Impeccability and Eschatology

One of the things that's interesting about impeccability is that it's a trait that those in heaven will all share (unless you're like Origen and think that we'll be able to sin in heaven).  We are told fairly clearly in Scripture that this will be the case:  the consequences of sin (death, tears, pain, et c.) will be wiped away (Re 21.4).

What, then?  Do we conclude from this that we are no longer really human in heaven?  The Scripture is clear that we will have a glorified body (1Co 15.35ff), it is true, but it seems equally evident that this body is not entirely dissociated from our experiences and lives here on earth.  Indeed, Paul explicitly calls Jesus the "man from heaven," a man with a heavenly body.  Christianity is intensely corporeal and physical.

I do not think, however, that we are given leave to assume that the ability to sin is essential to the concept of humanity.  We will be human in heaven, and we will not have the ability to sin.  Indeed, this is what we look forward to:  how awful it would be to yet fear sin!  We all groan with Paul when he writes, "Wretched man that I am!  Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?" and rejoice with him when he responds, "I thank God, through Jesus Christ our Lord!" (Ro 7.24,5).

If we orient this view backwards on Christ, then, we can gain a clearer appreciation of what it means to be impeccable:  it means that we are truly human.  It is a grave error to impute to his humanity the fallenness of my own; indeed, it's quite backwards.  Just like our personhood is seen most clearly through the personhood of the Trinity, so also our humanity is seen most clearly in the humanity of Jesus Christ.  Our reference point has been reseated:  it is no longer Adam, but Christ, who defines what it means to be human.

Because he was impeccable, so we have the confidence that we likewise shall be, when we finally see him and are like him (1Jo 3.2), and in him there is no sin (1Jo 3.5; cp. Ez 28.15?).

Indulgence is Contempt

(Or:  Esteem others better than yourself.)

I've powered my way through a lot of Scripture lately, trying to make up for some lost time this year.

In reading through Psalm 17, it concludes with the phrase, "I shall be satisfied when I awake in Your likeness," contrasting the satisfaction of the Psalmist with the satisfaction of the man whose only goal in life is to leave a posterity for his children.  (This was powerful for me, but it's another post.)

I think the Psalm itself is Messianic (it fits thematically with other Messianic Psalms, anyway, and it is in the middle of some of them, also), so I see in this statement the glorification of Jesus Christ.

But I think it is properly extended to us also, who are to be conformed to his likeness and image (Ro 8.28ff).  That is the goal of God's work in our lives, and the promise of his elective decree.  We see in other passages that Jesus humiliated himself for us, esteeming us better than himself.  It is for this reason that Paul can enjoin the same of us (Philippians 2).

It struck me in thinking about this that this implies not being indulgent or paternal in the ways that we treat others.  When we marginalize their fears or concerns or treat their dreams or pastimes as cute, we implicitly suggest our own superiority.  This is exactly the opposite of what we read in Philippians, and exactly the opposite of how Christ acted toward us.

On Hebrew Poetry

There is a really cool article on the poetic craft by Justin Taylor.  The passage he uses, Psalm 19, is one of my favorites from a gospel perspective.  I'd highly recommend the article for this reason, and because it will certainly help improve your reading.

Philemon

I was pleasantly surprised last night that we were in Philemon in church—not going every Wednesday gives you that added bit of uncertainty, I guess.  While the sermon itself tended far more to law than grace, I wanted to pick up a few bullet-points of interest to me:

• About the time of the writing (probably 60–62 AD), Lucius Pedanius Secundus was murdered by a slave.  Roman law at the time required that all of his slaves be executed, and Nero carried out the sentence on 400.  That Onesimus was also under a death sentence for running away from his master adds a certain sense of urgency to this letter.
  
• One wonders what sort of jailer Christ is (v1).  Paul is his prisoner; do we suppose that Jesus Christ is so poor a jailer as to let him go?  Rome does not hold Paul captive:  Jesus does.
  
• There are marks of grace all over the letter.  Paul's plea in vv17ff is so highly reminiscent of the pleas that Christ must make for us:  "Put it on my account" he writes.
  
• How much, incidentally, is this like the Good Samaritan, who provides coin for the recovery of the man near death, but also promises to pay any other debt he incurs when he returns.  A comforting thought, this, that Christ resurrects us and promises to pay the debts our sin nature continues to incur.
  
• The mention of Mark in verse 24 fits with Colossians 4:10, where he is admitted to fellowship despite the argument between Paul and Barnabas (Acts 15:39).  There is grace here:  Mark's errors are not reviewed or open—he is simply admitted to fellowship.
  
• Contra Mark is Demas, who at the time of this writing is in good standing but appears by the end of Paul's life (perhaps 63 AD if we accept Pauline authorship of 2d Timothy) to have forsaken him (2Ti 4:10).
  
• Onesimus' name means "useful," and so there is a lot of wordplay here in v11 and v20 also.

Lots of stuff going on in this short letter.  Really enjoy it from many different perspectives.

Self-portraits

Simon of Cyrene is a bit of a self-portrait in the Scriptures; evidently his sons were figures in the early church (cf Mk 15.21).  There is no indication in the Bible that he had any other interaction with Jesus other than to carry his cross on the road to Calvary.  But this brief walk down the road seems to have completely transformed his life—so much so that it lived on in his sons, Alexander and Rufus.

As we would expect, the focus is not on Simon, as though he is to be admired, but on Jesus Christ, the one who suffered and died.  All we know about Simon is that he carried the cross a ways and that he had two sons.

In a way, this ambiguity about the life of Simon provides us an opportunity to paint our face over his, to see ourselves in his encounter.  I think the Scriptures do this for us on purpose, though most explicitly in the life of Paul.

Paul writes of his conversion—being struck down on the road to Damascus—that he was a prototype for all future believers (1Ti 1.16).  There is a Damascus road for all of us.  While we are enemies, blasphemers, and persecutors, Jesus strikes us down and pulls us to himself.  It is a hostile invasion of sorts, but one, I think, that is in retrospect always welcome, and always tinged with the experience of the Savior suffering on his road to Calvary.