Repentance (Reflections from a Funeral)

I went to a funeral of the parent of an acquaintance this week. My acquaintance is that flavor of Baptist that is very knowledgeable about the Bible, can slip his faith or God’s blessing into every conversation almost without fail (ie, “witnessing”), and has a very specific and narrow meaning of being a Christian and what’s required to go to heaven. By his standards, his father did not make the cut, and so the funeral was a bitter-sweet event.

The funeral itself had a distinct emphasis on the need for repentance along with a large dose of “we don’t know the hour of our death.” There was urgency in the service (including a couple verses of the hymn, “Just As I Am”). Fortunately there were no direct aspersions cast on the deceased. Instead there was a focus on using our time wisely while still on earth. (That is, by implication, taking the time to accept Jesus as our Savior.)

I’ve been away from Fundamentalism for a long time, and as a result, it didn’t occur to me that all my talk about repentance in recent essays might be put into this conservative evangelical context by my readers. When it comes to how we understand repentance, context is everything.

Orthodoxy begins with a belief in a generous God. God is for us (the affirmation at the heart of Paul’s rhetorical question in Rom 8:31, “If God is for us, who can be against us?”). God is doing everything in his power to help us freely choose him. Orthodoxy moves from the foundation of a generous God to framework of joy. The eucharist is the joyful feast and every week we enter into the joy of God’s presence.

Repentance is also a very big deal. Our understanding of the human side of salvation is structured around repentance. But because Orthodoxy begins with a generous God and the framework is joy, repentance is often called “the joyful sorrow.” We are sorrowful for our own sin and willfulness; we are sorrowful for the corruption of the world, but it is a sorrow that set in the context of the endless joy of the kingdom. The sorrow comes because we know we’re missing out on the fullness of what might be because of our sin.

Fundamentalism begins, not with a generous God, but with a holy God. Furthermore, divine holiness is understood in a particular way. According to this tradition, holiness is such that it cannot abide the presence of that which is not holy. It is a holiness that seems fragile because it can be sullied  by the presence of sin. God can have fellowship with humans only because our sin is hidden by Jesus Christ. When God looks on us, he does not see our transgressions, but only Christ’s holiness. This is why God can bear to be around us.

There is a great deal of joy within fundamentalism, but there is also a great deal of fear. Because everything starts and ends with this particular view of holiness, one must worry a great deal about unrighteousness. Judgment can never be too far away from unrighteousness because can’t bear to be in the presence of that unrighteousness.

It is hard to state how different this is from Orthodoxy. Fr. Sophrony was once asked if he believed that unbelievers would ultimately go to hell. His startling answer was, “I don’t know, but what I do know is that if anyone is in hell, Jesus Christ is with them.

Orthodoxy also has a very strong emphasis on the holiness of God. I would argue that it has a far deeper sense of divine holiness than fundamentalism. But God’s holiness is not fragile as it is conceived in fundamentalism. It is a holiness that gladly veils itself so that it can be in the company of sinners such as prostitutes and tax collectors. Of course Jesus, who embodied this sort of holiness, got into a lot trouble with the religious establishment (who had a view of holiness not unlike my friend’s view).

In this traditional view, holiness is frequently compared to fire. Fire doesn’t mind being in the presence of wood, it is wood that has a problem with being in the presence of fire because the fire will consume the wood. Repentance is the process of getting rid of the wood so that only the precious metal remains. Judgment does not destroy me, it only destroys the wood. But if I am in love with wood of my life, if I confuse the wood for the precious metal, when I enter into God’s presence it feels like I am being destroyed. Judgment is strictly a purification.

And this brings me back to the funeral, and funerals in general. I did not know the deceased and so I have no sense of who he was as a person. I do believe in hell, but my conception of it has changed dramatically from my fundamentalist days. I do not believe God sends anyone to hell. Those who go there do it by their own choice; they prefer the wood over the precious metal. Being absorbed by self and antagonistic to God, they would prefer an eternity in misery, holding on to the eternally burning wood of their false being.

