Resurrection

Resurrection and the Restoration of God’s People

This is the next instalment of a series of articles I have written on the multi-layered significance of the resurrection of Jesus (a series I began some years ago). Fair warning: this one is long. Very, very long! Hopefully, though, your persistence will be rewarded.

Introduction

John 20 contains a rather intriguing moment. Having discovered that Jesus’ tomb was empty, Mary Magdalene remains outside the holy sepulchre, weeping (v.11). Jesus then appears to her – although she mistakes him for the gardener, and pleads with him to tell her where the Lord’s corpse might be. But once Mary realizes who it is, she cries out in recognition, and tries desperately to cling to him (v.16). Jesus then responds, but in so fleeting a manner that one could be forgiven for overlooking what he says. Nevertheless, it is of seminal, even revolutionary, import. I’m not referring to the fact that Jesus bade Mary to let go of him; it’s what he says next – commanding her to convey the good news of his coming ascension to the disciples – that is worthy of attention.

What is it about Jesus’ directive that is so noteworthy? Notice what he says: “Go instead to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am returning to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God” (v.17). This is a remarkably significant moment – particularly given the way the Johannine Jesus uses familial language in the rest of the narrative. Throughout the Fourth Gospel, Jesus speaks exclusively of his close filial relationship with the Father. Consistently referring to God as “my Father” (5:17, 43; 6:32, 40; 8:19, 49, 54), Jesus deliberately distinguishes the relationship he enjoys with the Almighty from that of his contemporaries. Up until this point, he nowhere said that God was anyone else’s father, expect in an oblique, ironic sense (John 10:34-36). But now, he includes the disciples in the pattern of sonship he alone had enjoyed. They, too, have the privilege of relating to God in a relationship of filial love, and to Jesus in the context of a fraternal partnership.

But why the sudden change? Why does Jesus now broaden God’s spiritual paternity, having earlier marked out his own unique sonship? Why can the disciples count themselves as his brothers? According to John, it is Jesus’ resurrection that has led to this shift, this epochal expansion. Brief though this moment may be, John 20:17 offers us a window, a glimpse, into the deep theological and eschatological connections between resurrection and the re-establishment of the covenant community, or a divinely-authored family (to borrow John’s language). The crucial role the raising of Jesus played in the restoration of God’s people is, therefore, the focus of this article.

Getting a Sense of the Eschatological Terrain

The task of unpacking the above connections will occupy us soon. But first, it is worth sketching the backdrop against which the drama of Jesus’ ministry – culminating in the events of Easter – took place. The man from Nazareth appeared at a time of great tumult, marked by (among other things) the intensification of eschatological expectations. For many years, Jews had grappled with what appeared to be their ongoing exile, centuries after the Babylonian captivity. Despite their return to the land that had been given them, God’s people still experienced the hardships associated with that catastrophic expulsion. Theologian N.T. Wright has argued that whilst the Jews’ geographical exile had ceased, their theological exile persisted. Riven now by conflict and factionalism, they were not the holy people God had summoned them to be. He himself appeared to be absent, having apparently abandoned his treasured possession. Moreover, the land was not under Jewish control; by the time of Jesus’ advent, most of his co-religionists were chafing under the weight of Roman occupation. Where there existed some superficial autonomy, it was invested in local client rulers: vain men, who gloried in their venality and corruption.

These depressing realities provoked a diverse array of responses, running the gamut from collaborationist to outright – and violent – opposition. Despite the multiplicity of views and attitudes that prevailed, however, an enduring current of hope ran through a great swathe of first-century Judaism. This hope centred upon the promise of the eventual restoration of the Jewish nation, in a decisive unveiling of Yahweh’s reign. It was a longing that God would do for Israel what he had repeatedly vowed through the prophets – namely, that he would cleanse and redeem his people, bringing the long, dark night of exile to an end. OT texts such as Isaiah 40-66, Jeremiah 30-31, Ezekiel 36-37, and even Amos 9:11-15, buoyed the faith of many first-century Jews, fuelling their expectation that God would eventually manifest his saving sovereignty. The late NT scholar, C.H. Dodd, offered an apt summation when he wrote that “behind all the programmes [current within first-century Judaism] there remained the august idea of God himself coming to reign as sovereign, the living God, present and powerful”. The biblical touchstone for such anticipation was, of course, the exodus itself. It was thought to provide the paradigm which all later acts of divine liberation were to recapitulate.

As an associated idea, it was common (though not universal) for first-century Jews to conceive of liberation in terms of a militarized victory over the pagan enemies of God. Such a victory would, it was thought, be won through the agency of a specially anointed individual – the Messiah, in other words. Certain OT texts envisaged a royal, Davidic figure acting decisively as God’s man, defeating the nation’s oppressors on its behalf. Indeed, texts such as 2 Sam 7:14, Psalm 2, or Ezekiel 37, were cited to help sustain the hope that a Davidic descendant would reveal himself in messianic glory to rescue God’s people from those who’d tyrannized them. By the early decades of the first century, this belief was being refracted through the experiences of the Jewish nation, subject as it was to Roman dominion. Consequently, the violent overthrow of the nation’s pagan rulers was, in many quarters, anticipated – and, in the case of a few, actively sought.

This eschatological expectation was at a fever pitch when Jesus appeared, and forms the necessary background to his ministry. At this point, it’s worth concentrating on two, basic features of Jesus’ mission. These features tapped into a common yearning for Israel’s deliverance, even as Jesus radically re-configured such expectations. On the one hand, Jesus headed a kingdom of God movement. Such a declaration, at least in outline, was not unusual: he was preaching the coming of God’s sovereign rule, the converse of which was liberation for his people (Matt 4:17; Mark 1:14-15). This, as we have seen, was common coin in first-century Judaism, forming the eschatological bedrock of Jewish hopes for the future. One key difference, however, was that Jesus claimed the kingdom was in some sense already present in his own person and ministry; the end of exile was now apparent in and through his work. For the authors of the Gospels, Jesus not only pointed to the work of Israel’s king: he somehow embodied Yahweh’s royal glory. Through his healings and miracles, for instance, Jesus enacted the liberating power of God’s sovereign rule. The deliverance of a crippled woman on the Sabbath (Luke 13:10-17) was a microcosmic fulfilment of the hope of restoration for which so many Jews ached. Jesus acted as if God’s rule was actually becoming a reality in him; that the return of Israel’s king was at last occurring, presaging the inauguration of his saving reign.

On the other hand, Jesus led what might be called a renewal movement, inviting people to pledge allegiance to the kingdom programme he was announcing. Of course, the kingdom Jesus preached was quite unlike that of conventional expectation. Although he claimed a certain royal mantle, he did not envisage himself as the leader of a violent uprising or rebellion. Nor did he interpret his mission as one of anti-imperial revolution – though it was revolutionary nonetheless. Jesus was calling God’s people to renewal and moral-spiritual reformation, much as the prophets envisaged (e.g., Jer 31:33-34; Mal 4:5-6; cf. Luke 1:16-17). He was summoning his co-religionists to be a different kind of Israel, enjoining them to practice a fresh – and indeed, more faithful – way of living out the divine mandate. Not the Israel of violent, anti-pagan revolt, nor the Israel of arrogant religious nationalism, nor even the quiescent Israel of collaborationist design – but the true Israel of OT prophetic vision. It was the call to be a people marked by righteousness and peace, fulfilling its raison d’etre to act as the channel through which God’s redemptive purposes would embrace the entire world. All told, it was the call to be a people properly prepared for the Lord’s decisive coming (cf. Luke 1:16-17).

