. To give a horribly simplistic and overly generalized summary, it tells the story of how one sister loved her sister in such a way as to nearly destroy her. It’s an astounding book and both times I’ve read it, I was caught off-guard with the turn it took near the end and the overlaying complexity of the protagonist (really, just read it for yourself–I’m explaining it horribly).

But to give the necessary background, most of the book is devoted to the older sister citing her case against the gods for how they have brought misery upon her and upon her sister. And interestingly, I still find this part of the book somewhat bland to read ( I say it’s interesting because her self-blindness–like mine–is lame and kinda boring). But then the turn happens. In the very last part of the book, the older sister finally understands that her case against the gods was really a case against herself; that in the name of love she had displayed, to quote an essay I found, “a tyrannically selfish possessiveness.” What she thought was love for her sister was really deep-seated selfishness. It was self-love. And it turned into hate toward the object of her “love”. (Again, I plead with you, read the book. It’s truly worth the time.)

And so, in a book written decades ago, I find myself. I love my wife so fiercely because I love myself.  I want so badly to believe that I love her selflessly, but I love her for myself. And I expect from her the impossible–to be my hope and my joy and my salvation. There’s no other word for that than “idol”.

And so, I’m laid bare. My skin has been stripped by the Lion. I have no turn left but to turn–to repent.

Have mercy on me, O God,
according to your unfailing love;
according to your great compassion
blot out my transgressions.
Wash away all my iniquity
and cleanse me from my sin.

For I know my transgressions,
and my sin is always before me.
Against you, you only, have I sinned
and done what is evil in your sight;
so you are right in your verdict
and justified when you judge.

Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;
wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.
Let me hear joy and gladness;
let the bones you have crushed rejoice.
Hide your face from my sins
and blot out all my iniquity.

Create in me a pure heart, O God,
and renew a steadfast spirit within me.
Do not cast me from your presence
or take your Holy Spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of your salvation
and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.

Then I will teach transgressors your ways,
so that sinners will turn back to you.
Open my lips, Lord,
and my mouth will declare your praise.
You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it;
you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings.
My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit;
a broken and contrite heart
you, God, will not despise.
(from Psalm 51)