Quite frankly, I have little sense of any other person’s eternal destiny. Some of the most wonderful people I have known have turned out to be truly terrible people. “Holy fools” are famous for being obnoxious people who are actually holy underneath the scabs of their humanity. The funeral is not, or at least should not be, a celebration of a person’s eternal destiny. It is, rather a celebration of Jesus Christ who is the Life of the World, the One who trampled Death by death and led the captives from the grave, the eternal Flame of God who burns away the wood of our false being so that all that remains is the precious metal of what God created and intended in the first place.

There is a “Where’s Waldo” sensibility to a proper funeral. Funerals are at the same time terrible and joyous. They are terrible because a dead person is laying there in our midst. They are terrible because funerals are inevitably a reminder of just how disastrous the corruption of the world truly is. But in the midst of this is the joy of Christ. Those who have eyes to see can find the life-giving Christ in any situation, even death. Funerals are an exercise in finding and focusing on the giver of Life and Light in the midst of death and despair. Whether the dead guy is a holy monk or a backslidden Methodist, the funeral is the same. It doesn’t revolve around the dead person; it revolves around Jesus Christ.

If I were in my friend’s shoes, how would I think about this guy in the coffin who apparently never repented. That’s not my problem. Every moment I am focused on someone else’s repentance is a moment I am ignoring my own repentance. This doesn’t mean that we should not spur each other toward love and good deeds (Heb. 10:24). But after death, it is actually a holy discipline to focus on the reality that God is a generous God. All things work together for good to those who love God (Rom. 8:28). Tallying up the sins and lack of repentance of the dead guy in the casket is in truth a subtle way of avoiding the state of our own soul, or comparing my seeming goodness to the other person’s seeming badness (instead of God’s goodness) and thus coming out looking good.

God is generous and good. The kingdom is preeminently a place of joy. Don’t let anyone, even your loved ones, steal that reality from you. Even in the darkest moment, the good God, living, loving fire of Christ’s presence can be found for those with the eyes to see it. Amen.

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Big Salvation Words: Repentance

And so we come to my final big salvation word: Repentance. In case you haven’t figured it out, this little collection of essays are a Lenten meditation. It might seem odd to choose the word “repentance” on this day after Easter. “Shouldn’t you be talking about victory, or new life, or bunnies?” you ask.

Ah, but in truth I am talking quite precisely about our new life in Christ that is made possible in Christ’s resurrection. For millennia those intimate with the spiritual practice of the church has said unequivocally that the Christian life is a life of repentance.

Once God’s divine life and light begin to flow into our being the secret corners of our life begin to be revealed. Once the light is turned on, we see that we need to change. Once we are given the gift of new life, we have the ability to change, or more precisely, to be transformed by the Holy Spirit within us.

And so I repent: I begin to clean out the cobwebs in the corners I have carefully avoided for much of my life. And as I clean out the cobwebs, I find another secret door that I have forgotten about. As I open it and God’s light shines in, I discover that I need to repent all over again. This leads to more inner hallways and doors, more spider webs, and alas, more repentance.

Said in this way, it all sounds rather dreary. But in fact, it is the most joyful thing a Christian can do.

Sometimes we are seduced into thinking that the Christian life is mostly about “fellowship” (ie, coffee and croissants at the coffee shop with my church buddies), “service” (ie, serving meals at the local homeless shelter), spiritual growth (reading Christian blogs, listening to Christian podcasts, reading the Bible), and thinking good thoughts that will chase out the negative thoughts.

None of these are bad things, but too often we settle for the good and never get around to the best things. “And this is my prayer, that your love may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight to help you to determine what is best, so that in the day of Christ you may be pure and blameless” (Phil 1:9f). This can only happen in the midst of repentance.