Jesus condemned as idolatrous prevailing approaches that other Jews took, even going so far as to warn of God’s imminent wrath if the nation did not abandon its present, sinful path (e.g., Luke 19:41-44). Both he and John the Baptist before him emphatically rejected the notion that Jews could look forward to vindication and redemption, simply by virtue of their ethnic heritage. Again, the words of C.H. Dodd are appropriate: according to Jesus, “hereditary membership of the chosen people is no passport to membership of the true people of God”. What his ministry pointed to was the need for a fresh work of divinely-wrought restoration; a new beginning for the people of God, necessitating his creative action. In tandem with his pronouncements of judgment upon God’s people, Jesus called them to repentance. He was not only promising the end of exile; as part of that redemptive package, he was also commanding the comprehensive reformation of the community itself. The Gospels show Jesus building a new people, a new family of God – one that did not revolve around the symbols of Temple, ethnicity, intensified Torah-observance, or land, but around himself. In language reminiscent of John 20, Jesus at one point declares that those who do God’s will are part of the new, re-defined family he is creating (e.g., Mark 3:31-35). Jesus’ mission entailed nothing less than the reconstitution of “Israel”, in fulfilment of ancient prophecy, with him at its heart.

Approaching the Resurrection: The Re-constitution of God’s People

Having provided some context, we’re now in a position to draw some more explicit links between the resurrection of Jesus and the establishment of a new people of God. Every feature of Jesus’ ministry we have touched on – his announcement of the kingdom’s arrival, his call for renewal, his creation of an alternative community, and his promise of the restoration of Israel – found its appropriate climax in the events of Easter. In particular, the resurrection, being the divine seal of vindication upon Jesus’ claims, guaranteed the ultimate success of his mission. Along with his crucifixion, the raising of Jesus was both the capstone to his ministry and the first step in the establishment of God’s renewed people. But behind the proximate culmination of his vocational aims lay the fulfilment of Israel’s enduring hope (found repeatedly in the prophets) for liberation and restoration.

Quite simply, Jesus’ resurrection meant restoration: the re-formation, by an act of divine sovereignty, of a covenant community dedicated to God’s purposes. Jesus’ efforts to call into being a new people of God required his resurrection, for the very reason that such a reality could only be secured by a fresh and epochal act of divine re-creation. It marked out God’s salvific reign through the victory of his anointed agent, whose triumph saw the emergence of this new community, delivered from the judgment that had been pronounced upon the nation. Dodd wrote that the raising of Jesus saw not only the irrevocable transformation of that first band of followers, but also “the rising of Israel from the dead.” The coming wrath, about which Jesus had preached, finally fell on his shoulders. His resurrection, however, signalled vindication – not only for himself, as the one who had ostensibly died an accursed death, but also for those who aligned themselves with his kingdom programme. Surprisingly, he was revealed to be Israel’s Messiah, who acted to usher in the divine kingdom.  It was the divine imprimatur upon a ministry which had been viewed as a betrayal of Israel’s ancestral traditions by many of Jesus’ contemporaries.  Equally surprising was the fact that with the resurrection, the long, dark night of exile had ceased. The “death” of God’s people had now been reversed, their sins expunged. This was the true deliverance awaiting them, running far deeper than any merely political liberation: the creation of a new Israel; a holy remnant, emerging out of the ruins of the old, freed from the enervating blight of corruption, and restored to its place as an object of divine affection.

Of course, equating death with exile, and restoration with resurrection, was no innovation, even if the application was unprecedented; though fleeting, there are hints in the OT that Israel’s return and reconstitution was seen as a kind of new birth, a fresh creation. Ezekiel’s vision of the valley of dry bones (Ezek 37:1-14) is particularly germane. As many commentators have correctly noted, it is set amidst a series of prophetic oracles which promise the return of God’s people to their land, and his determination to care for – and tend to – his “flock”. Having suffered the consequences of Yahweh’s judicial wrath – wrath which manifested itself as eviction from the promised land – Israel, according to Ezekiel, could now look forward to a divinely-authored act of re-gathering. Ezekiel 37:1-14 fits snugly within this broader context, providing a vivid metaphor for what God was going to do. The story itself is well-known: Ezekiel is brought to a valley by God’s Spirit, and is commanded to prophesy life into scattered bones. Having witnessed the sheathing of these bones in muscle and sinew, the prophet listens as God explains the meaning of this “resurrection”: Israel, which had experienced the “semi-death” of exile, was going to experience restoration as her king led her back to the land of promise. In fact, verses 11-14 make the connection explicit, even going so far as to use the image of the dead being liberated from the grave to describe the process (v.12). What Ezekiel envisaged as the re-animation of lifeless human remains denoted nothing less than the re-constitution of the redeemed community, the re-affirmation of the covenant, the cleansing and ingathering of God’s scattered people, and the end of divine-human estrangement.

The connection between Ezekiel 37 and Jesus’ resurrection, then, ought to be clear. What was treated as metaphor by the exilic prophet became a concrete reality in the raising of one man. The restoration for which many Jews longed – pictured here as the divine inspiration of dry bones – had been achieved, astonishingly, in Jesus’ triumph over death. In seed form, his resurrection concretized the primary referent of Ezekiel’s prophetic vision — inaugurating the end of exile and the re-constitution of God’s holy community. To be sure, the relationship between Jews and the land of promise continued to be marked by ambiguity, even after the events of Easter. I’ll have more to say about that apparent “failure” below. But the shifting of the eons, and the implications for the rising of God’s people, should not be missed. In the mind of a first-century Jew, resurrection from the dead meant restoration of the covenant community’s fortunes – the re-establishment of the divine family, now cleansed of its sin. Returning to John 20:17, we might now have the chance to see an otherwise enigmatic statement in a new light. With the raising of Jesus, his first followers had passed into a fresh phase of salvation history, which saw them bequeathed the fundamentally new status of “sons”. They could now count the God whom Jesus addressed as “Father” in the same manner, for his triumph meant their entry into the new family (i.e., the new covenant community) that he had launched. They were indeed his children, having been drawn into an entirely new relationship on the basis of what Jesus did (cf. John 1:13). Where John uses familial language – referring as he often does to sonship and divine fatherhood – others employ the language of nation, body or community. Nevertheless, though these terms may capture different dimensions, their basic referent remains the same: namely, the “reanimated” people of God, whose restoration was not of the kind that could be won by military prowess, but one which only divine re-creation could secure.

Excursus: Jesus’ Resurrection and The Enigma of Israel’s “Unrequited” Hope

The NT is emphatic that with the raising of Jesus, God’s rule had been unveiled; his saving sovereignty had become manifest; a powerful victory had been won over his enemies; and, of course, the renewal and vindication of his people – commenced with Christ’s pre-resurrection ministry – had been achieved. But how could this be? The kingdom had not arrived in the way most Jews imagined: the Temple remained incomplete, and was eventually destroyed by the Romans in AD70; Israel was still under the thumb of pagan rulers; and liberation – at least physical-political liberation, of the kind that might entail the (violent) overthrow of Israel’s enemies – seemed a forlorn hope. Granting the vision of corporate restoration in Ezekiel 37 was fulfilled in the individual resurrection of what appeared to be a Galilean peasant, how could the raising of a single individual possibly signal the deliverance of a community – particularly when it was clear that the form this deliverance was expected to take had so obviously failed to materialize? How could the resurrection function as the means by which God rescued his people if the conditions of their enslavement apparently persisted?

At this point, we ought to examine further the ways in which the course of Jesus’ life (including his death and, especially, his resurrection) led to the re-configuration of central Jewish beliefs. We go firstly to the question of how the early Christians (including the four evangelists) distinguished between the present age and the age to come. Jews who believed in resurrection were largely convinced that the raising of the righteous would occur at the end of history – that is, at the end of the present, corrupt age – when God would come to rescue those who were his, fully unveil his kingdom, bring about the consummation, and usher in the new age of peace, justice, harmony and renewal. The idea of an individual being raised from the dead in history, however, was unheard of. But the startling sight of the empty tomb, along with the disciples’ encounters with the risen Jesus, signalled precisely that. It represented the beginning of the new epoch within the old. In contradistinction to prevailing eschatological convictions – i.e., that the age to come would dawn only with the passing of the current one – Jesus’ resurrection was a preview of the future, now bursting into the present; its end had already begun, at least in an anticipatory sense. Indeed, and to pre-empt the central topic of a later blog article, it “[was] the beginning of the ontological renewal of creation that will come to completion” when God fully realizes his redemptive aims (J.C. Beker). Within the promise of this wider renewal sat the redemption of the divine commonwealth.

If you read John’s Gospel, you’ll notice that the Fourth Evangelist assiduously foregrounds the idea of the proleptic nature of Jesus’ vocation, to the extent that some have suggested he operates with a thoroughly realized eschatology. Leaving aside the merits of that argument, it’s true the John portrays the ministry of Christ – and indeed, his resurrection – as the overlapping presence of the new age with, and upon, the old. When Martha professes conventional belief in the resurrection of the righteous at the end of time, Jesus declares himself to be the “resurrection and the life” now, in whose very person the in-breaking of God’s saving sovereignty is being actualised. And with that, of course, would come the advance restoration of his people (John 11:24-26). The deep-rooted longing for renewal, for cleansing, and for deliverance, were fulfilled in the prototypical raising of God’s anointed. This wasn’t simply a case of individual re-embodiment (though it certainly was that). Again, if Ezekiel 37 is to be believed, then resurrection denoted the re-invigoration of the covenant community. What happened to Jesus three days after his death marked the beginning, the decisive inauguration, of that redemptive process, one that was to be consummated later. Despite the ongoing reality of Israel’s subjection to pagan rulership, the resurrection secured present justification (and eventual glorification) for those who yielded to him (cf. Rom 4:25): not to the old symbols of Temple or ethnic identity – the function of which had been reduced to the talismanic – but to the One who forged a path through death and out the other side into new life, experiencing both judgment (via the cross) and deliverance (through his resurrection) on behalf of his people.

This brings me, secondly, to Jesus’ representative status. The notion that Jesus was in some sense the “first fruits” (cf. 1 Cor 15:23) of the vindication and restoration of God’s people is deeply related to his portrayal in the Gospels as the Messiah. Messianic fervour was certainly endemic within first-century Palestine, as I have noted. The evangelists, it seems, were quite innovative in their use of this concept, fusing messianic currents with the Isaianic picture of the suffering servant (e.g., Isa 52:12-53:12) in their portrayal of Jesus. He undertook the representative functions of God’s anointed, embodying those who were his. Establishing the divine kingdom in the epochal events of Easter, he acted on behalf of God’s people, as they longed for an end to their suffering. Of course, he also re-configured those hopes, and subverted conventional expectations as to what the liberation and renewal of the covenant community would look like. Still, the Gospel writers are united in their conviction that Jesus’ resurrection was an indissoluble part – nay, the validating climax – of his messianic vocation. The “split-nature” of Christian eschatology is tied to Jesus’ status as a divinely-anointed pioneer (cf. Heb 12:2). Through his death and resurrection, he broke out of the confines of the old age, ushered God’s new world into the present era, and acted as forerunner for those whose allegiance lay with him.

A helpful way of describing the representative dimensions of Jesus’ messianic status, particularly as it pertains to the present topic, is via the term “incorporative Messiahship”. There is some evidence that OT kingship could be seen in just this way (recalling that the Messiah was invariably viewed as a royal, Davidic figure), such that the destiny of the king’s subjects was somehow bound up with his own. In the NT, Paul uses the phrase “in Christ” to denote the fact that those who have yielded themselves to Jesus are somehow “incorporated” into his death and resurrection – thereby experiencing the same vindication that Jesus himself did when God raised him from the dead. Those who have placed their faith in Jesus “participate” in his achievement, such that they can experience the benefits of Easter. He summed up in himself Israel’s story, undergoing both the pain of death (read: exile), and the joy of resurrection (read: restoration). As biblical scholar Crispin Fletcher-Louis has noted, “[Jesus] incorporates the people in such a way that in him, their representative leader, the people find the fulfilment of their own destiny; they get to be the people they were created and called to be”. Or, to quote Wright again, “Jesus had somehow borne Israel’s destiny by himself, was somehow its representative”. Jesus functioned as a corporate figure, the messianic head of a new people who would share in his fate. His resurrection, then, entailed their own; as Michael Bird has written, what was true of Jesus would be true of them.

When we combine these two elements – a staged eschatology, on the one hand, and Jesus’ incorporative Messiahship, on the other – what are we left with? Jesus’ resurrection marked the proleptic invasion of the new age into the old one. Whilst it’s true that Israel’s material situation was left apparently unchanged, the framework of inaugurated eschatology allows us to see in the events of Easter the emergence of God’s final purposes – where every force arrayed against his people would eventually be defeated – in the present. Those events represented an epochal moment in salvation history, where God’s plan took a decisively new turn (appearances notwithstanding). The representative vindication of Jesus through his resurrection provided concrete evidence that God’s people had and would experience the same vindication, in both its present and future dimensions. Because Jesus was raised as a summative figure – encapsulating the fate of God’s people in his own person – members of the redeemed community could, by virtue of their corporate solidarity with him, also enjoy the present “down-payment” of complete, eschatological renewal.

Resurrection and the Composition of God’s Restored People

It remains now to say something about the complexion of God’s restored people, and the manner in which Jesus’ resurrection formed the basis for both its re-definition and (paradoxically, perhaps) its fulfilment.

The raising of Jesus had profound implications for the composition and identity of God’s restored people. In the first century (as we have seen), many Jews took it for granted that Abraham’s descendants – aside from apostates and the incorrigibly wicked – would enter the covenant community when God came to restore it, simply as a consequence of their ethnic and ancestral heritage. They clung to the aforementioned symbols of Temple, ethnicity, etc., as key markers of their distinct – indeed, unique – identity as Abrahamic children, chosen by God. But whilst Jesus’ resurrection meant the re-constitution of God’s people, it would be a mistake to think that this merely entailed a re-affirmation of national Israel.