I remember renting my first apartment, a dark, dingy thing that was dirty and bug infested, but something I could afford. I was pretty depressed. But a group of college friends came over and helped my roommate and I clean it up. Windows were washed, curtains were taken down and new bright curtains were put up. Light bulbs were replaced. The carpet was cleaned. Wash buckets of pine-smelling cleaner were handed out. By the time we ordered pizza that evening, we were shocked to discover that we actually had a nice little apartment.

That is a picture of true Christian repentance and the resulting authentic Christian joy. Christ is risen. His light shines. Make the most of it. Amen.

Big Salvation Words: mercy

If you’ve been paying attention for the last month or so as I’ve considered a variety of “big salvation words,” you might realize that asking God for mercy implies much more than, “A little help, please?” At the root of mercy is the double edged sword of divine help through the process of God unmasking everything I am and have ever done (as the Samaritan woman discovered at the well). After a severe warning about disobedience, the Letter to the Hebrews describes it this way:

Let us therefore make every effort to enter that rest, so that no one may fall through such disobedience as theirs. Indeed, the Word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from morrow; it is able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart. And before him no creature is hidden, but all are naked and laid bare to the eyes of the one to whom we must render an account.

Since, then, we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus, the Son of God, let us hold fast to our confession. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. (Heb 4:11-16)

When read in context, this final verse inviting us to God’s mercy sounds much more ominous than when it stands alone. So far in this series I have mostly talked about the back side of divine activity in the world – judgment, wrath, the fire of love – and now as we turn to the front side, we find exactly the same themes coming to the foreground.

Mercy is not the act of God accepting us as we like to imagine ourselves, it is God accepting us as we are so that he can transform us into his likeness. Ephesians says that there is a necessary process of putting off the old nature and putting on (or being renewed in) the new nature (Eph 44:17ff). I’m quite sure that none of us understand just how devastating “putting off our old nature” is going to turn out to be. We have an amazing ability to view ourselves in the most positive light possible and the result is that we underestimate just how difficult the transformation will turn out to be.

In Walter Wangerin’s dark and beautiful novel, The Book of Sorrows, a follow up to The Book of the Dun Cow, one of the characters, a bastard beast who is half snake and half rooster (ie, old nature and new nature) comes to the point where he needs to shed his snake skin and become a rooster. The process is is itchy; it is painful; it takes a long time; it’s smelly; and he becomes dismayed and regrets the process:

Welcome to divine mercy.

God is in the business of saving us, but he is not in the business in saving that particular persona that we are so fond of, that we show to our friends in order that they will think we are a nice person, nor is God in the business of saving our work persona, which exudes excellence and confidence to our boss. God is in the business of stripping off the snake so that he can save the real me that buried deep beneath my various personas and self-delusions.

The practical effect is that if I want to actually experience divine mercy, I need to actually experience my true inner self which is wicked, deceitful, and (here one can add any number of other synonyms for sin) …

Mercy is truly all glory and light and happiness. Divine mercy doubly so. But that light is at the end of the tunnel of repentance. In short, deep inside your secret self, you desperately want divine mercy. Furthermore, you should absolutely pursue divine mercy; you should pray, asking God for his mercy. But beware. The road to mercy fully and absolutely embracing us is arduous. Pray this prayer with your eyes wide open. Pray this prayer with the knowledge that Aslan is a wild Lion (in Lucy Pevensie’s famous words in the Narnia Chronicles). As the aphorism goes, “Be careful what you ask for. You might get it.”

Big Salvation Words: “Redemption” pt. 2

chrisfarleyquotesIn the previous essay I explained why our “redemption” is a bit ironic (and therefore in quotes). In this essay I want to consider a second reason why we might want to keep those quotation marks around this Big Salvation Word. A cynic might look at the Christians all around and say that salvation is pretty meaningless because the Christians are no better than everyone else. Even Paul is frustrated by this reality. “Wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?” (Rom 7:24).

Our redemption has the odd character of having arrived while at the same time being something that will arrive in the future. Our redemption is complete but not yet consummated. As a result, we live out our faith in a strange “already but not yet” existence in which we are saved, but not yet, we are victors, and yet suffer under the bondage of sin.