John 2:12-22 provides a telling example. When confronted by the ruling elite of Jerusalem, who demand to know by what authority he claimed to cleanse the Temple, Jesus enigmatically says that if the great building is destroyed, he “will raise it again in three days” (v.19). The Fourth Evangelist, in an editorial aside, informs us that Jesus was actually referring to his own body – which means that the “raising” of which he spoke likely denoted his own resurrection (v.21). For many Jews in Jesus’ day, the Temple was, “…the sacred precinct…located at the cosmic centre of the universe, at the place where heaven and earth converge and thus from where God’s control over the universe is effected” (Carol Meyers). It was the central symbol in Israel’s national life, representing in stone and wood Yahweh’s decision to dwell specially with his people. The Temple was, in other words, the key identifying marker for the great swathe of first-century Jews – a sign, in other words, of Israel’s unique relationship with the creator God.

And yet here was Jesus prophesying the Temple’s destruction (see John 11:48; cf. Mark 11:12-21; Luke 19:41-44). In his riddling reply to the Jewish elite, he was claiming that the era of the Temple was coming to a (disastrous) end; all that it stood for, all that it symbolised, was now going to be fulfilled in his resurrection body. Its inevitable dissolution was also the prelude to the formation of a new, superior, “house of God”. For John, the raising of Jesus signalled the epochal “transfer” of the functions of the Temple to him. He would be the site of God’s special indwelling presence (cf. John 1:14); he would function as the unique meeting place between God and his people, and the convergence between heaven and earth (cf. John 1:51). No longer would Israel be defined by its relationship to the Jerusalem Temple, for God’s people would now be defined by its relationship to Jesus. This is of a piece with John’s Temple theology, which he has woven into segments of Jesus’ farewell discourse. His references to Father and Son making their home in the believer (14:23), and the mutually indwelling relationships that his followers will enjoy with the Godhead (17:23, 26) suggest that the redeemed community would operate (in a derivative manner) as the new dwelling site of God’s glory – glory that had been supremely revealed in the resurrected Jesus. This corresponds closely to what Paul says in his first letter to the Corinthian church. NT scholar, James Dunn, comments that it is “striking” the way Paul likens the church to God’s house, which is founded upon Jesus himself (1 Cor 3:16-17). No longer a structure composed of stone and wood, the true Temple is formed out of the mass of those men and women who are “in” Christ, having willingly submitted themselves to him.

What does all this mean? What does it entail for the identity of God’s people? As John 2:12-22 suggests, Jesus’ resurrection signified the fundamental transformation of Israel, and as a result, the re-definition of membership within the covenant community. We witness this in seed form in the Gospels (cf. Luke 15:1ff). They are replete with references to Jesus gathering a motely crew of people around himself, many of whom were viewed as “unclean” or “sinful” by the religious establishment. His advent introduced a radically new metric of covenant membership. Devotion to the symbols of the Jewish nation – chief among them the Temple, but also including land and Torah – no longer mattered. What mattered was one’s relationship to Jesus (cf. John 14:6).

This not only meant the creation of an alternative community, composed of the so-called dregs of first-century Jewish society; the same logic of Christo-centric membership demanded the eventual inclusion of those outside historic Israel, in fulfilment of ancient prophecy. With entry into the kingdom now grounded in one’s  fealty to Jesus, the way to divine sonship (or daughtership) was thus open to all, whether or not one’s lineage could be traced back to Israel’s patriarchal ancestors. This is at least part of the meaning of a verse like John 1:13. The Fourth Evangelist doesn’t spell out the full implications of this momentous shift, but as Acts amply demonstrates, the early church came to realize – aided by God’s revelatory activity – that with the resurrection of the Lord, the prophetic promise of liberation for the nations was now coming to pass (see also Matt 28:19). Indeed, as Paul notes in his letter to the Romans, the gospel he preached was for all, Jew and Gentile, who could win for themselves salvation by the same means: faith in the Messiah, Jesus (cf. Rom 3:29-30). Gentiles were to be welcomed into the divine community, but not as converted Jews; they were accorded membership within the reconstituted family of God because of that faith.

Of course, the in-grafting of Gentiles qua Gentiles into the people of God was bound to ignite controversy within first-century Israel, steeped as it was in nationalist fervour. But the NT is adamant. The Gospels contain hints that the inclusion of the Gentiles was all along the intended goal of Jesus’ ministry – in fulfilment of the prophetic vision (e.g., Luke 4:25-27). However, I think we can go further than this in drawing out the link between resurrection and the re-configuration of God’s people. Take Paul, for instance, who seems to touch upon these themes in Romans 4. For him, the death and resurrection of Jesus meant (among other things) the death of “fleshly” Israel and the raising of a newly-created community of justified individuals, centred upon the Messiah (Wright). Such individuals were no longer united through blood, location or ethnic identity, but again, through common faith in the resurrected Lord. Paul’s exposition in this chapter positions Abraham as the father of all who believe in the God who “gives life to the dead” (Rom 4:17). Of course, this characteristic act of divine power found its highest – nay, its paradigmatic – expression in the raising of Jesus, and it is something to which Paul refers at the end of that chapter as he draws a causal connection between the Messiah’s triumph and the justification of those who are his (v.25).

What Romans 4:25 also implies, when seen in its wider salvation-historical context, is that entry into God’s community no longer rests on identification with physical Israel (with all its key identity markers), but upon the vindicated Christ. On this view, those tokens of Jewish covenantalism – upon which many a first-century Jew relied (cf. Luke 3:8) – are irrelevant. A person’s justification and the restoration of Israel as a community of Jew-plus-Gentile are indelibly linked: the righteous standing of the believer is secured by faith in the resurrected Jesus, whose own acquittal forms the pattern for his followers. The saving significance of the raising of the Messiah, therefore, operates on both the individual and the corporate plane. What I have already said about the incorporative nature of Jesus’ messianic vocation is relevant here. Those who have been justified because of that faith participate in his representative triumph. As Paul seems to imply in Romans 4, it is not Israel according to the flesh (i.e., national Israel) that will be saved; since Jesus summed up the fate of God’s people in himself, what is of ultimate concern is trust in him and participation in his body. Dodd’s earlier reference to the “rising of Israel” find clear application in the creation of a new holy “nation”, membership of which is grounded entirely in one’s relationship to the Messiah. The “resurrection” of the covenant community thus entails the fulfilment of the prophetic vision – namely, the expansion of the circle of redemption to embrace people from every tribe and nation and culture and tongue. As Dunn notes in his study of Paul’s ecclesiology, the identity of the Christian assembly is no longer restricted by geography, or race (or social status or gender, for that matter), but by common allegiance to the Christ whom God raised from the dead.

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The Manifold Significance of the Resurrection (Part 3.2) – New Creation and the Individual

A dense and layered truth rests in a person’s hands when he or she scrutinises the resurrection. It is for this reason that I have required several posts in order to delve into it and explicate its “manifold significance” (to borrow from my title). Following my exploration of the interweaving connections between resurrection, justification and sanctification, my last post on this topic was an examination of the victory of Christ as a paradigm for a new order, indeed, a new creation. That, as I have said, takes place on a multiplicity of levels. Having looked at the model and first step of new creation, it is now time to turn my attention to what it means for individuals. Using the creational motif that I have employed previously (and which the Bible itself uses as an overarching theological theme to help elucidate the redemptive work of God), I shall attempt to offer a glimpse of the ultimate goal of justified, sanctified Christian life, of which the resurrection is the pattern. The New Testament is replete with references to resurrection, new life and the consummation of salvation as they pertain to individuals. And, although a comprehensive look at what the NT says on the matter is impossible, no account of resurrection as the fresh creation of believers can be considered faithful to its witness without a cursory glance (and hopefully more) at the statements that compose it. The NT, both explicitly and implicitly, makes the astonishing suggestion that those who have been united to Christ will participate in his resurrection. It has not simply secured our initial justification; nor has it merely provided us with new, spiritual life in the present. Rather, it takes up both those stages of a Christian’s salvation, and completes them in his or her total reception of new life. It is something Scripture depicts as a recapitulation of the original creation of humanity; and yet, it passes well beyond the first fashioning of God’s image-bearers to a kind of existence that is beyond death, chaos and decay. I want to make all this plain, but in order to do that, I must also challenge popular notions of Christian hope: not so that long-cherished beliefs are destroyed, but so that the actual truth of a person’s resurrection – according to the riches of Christian theology – may become clear. I shall say more in due time.

But first, traversing over old terrain is, perhaps, necessary. As I noted in earlier essays on this topic, a person is neither justified nor sanctified if Jesus is still in the grave. In like manner, no one has escaped death if Jesus himself – the true man and humanity’s representative – did not triumph over it. The notion of new creation is but a forlorn hope without it. As the Apostle Paul emphatically states in 1 Corinthians: “…if Christ is not raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins…If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men” (1 Cor. 15: 17, 19). But if Jesus has been raised from the dead (and I believe he has), then this life is not the end. The present creation will pass away, but only so a new creation can take its place. And those of us who are “in Christ” and united to him will receive the blessed gift of new, incorruptible life. To put it another way: death could not maintain mastery over Christ, for the Creator and source of all life could never be held by it. In like manner, all who belong to Christ will share in that same release, precisely because they share in his paradigmatic act. Such is the strength of this fact that Jesus himself could call believers “…sons of the resurrection” (Luke 20:36).

We must examine more closely the connection between Christ’s resurrection and the new life accorded to those who are united to him. Romans 6:1-9, which I surveyed previously, is a good place to start. After dispensing with the hypothetical argument made against his case for salvation through the grace of God, Paul speaks of believers having been baptised into Christ’s death (v.3). If that be the case, Paul effectively asks, then a person has been separated from sin; it no longer has mastery over them. Just like Jesus, we who are “in” him (that is, united to him spiritually) are raised to “new life” – something Paul emphasises in verse 4. That new life has been secured by Christ’s death and resurrection; we cannot isolate them. It is because of the triumph of the one man, Jesus (which I examined in the previous essay on this topic), that any one of us can be said to have new life. Death to sin is, by itself, meaningless. In commenting on this passage, I. Howard Marshall puts it this way:

“…the baptized could be said have died to their old life in which they were under captivity to sin…But this would be no freedom if the believers were simply dead rather than passing through death into a new sphere of existence” (New Testament Theology: Many Witnesses, One Gospel, p.317).

That “new sphere of existence” is patterned on the inaugurating work of Jesus. He died his death to sin, but because he has been raised from the dead, never to die again, death cannot have mastery over him (Rom.6:9). We who are united to him in his death are thus united to him in his life.

To be sure, this certainty is a future expectation (though it emphatically commences in the present). Still, the point is that it will happen. What has already begun in the life of a follower of Jesus will be completed, consummated – radically fulfilled – by the same Spirit that brooded over the waters as he preserved God’s original creation (Gen. 1:2; cf. 8:11). What was subject to decay and death will be immersed, if you like, in immortality. What was perishable will become imperishable. What was vulnerable to the fatal effects of sin will be impervious to them. One day, a believer’s body will leave behind the fetters of mortality for good, and death will be “swallowed up in victory” (1 Corinthians 15:50-54). Incidentally, it is here that a connection between individual new creation, justification and sanctification becomes apparent. Having already spoken of resurrection’s importance to these stages of the Christian life, I will not detain readers with a detailed recapitulation. Suffice it to say, if justification is God’s judicial act of counting someone righteous, what could better reflect the consummation of that initial decision than one’s final resurrection, one’s new creation? In the Gospel of John, marked as it is by a creational-redemptive framework, Jesus himself touched upon this. Using the forensic language often linked to justification, he said that those who have “done good” will enjoy resurrection and life at the end (see John 5:29). Similarly, if sanctification is the progressive unfolding of righteousness in a believer – and, with it, the progressive erasure of sin – then the consequences thereof (ie. death) will eventually be vanquished. The notion of resurrection forms the ground and the goal of sanctification, and, therefore, new creation.

At this point, the reality of the larger narrative of new creation, and its relevance to the individual, has simply been implied. But, as these passages suggest, the paradigm of Christ’s life cannot be understood apart from the notion that his resurrection was the first step in God’s efforts to re-make his world – to redeem it from death, and to inaugurate, in effect, a new creative order. The fate of individuals sits snugly within that project. Nevertheless, we do not have to travel far in order to see how explicit the idea is at certain points, particularly in light of the prominence of the original creation as a theological motif for many of the NT writers. One might easily point to John 3, which famously has Jesus exhorting Nicodemus to be “born again”. The phrase itself evokes images of new life, in keeping with John’s overall theological scheme. But we may also look to places such as 1 Corinthians 15, Hebrews 2:5-9, or even 2 Corinthians 5:17 – a verse which uses the precise phrase “new creation” – to see how the concept has woven its way into the structure of apostolic thinking. To take just one example: 1 Corinthians 15, to which I have already alluded. Before Paul embarks on an extended discussion on the necessity of the resurrection of believers, he sharply contrasts two, paradigmatic men. On the one hand, lies the first Adam; on the other, the second Adam, Jesus (1 Cor. 15:45-49). The former, Paul says, was of the earth – mortal, finite, vulnerable to corruption. The latter, however, was of heaven – immortal, infinite, free from spot or blemish. The point is that the apostle deliberately invokes Adam as a motif, in order to draw a contrast between two “creations”, or “reigns”. The first man was the head of a humanity prone to sin and death, as the Bible’s opening book points out (cf. Gen. 1-3). The latter man was, and is, the representative of a humanity that will enjoy his likeness (cf. v.49).

Talk of new life, even resurrection, is all well and good. However, it is important to speak about what kind of life this will be, for even the notion of resurrection can be misunderstood. When the authors of the NT speak of new life, they do so with a degree of specificity. It is not the case that Paul and others were envisioning some vague kind of existence beyond the material world. To do so would have negated the goodness of God’s creative work, and undermined the thematic power of the original, material world. Ancient Greeks believed in the immortality of the soul; popular, present-day renditions of the afterlife imagine disembodied spirits enjoying some manner of heavenly joy in the hereafter. But if we look to the Apostle to the Gentiles for a moment, we find him speaking deliberately of resurrection. As N.T. Wright has commented, the term was only ever used to denote “re-embodiment, not…disembodied bliss”. Indeed, in Rom. 6:5, which we have already surveyed, Paul states that those of us who have been united to Christ in his death will certainly be united to him in his “resurrection”. Erroneous imaginings of ultimate Christian hope notwithstanding, resurrection was seen as a bodily, material phenomenon. It was certainly a new mode of existence, to be sure. But that newness was viewed as emphatically physical. Christ’s triumph over death only makes sense because his resurrection was bodily in nature. In the same way, those of us who have escaped the old life, held in bondage to sin and death, will take on new bodies. New life will be transmuted, but it will definitely remain physical. By the same token, if new life remains physical, then it will definitely be transmuted. As Leon Morris has said:

“The Christians thought of the body as being raised. But also transformed so as to be a suitable vehicle for the very different life of the age to come” (New Bible Dictionary, Third Edition, p.1010. Emphasis mine).