In order to sort out this strange state of affairs, Protestant theology has typically divided salvation into three phases: justification (past tense, we are saved), sanctification (perfect tense, we are being saved) and glorification (future tense, we will be saved). Our seeming bondage to sin can be slowly overcome (we are being saved) and will ultimately be revealed at the consummation of all things (we will be saved). But this division is problematic.

Let’s be clear that any attempt to fully describe our salvation in limited human categories is bound to fail because salvation is a divine act the fullness of which lies beyond our grasp. The classic Protestant division of justification, sanctification, and glorification attempts to describe things from the perspective of linear time but fails to account for the reality of God outside of time and the possibility that God’s acts are not linear in the same manner that our human perception of them are.

It is this idea of God outside of time that Karl Barth focuses on. Consider the three days in the tomb. Why did Jesus spend three days dead? Christ needed only a few moments in death to defeat death. It wasn’t literally a three-day struggle from which he emerged victorious. The three days in the tomb is not for God’s sake it is for our sake. If Jesus would have died on the cross and then been resurrected while the Centurions were removing him from the cross, everyone (including the disciples who pretty much doubted everything at this point in time) would have assumed that he never died at all but only swooned. Three days, on the other hand, was evidence for us that he was truly dead. But seen from the perspective of Christ in the tomb, “the sacrifice which redeems the world is already as completely behind him as the grace of God the Father in his reawakening is before him” (CD IV/1, p. 323).

Similarly, there is no conceptual need for a time of the Church, the period from the mighty acts of salvation (death, resurrection, ascension, coming of the Holy Spirit) to that time when Christ will ultimately come again in the consummation of all things. Salvation has already arrived and is completely behind us, yet we wait to be saved because our salvation remains before us. Rather than seeing the time of the Church as progressive (past, present, and future salvation), Barth describes it as an overlap of two times (p. 322).

Because of these “two times,” there are two things happening simultaneously. On the one hand we are saved; we are alive; we have the sanctifying Holy Spirit living within us. On the other hand, we are engaged in a pitched battle against Sin and Death. The battle is a holding action, but it is not one that we can actually win (although, in the overlapping time of the future, it has already been won on our behalf). Rather we battle away, waiting for that time when the overlapping time of the past comes to a final end, and Christ ultimately and finally and triumphantly defeats Sin and Death.

Our goal, when viewed from the perspective of two overlapping times, is not sanctification, that is to get better and better, but rather to continue the fight. Some days we make progress against the enemy and some days the enemy makes progress against us, but our fight is a patient one, as we await the overwhelming force of Christ himself.

I grew up in a Christian tradition in which sanctification was a big deal. When I became a Presbyterian I discovered it was not a focus of theirs. John Calvin, while on the one hand embracing the doctrine of sanctification, was, on the other hand, rather cool toward the actual process of it. Karl Barth managed to get to the heart of Calvin’s nervousness in a way that Calvin was never able to express well.

If we live our Christian lives with only the progressive idea of redemption in mind, we can begin to be seduced by images of grandeur, that we can actually defeat (in the sense of a final defeat) the devil once and for all, that we can finally overcome our passions once and for all, that we can be holy, and faithful, and loving and joyful, once and for all. And when we fail to do this, we then tend to drift toward John Bunyan’s famed slough of despond and begin to think of ourselves as failures.

If, on the other other hand, we live our Christian lives keeping the idea of the two distinct times in mind, we then do all the same things such as fight evil, work to overcome our passions, become more like Christ, but we understand that there is nothing particularly progressive about it. It’s a day to day slog yesterday being pretty much the same as tomorrow. But we do this within the context of Christian hope, with the sure understanding that this time is coming to an end and our true Victor, Christ, is coming. Life ceases to be a slog and becomes a matter of faithfulness buoyed by hope, even when we see no progress.