If the resurrection of Jesus – being bodily in nature – is the ground for the new creation of the individual, then it seems that our redemption will follow his representative act. As I have noted, he is the pattern. He is the “firstborn from amongst the dead” (Colossians 1:18). And if that be the case, then our resurrection will be like his; “we shall be like him”, as it were (1 John 3:2). Paul’s letter to the Romans is once again instructive.  In chapter 8, we find the apostle talking about life in the Spirit. In the present, the Spirit changes and transforms a believer’s spiritual and moral life. In the future, though, all of one’s life will be transformed, including his or her body. It will be a complete and total change. We might look at 8:11, for example. Once more, Paul suggests that the new life of a Christian is patterned on the resurrection life of Christ. The Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead will certainly “give life to” one’s “mortal body”. Nothing in this verse implies an escape from the body. In fact, it suggests quite the opposite: an enlivening addition to the present “body of death” (Rom. 7:24). It may constitute a radical transformation, but one that does not abandon the material realm. We should not think that it would be otherwise. And, with Paul’s multiple allusions to freedom, redemption, and creation itself (cf. Rom. 8:19-25), it is clear that for the apostle, a believer’s ultimate hope rests in a renewed creation – that of God’s world, redeemed from the bondage of death, and of those who will receive bodies fit to dwell within it.

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The drama of God’s redemptive activity, being played out on the stage of history and creation, is also being played out in the life of every believer. New creation will occur, not just on a cosmic scale, but on an individual one, too. What will happen universally is happening now, in the present, in the lives of believers. The triumph of the resurrection means that the old creation is passing away. All this is through Jesus Christ, who was the primary agent of both creation and new creation (see John 1:1-3). His own resurrection was the climax of his redemptive agency, and constitutes the model for believers. Those of us who have embraced that triumph will participate in his triumph, and, as members of both the old creation and the new, we have the unique privilege of seeing that sanctifying transformation happen in our midst. Christ’s resurrection body served as the first sign of new creation. Our own bodies, having already been enveloped by the Spirit, are also signs that the old has gone, and the new has come. We may still be vessels of broken clay, living in an ambiguous period between the announcement of God’s reign, and its final coming. Nonetheless, if new creation is a reality, then it is a reality that begins as a seed within each believing individual. That seed – that new birth, if you like – anticipates the wider renewal that will embrace a groaning world, as it waits on tiptoe for the children of God to be revealed. That, however, is the subject for a future post.

The Manifold Significance of the Resurrection (Part 3.1) – One Man’s Triumph as the Pattern of New Creation

The resurrection (along with the cross) stands at the very centre of history. Others may argue that some other event – the invention of writing, say, or the onset of the industrial revolution – represents the decisive turning point in the story of humanity and the world. But, if the gospel is true (and I believe that it is), then the resurrection was more than one man’s divinely-ordained and divinely-empowered victory over his own, personal demise. It most certainly was not an isolated phenomenon. Rather, the raising of Christ represented the very first step in new creation. Indeed, it was the point at which the Creator God showed a rebellious and corrupt creation that he had, in principle, re-claimed it. Rather than abandoning his world to death, God commenced the final, decisive phase of his project to re-create what he had originally made, flooding it with life. At a multiplicity of levels – personal, corporate and cosmic – God set about fashioning something entirely new. Through the raising of his Son, the Creator became Redeemer, proving climactically that his redemptive work had broken into the present deathly course of a sin-stained world. So begins my foray into the last image of the resurrection’s significance. Having already explored its connection to justification and sanctification, it is time now to turn to underlying principle, the end goal – the telos – of that glorious process, and how it began in Christ, “…the firstborn from among the dead” (Colossians 1:18).

It would be difficult to overstate the epochal magnitude of this event. Before Jesus’ resurrection, the seemingly inviolable law of death, decay and corruption shadowed everything bound by the finitude of time. After it had occurred, the world, for all its ongoing chaos and frustration, had changed. The empty tomb (along with Calvary) divides the history of God’s creation into two distinct ages, something that the writers of the NT – not least of which is Paul – declare. But nothing would have happened if, after Jesus’ death, he remained in the tomb. We have already seen that, for Paul, the death of Christ is meaningless without the accompaniment of the resurrection (cf. 1 Corinthians 15:17-18). For if the death of Christ was the decisive response to sin, then the resurrection was the paradigmatic triumph over death. It was the resurrection – the new, incorruptible, bodily life in which Jesus was clothed – that represented the first step of God’s new world, breaking into the present. To put it differently, the raising of Jesus from the dead was the beginning of another genesis; the new life into which he entered three days after he died was a moment of both inauguration and anticipation, looking forward to cosmic and creational renewal. Like the mighty acts that God initiated at the time of creation, fashioning from nothing and bringing forth order from chaos (see Genesis 1:1-2), the raising of Christ was an act of unbounded creativity, of life in the midst of death. And, just like the original creation, the empty tomb was the beginning of something completely new.

My interest in juxtaposing Christ’s resurrection with God’s first creative acts is not an act of arbitrary poetics, forced onto an unwilling text. Much of the NT speaks in these terms, especially the Gospels. Of the four accounts of Jesus’ words and deeds, none is as explicit in pairing creation and new creation as John’s. From the very beginning (a word that is apposite here), the fourth evangelist has in mind creation, as it is lyrically described in the Bible’s very first book. John 1:1, for example, starts with, “In the beginning was the Word…” – a clear nod, for a first-century Jewish audience, to the first verse in Genesis. As one proceeds through the book, one becomes increasingly aware that John is using the Genesis account of the world’s origins to frame his reflections on the theological significance of Christ’s own work. It builds up into a theological theme that presents us with a picture of Christ standing above time and history; over both initial creation and re-creation, yet radically involved in both eras. When God began his great, creative works, the Word – that is, Christ – was (eternally) present as an equal partner in that project (John 1:1; cf. Gen. 1:1-3, 6, 9ff). Even more important is the fact that in the opening verse, John is hinting to his audience that just as the Word was present at, and involved in, the first creation, so too is he involved – not just marginally, but as the primary agent – in new creation.

The Word, then, is both generative and redemptive, and it was his incarnation that saw God’s plan to inaugurate another, yet more bountiful, creation reach a climactic phase. John reiterates and expands upon this central truth throughout the entire Gospel. Indeed, it is there in John’s prologue, throwing light across the evangelist’s opening gambit; it emerges periodically from beneath his narrative, as the story of Christ wends it way – slowly but inexorably – towards the events of Easter; the raising of Lazarus serves as a particularly overt symbol of it; and, of course, the theme of new creation effortlessly gives shape to the raising of God’s Holy One in John 20. There, “early on the first day of the week,” Christ was raised from the dead (see 20:1). Emerging from the shadows, something strangely new had occurred. Given the evangelist’s emphasis on the notion of God’s efforts to reclaim his world and launch a completely fresh creation, mention of the resurrection of Jesus in this manner is no accident. Rather, through this seemingly innocuous detail, John is subtly – yet unambiguously – declaring the start of a new creation “week”, just like the week that saw the generation and establishment of God’s original creation (see Gen. 1:5,8,13ff). The darkness of the old world was giving way to a light, shining: the light of Christ’s resurrection, which pointed, and still points, to the promise of God to restore his world.

Paul is also interested in the theme of new creation as he explains the raising of Jesus. He has a very robust theology of creation, and uses it to provide a rich canvass to explore and expound the significance of Christ’s resurrection. In 1 Corinthians 15, for example, the apostle is explicit, as he was in Romans, in drawing out the contrast between the first man and the last man – between the original Adam and the second “Adam”, Christ. Both stand at the head of two “races”, two separate humanities, as it were. Those who have participated in the sin of the first Adam will die; those who participate in the second “Adam” “will be made alive” (1 Cor. 15:22; cf. vv.45-49). Paul deliberately uses, echoes and alludes to the Genesis narrative of creation and fall in order to parallel the paradigmatic significance of Christ, in contrast to the first man. However, it is vital to remember that this contrast occurs within the context of Paul’s exposition of the resurrection. In other words, Paul – like John – is motivated by a hermeneutic of new creation; he, too, sees the raising of Christ in terms of the commencement of God’s efforts to reclaim, remake and redeem his world. The curse of death, as poetically described in Genesis 3, was broken by the triumph of Jesus. This, too, is surely in view as Paul contrasts the heads of these two ages. Of course, “the end” had not yet arrived, and Paul had no trouble highlighting this (v.24). Even so, through the resurrection of his Son, God had inaugurated the coming of his redemptive reign, the undoing of the tragedy of the Fall, and the concomitant destruction of death.

The rest of the NT authors are immersed in the redemptive, re-creative and epochal significance of Christ’s resurrection. Their writings and reflections are grounded in the fact of this unprecedented act. So much of the early church’s preaching, as evidenced in Acts (see Acts 2, especially) was shaped and informed by this radically changed situation. Peter, the chief preacher in those early chapters of Acts, knew that Christ was now Lord over the world, and that this had been proved by his triumph over death. The writer to the Hebrews wrote about the dominion of Christ, applying OT references to the idealized dominion of man over creation to the One who had suffered and been glorified (Heb. 2:5-9, citing Psalm 8). Though resurrection is not mentioned in this passage, it is surely presupposed in what turns out to be a sophisticated reflection on the fulfilment of humanity’s vocative purpose in Jesus Christ – again, with the theme of creation forming a backdrop to present discussions. Moreover (and at the risk excessive anticipation), Christian hope is grounded in the tangibility of the unshackling of Jesus from that final foe. All this was part of God’s sovereign plan. It was not as if the cross was the accidental death of a would-be Messiah, with his resurrection representing God’s attempt to undo the damage. No – this was always God’s plan, for as Peter declared, “…it was impossible for death to keep its hold on him” (Acts 2:24).

To those who have become inured to the seemingly insurmountable mechanics of the present world, and the apparent finality of its laws, the resurrection is a challenge. It overturns our assumptions about the ways of this world, and breaks into the daily patterns of death and decay. Moreover, it is evidence that creation is not simply subject to its own, meandering evolution; God has been, and is, at work to transform it. The resurrection of Christ was, and is, proof that something from the outside, something that is not a product of this present corruption, has been at work to redeem, to heal, and to enliven. Thus, the secularist is challenged. So, too, the escapist, for Christ’s resurrection – whilst something unprecedented and gloriously new – was an emphatically physical event. When the writers of the NT wrote about the raising of Jesus (and resurrection generally), they were referring to a bodily occurrence. If Jesus is the paradigm for those who are his; and if his resurrection was bodily in nature; and if that transformed body was the first sign that God’s new world had begun; and if that new world was, and is, here, within his creation; then all attempts to paint the consummation of history and ultimate Christian hope as an escape from material existence are profoundly mistaken. I shall say more later; for now, it is sufficient to say that the resurrection of Christ is, in Tom Wright’s words, an emphatic “affirmation” of God’s world (renewed and restored, to be sure) – not, as some might think, the validation of a heavenly abode, liberated from body and creation alike.

I fear that I have already said too much. But if I have, it is only because I seek to bring those who have read this post (and the others like it) towards a deeper understanding of the raising of Christ. Even so, we have not reached the end of the journey, for the paradigmatic act of Christ’s resurrection was exactly that – paradigmatic. In concluding this series, I shall take a look at how the new creative order ushered in by the risen Jesus affects believing individuals, God’s people and his world. That, however, will have to wait.

The Manifold Significance of the Resurrection (Part Two)

It is something I have said several times now, but it bears repeating: the multidimensional brilliance of the resurrection is almost inexhaustible. That is why a single essay on the topic cannot possibly hope to provide a comprehensive account of its significance. Only by considering each dimension in turn can a satisfying picture of the sequel to the crucifixion be realized.

It is with that preamble in mind that I turn to the resurrection and its relationship to sanctification. Already, I have explored the way in which the resurrection actually secures, completes and verifies a change in our legal standing before God. But its power and relevance extend into the realm of sanctified living: the progressive erasure of the effects of the old life, marked as it was by sin; and the gradual, life-long envelopment of the new life, into which Christians have been “born” and into which they grow. It is because of the resurrection that we may be assured of our own success in the defeat of sin (at least those of us who have accepted the tenets of Christianity and the person of Christ himself).

I turn to a book of the Bible that I have turned to a number of times recently in order to explore the relationship between the resurrection and sanctification: Paul’s epistle to the Romans. Chapter 6 of that book deals with the issue of sanctification, and our apostle makes several references to the raising of Christ as a foundation for the purification of Christians. Let’s look at the chapter more closely, starting with Romans 6:4:

“We were therefore buried with him [Christ] through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life”.

Paul makes a startling statement: we who have given our lives to Christ have been “buried” with him through baptism. Without digressing too much, the apostle offers us a picture of baptism rich in theological symbolism. Baptism is much more than a lingering tradition; it constitutes the outward symbolical expression of an inward, spiritual shift. Namely, it represents the transfer of our lives from the reign of sin and death – the end of which could only come about through the finality of Christ’s sacrificial death, and our participation through baptism – to freedom from those pernicious forces (cf. v.7) under the reign of God’s righteousness.

Of course, the outworking of that process takes place over a lifetime. Although the judicial transfer happens the moment we accept the message of the gospel, sanctified living, free from sin and unrighteousness, is an unfolding experience. Nevertheless, like justification, sanctification cannot operate without the reality of the resurrection. Let’s look again at 6:4. Paul explicitly grounds the fact of Christians’ new lives in the fact of Christ’s new life (resurrection). On our behalf, he took on the penalty, the pain – the wretched effects – of sin. And on our behalf, God raised Christ from the dead, as a prototype for the newness of life he will bestow upon those who have already been justified by him. The one depends on the other. For if Christ did not leave the tomb, then the reign of sin and death would still be present. The fact that he has discarded the graveclothes for the new garment of resurrection life means that our striving for holy lives (in the power of the Spirit, of course – see Rom. 8:4-13, for example) is not futile. Not at all, since it is done – or ought to be done – in the knowledge that God has already defeated these forces through the One to whom we are united.