And so it is that “redemption” remains bracketed off. It is here, but not yet here. It is accomplished but yet we wait for its arrival. It’s not fully accomplished and so it remains “redemption” awaiting the time that our Savior removes the shroud of the quotations marks and we will be able to gaze upon him face to face.

Big Salvation Words: “Redemption,” Pt. 1

giphyBeing a common word that is used frequently when we talk about salvation, it’s easy to forget that redeem is a fiscal term. It is first used to describe the Israelites salvation from slavery to the Egyptians (Ex. 6:6). In a normal slave transaction, humans are bought and sold. If a person wants to free a slave, it would be necessary to first purchase (redeem) the slave from the current owner and then set him or her free. This is the classic fiscal meaning of the term “redemption.”

Of course, that’s not at all what happened to the Israelites. At first Moses politely demanded that the Israelites be set free (Ex. 5:1). Egypt’s Pharaoh refused and a battle of wills and disaster ensued. Each time the Pharaoh refused, another plague came upon Egypt (Ex. 5-12). In the end, not only did the Israelites leave Egypt, the Egyptians gave them jewelry and gold on their way out (Ex. 3:21-22), lost their first born (Ex. 12:29) and their army (Ex. 14:26-30). This is not a redemption from slavery at all if we think of it in fiscal terms. The slave owners (the Egyptians) were plundered and utterly defeated, so if anyone paid, it was the Egyptians.

Israel’s redemption from slavery is therefore more ironic than literal. It might be better say that they were “redeemed” from Egypt, the double quotes not implying that it did not happen, but rather that the transaction went in the opposite direction, the Egyptians paying for the privilege of releasing the Israelites from slavery.

There’s another monetary term that’s used three times in the New Testament, once by Jesus (in Mk 10:45 and Mt 20:28, in parallel passages) and 1 Tim. 2:6. Mark 10:45 says, “For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.” This phrase has led to a great deal of speculation about who was being paid the ransom. Among the ideas floated about is that it is either the Devil (more common in the Christian West) or Death itself (more common in the Christian East) that is on the other end of the transaction. In response, the rest of the commentators are a bit horrified by the idea that Christ was paying a ransom to Death or the Devil in order to buy us out of slavery. So this is a controversial topic.

But it doesn’t have to be if we keep in mind two things: first, that “ransom” is, in a sense, the noun form of the verb “to redeem,” and second, what actually happened when the Israelites were “redeemed.” In other words, if we maintain the ironic character of this ransom, it’s not a problem. The Pashcal Troparian (or hymn, if you want a more common term in English) that is sung throughout the Easter season in the Orthodox Church, and sung several dozen times during the Pascha service itself (with either the priest or the choir randomly breaking out in song during the service as a sort of celebratory exclamation point), says, “Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs bestowing life.” This hymn gets to the heart of the matter.

Like the Israelites “far down in Egypt land,” this is redemption language turned on its head. We are “ransomed” or “redeemed” from Death, but ironically, it is Death who ultimately pays – not Christ, not us – and is therefore ultimately defeated.

And then the Exodus imagery is extended even further. Death is not only defeated, Death becomes an important and even vital tool for Life. Paul says, “If you live according to the flesh, you will die, but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live” (Rom. 8:13). Colossians is even more specific. “Put to death, therefore, whatever in you is earthly: fornication, impurity, passion, evil desire, and greed (which is idolatry)” (3:5). And then the text goes on to pick up another Big Salvation Word (see this post) in the next verse: “On account of these the wrath of God is coming on those who are disobedient.”

So, in the beginning (that is, the three days Jesus is in the tomb), Death pays for the privilege of giving us life and releasing us. And then, Death keeps on paying by becoming the tool that we use “to work out our salvation” and ridding ourselves of the passions that would otherwise prevent us from becoming Christ-like in this life.

And this is the delicious irony of our redemption: It’s a “ransom” … It is God’s act of making Death work against itself in order to give us victory and life.

Big Salvation Words: Wrath

Among Karl Barth’s opening general observations about the Doctrine of Reconciliation, he says that God “does not merely give out of His fulness (sic). In His fulness He gives Himself to be with” us and for us. God “gives Himself , and in so doing gives [us] all things.” Giving us “all things” is a good thing, right? Not so fast!

Barth continues: “Even in his experience of what comes to him from God, man can be blind or half-blind, and can therefore make mistakes, and can find terror and destruction in what God has allotted and gives as a supreme benefit. … Even the divine favour will then take on the aspect of wrath. God’s Yes will then become a No and His grace a judgment. The light itself will blind him and plunge him in darkness” (CD IV/1, pp 40f).

In relation to people who reject God, Barth insists that God is not angry, only merciful. “The love of God burns where they are, but as the fire of His wrath which consumes and destroys them. God lives for them, but the life of God can only mean death for those who are His enemies” [from their perspective, not from God’s perspective] (p. 221).

This idea of God’s light being both the warmth of love, the consuming power of divine passion for us, and in contrast, at the same time the consuming power of vengeance is a common theme in the Holy mothers and fathers. God’s mercy could be described as God’s willingness not to shine his love directly upon us (because it would destroy us) but only in veiled form. Once the chaff is gone and we are purified (that is, once we have arrived in heaven), we will be able to endure this shining love, but now it would destroy us.

It is in this sense that the Holy mothers and fathers also claim that heaven and hell are the same place. The conjecture is that all humans enter the identical presence of God after death. For the righteous this presence is love, glory, and light. For the unrighteous it is the consuming fires of hell.

In short, Barth is in full agreement with the ancient church that the wrath of God is a human reaction to God’s presence. Wrath is a negative human interpretation of the fire of God’s love.

Big Salvation Words: Judgment

In one of his more surprising insights, Karl Barth claims that the Fall of Adam and Eve, the root of their sin, was an act of judgment on their part. Adam and Eve “become sinners in trying to be as God: a judge” (CD IV/1 231). Barth says that to be human in the world as we know it (that is, hostile to God) is to be the “pseudo-sovereign creature” who believes its “most sacred duty [is] to have knowledge of good and evil.” Furthermore, we use that “knowledge” to “be a judge, to want to be able and competent to pronounce ourselves free and righteous and others more or less guilty.”

Unfortunately we are terrible judges. Our standard of righteousness, rather than matching reality, is a sliding scale that puts us into the best possible light. Judgment becomes an instrument of value, making us more valuable in our own eyes while making others less valuable, on (again) a sliding scale that allows me to dehumanize you and others that I especially want to dismiss.

Real judgment is something altogether different. Real judgment establishes our true and indelible humanity (and thus our worthiness as creatures of God) and distinguishes our true self from our failures, allowing God to transform us into what we might becomes. As Barth says, “In [God’s] hand there lies this solemn and powerful and redemptive instrument. In ours there is only a copy, a foolish and dangerous but ultimately ineffective toy” (p. 232)

Because of our confusion about judgment as it is exercised in human hands, it is also necessary to say that judgment does not grow out of anger or divine honor, or a need for cosmic justice. It is rather a relational act. “This is undoubtedly the mystery of the divine mercy. God acted in this way because He grieved over His people, because He did not will to abandon the world in its unreconciled state and therefore on the way which leads to destruction, because He willed to show to it an unmerited faithfulness as the Creator, because in His own inconceivable way He loved it” (p 237). We don’t typically think of judgment as an outgrowth of grief and loss, but true judgment is just that.

Finally, we need to understand that divine judgment is merciful because it is final. Much of our life is spent with a shadow of guilt darkening it. Our experience of being judged is that if I am judged unworthy today, the same will happen tomorrow. Human judgment is too often not an act, but an ongoing attitude or devaluing of the other person. Divine judgment is nothing like this belittling action which we often confuse with judgment. The divine sort is “a judgment beside and after and beyond which there need be no further fear of judgment; a judgment which concludes once and for all with redemption and salvation …” (p. 222).

This is not to say that judgment is pleasant, something to look forward to with longing, or any other such nonsense. But it is equally nonsensical to dread it because we tend to equate judgment with condemnation. Judgment, in the mystery of the divine economy, is the evaluation (or, the revelation of who we truly are in our inmost secret self) that makes grace possible. It is the first step in our rescue from despair. It is indeed the “solemn and powerful redemptive instrument” that God uses to bring us sinful humans to himself.

Big Salvation Words: Righteousness

Over the next few weeks I would like to revisit some of the big words that relate to our salvation. Many of them are hard and even frightening words, so we have a tendency to ignore them, or in the case of a word like “wrath,” leave them to the very conservative Christians who seem to revel in them. That’s a mistake.

After World War II – a war that was disastrous for European Protestantism because it revealed how empty that Protestantism was – Karl Barth did the hard work work of looking seriously at all these words and reincorporating the words and the ideas behind them into his theology.

One of the things Barth demonstrated was that it is not possible to merely turn to the Bible to define the big words. We bring all of our cultural assumptions to bear and thus when we read them in the Bible, what we are typically “reading” is not necessarily what the Bible actually says, but a subtle revision of what it says aligned with our cultural assumptions. Thus, you will not find a lot of biblical quotations in these essays. It’s not an exercise in what the Bible says so much as it is a proper definition of terms so that we can understand what the Bible says.

I will be focusing on a single volume of Barth’s Church Dogmatics that deals specifically with the atonement. Volume IV, “The Doctrine of Reconciliation” is divided into multiple volumes. I will be using Part One. (It is typically identified as CD IV/1. When you see “CD IV/1, p 1,” or simply “p. 1,” you will know this is what I am referring to.)

The first word I want to consider is “righteousness.” I suspect we often unconsciously think of righteousness as a substance. For instance, I might pray that God would fill me with righteousness (as if it is something that can be poured into me). We might also pray that God would make me more righteous, as if there is a sliding scale, sort of like the air purity index.

In contrast to this, it’s helpful to think of righteousness as a binary (that is, only two options). The binary, in this case would be “right” or “wrong.” Then we might thing of the opposite of righteousness as “wrongeousness,” (if I may coin a word).

This approach to the word is helpful because righteousness is not a value judgment. For example, “God is righteous.” is not a parallel statement to “Michael is handsome.” Something that is far more close to being a parallel statement to “God is righteous.” is, “The speed of light is 3×10^8 m/s.” No value judgment, it is what it is.

The rightness that is referred to in the word “righteousness” is not a value judgment, it is a description of reality. The “rightness” is the way things are. This “rightness” of God is akin to things like gravity, the conservation of energy, etc. Barth defines it as, “the omnipotence of God creating order, which is now revealed and effective as a turning from this present evil aeon to the new one of a world reconciled with God in Him” (p. 256).

Eventually this distinction between value judgment and reality will become quite important. If this were a value judgment, God’s response to our unrighteousness could be construed as emotional. Thus divine wrath could be conflated with anger and vengeance (a term that appears 20 times in the Old Testament) could be conflated with revenge.

But once we understand that divine righteousness is a binary concept, we can begin to grasp that assuming that God is angry or disappointed or let down when we sin makes about as much sense as saying the building that the speeding Corvette ran into was angry at the Corvette and that’s why the building wrecked it and killed its driver.

To say that God is righteous, therefore, is, first and foremost, to proclaim God’s character. Secondarily, it tells us something about creation: The Creator imbued his ultimate reality into this created reality. The same righteousness that characterizes God characterizes our proper relationship to creation as well as to God.

The righteousness of God is not something that we try to achieve, it’s not something we try to measure up to. The righteousness of God is simply the reality in which live, and if we refuse to live in this reality of righteousness we will die as certainly as that unfortunate Corvette driver. This is the context in which we will explore other key words related to our salvation.