Paul goes on talk about our being united with Christ, not only in his death, but also in his resurrection (verse 5). He declares that those who are united to Christ in his death will “certainly” be united with him in his resurrection. The two halves of God’s salvific work cannot – indeed, must not – be separated. If we participate in Christ’s death by putting to death the sinful nature (cf. v.6), then we will surely participate in the newness of life he experienced at his resurrection. The conclusion – our “death” with Christ is one of separation. The reign of sin has come to a conclusive end; we have been freed from it (v.7). Our apostle is explicit in outlining the consequences. Because we have been separated from sin (in other words, it has been put to death in us because we have appropriated the benefits of Christ’s death), we must now offer ourselves to God instead of offering ourselves to corruption (vv.11-13). We have crucified the old nature, the old life, on the cross. Our obligation now is to live our lives to God. But again – all this is futile if Christ himself did not gain mastery over death. For if he did not, then sin is certainly still at work, and every effort made to prevent its reign is bound to fail.

Paul is certainly aware of the logic of this supposition. For he states in verse 9 that Christ was raised from the dead, so that the death he died to sin, he died once-and-for-all; death (and sin) can no longer have its way with him. It is a defeated foe. And because it is a defeated foe, we can be assured that our own participation in Christ’s crucifixion – through the sacrificial pursuit of holiness – is not an exercise in fruitless denial; still less is it a bad joke that has us trying to do what is actually impossible. The ideal of a sanctified life is not a denial of what is, and always will be, the case. It is rather the promise of a life that will forever be freed from the predations of sin and death, grounded in the tangible evidence of the resurrection itself.

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Matthew Barrett, a Christian author and blogger, wrote recently on this topic (“The Neglected Resurrection,” The Gospel Coalition, April 5th, 2012). He finished by quoting Paul’s admonition to the Colossians, which is certainly apt here:

“If you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on earthly things. For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with him in glory” (Col. 3:1-4).

Amen. We ought to focus on the godly, spiritual things in this life, for we know that our lives are no longer beholden to sin – and as a consequence, the shadow of death. Christ’s own resurrection is proof of that glorious fact. It is also a present reality in our lives, bursting the boundaries of history to transform each Christian as he or she walks in newness of life. Of course, sin still knocks at our door; it still beckons us, and bids us to come. However, the past triumphs of the One in whom we trust will be fulfilled. For as Paul says, when Christ appears (referring to his second advent) we, too, shall appear in glory. Our present yearnings for holiness – such as they are – and the present work of God to sanctify us will not come to nothing; they will be fulfilled in our glorification, of which Christ’s resurrection was both the model and the promise. Indeed, we can be assured that in living by the Spirit and separating ourselves from sin, we are engaging in a task that God will consummate, precisely because he has provided us with embodied evidence that sin and death are vanquished. It is a challenge, but also an encouragement, to pursue and receive the sanctifying grace of God in Christ.

The Manifold Significance of the Resurrection (Part One)

Once completed, these will be companion pieces to my earlier essay on the cross. This first one is a little late, since Easter has already come and gone. But as the saying goes, “better late than never”.

Christians know well how to celebrate the crucifixion of Jesus. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of the resurrection. Whilst we rightly proclaim the death of Christ as a sacrifice for sin, as a triumph over the powers of evil, and as a demonstration of God’s holy love (cf. Romans 5:8), it seems that many are much less certain about the significance of Christ being raised from the dead. Indeed, beyond the vague notion that it means we can now possess eternal life, or that it was God’s way of publicly vindicating his Son (both true, of course, but they need to be worked out in more detail), Christians are unsure quite what to do with the resurrection.

Hopefully, these posts can offer a kind of corrective. There are many ways in which the resurrection of Christ is a vital belief for his followers. What I want to concentrate on are four different dimensions of this great event:

1)    The resurrection as a vital element in the justification of believers – that is, their being declared righteous before God despite their sin.

2)    The resurrection as a necessary foundation for sanctification.

3)    The resurrection as the ground upon which people can claim membership in God’s family.

4)    The resurrection as the first step in new creation.

There is not enough space to consider each of the fours aspects in the one post. So I shall simply focus on how the resurrection is a necessary part of our justification.

Resurrection and Justification

We normally think that our being justified before God rests upon the sacrificial work of Christ on the cross. That is certainly – and gloriously – true. What I didn’t say clearly in my post on Christ’s crucifixion is that it was an act of substitution, of penal substitution. In other words, Jesus paid the penalty for sin that was ours to pay, as our substitute and representative. When he walked the road to Calvary and was put to death at the place called Golgotha, Jesus “stood” in our place under sin’s weight and God’s condemnation of it. Indeed, he died the death that we were due to die (“For the wages of sin is death” – Rom. 6:23). God in Christ managed to do for us what we could not do ourselves, by shouldering the price of sin and forgiving us justly (ie. without condoning sin).

Consequently, when we place Spirit-impelled faith in Christ’s work, we trust in his once-and-for-all death as the means by which we can come into a right relationship with God. That right relationship is closely identified with our justification, which is a legal term that is used often by writers in the New Testament (not least, Paul). We are justified by faith because God reckons us to be righteous. And he reckons us to be righteous precisely because we have, via the work of the Spirit, appropriated the benefits of Christ’s gracious, representative work on the cross. Our sins are no longer counted against us, and we are no longer separated, alienated, from God.

This is a wonderful truth, which has been secured by the cross. However, it is not the cross, in isolation, which has secured it. In fact, I would go as far as to say that by itself, the cross would have been a monumental failure. That may seem a trifle overblown, but we have to remember that in God’s redemptive economy, Jesus’ shameful death was always – of necessity – going to be followed by his triumphant resurrection. And this has important implications for our justification. What may not be apparent to many Christians, in their commendable zeal to ground our righteous standing before God in Christ’s sacrificial work, is that this legal position also hinges upon the certainty of the empty tomb. Indeed, the cross and the resurrection are indissolubly linked, forming one saving event. This is true, whether we are referring to our initial standing before God or to our ultimate glorification. Unfortunately, the resurrection is invariably neglected when it comes to explaining the ground for a Christian’s justification before God, even though the link is made explicit at several points in the NT.

Romans 4:25 is a prime example of the relationship between the resurrection and justification. It is also, out of interest, a clear example of how the NT often considers the death and resurrection of Christ as one event. Let’s take a look:

“He [Jesus Christ] was delivered over to death for our sins and was raised to life for our justification[emphasis mine].

They cannot, nor should they, be seen as ultimately separable acts. This is important as we move on. In any case, reading the above verse suggests one very important fact: Christ was raised so that we might be justified. Our justification would not have occurred had it not been for his triumph over death. Now, it is possible to read this verse a little differently. That is, some might reverse the causal order and argue that because justification had already been achieved (presumably through the cross), Christ was raised from the dead. The act of raising Christ from the dead becomes, then, the public demonstration of something that had already been accomplished. In other words, the cross alone opened up the possiblility for the justification of sinners; the resurrection was the outward, tangible sign of what was already the case. Views to the contrary notwithstanding, I think it best to say that what Paul is arguing in Romans 4:25 is that Christ’s resurrection in some way secured our justification. It’s not that the cross was unimportant in this scheme – far from it. However, it would have been incomplete, and therefore futile, without triumph over death three days later.

Understanding the judicial significance of death is important at this point. Our death is a consequence of sin, to be sure. But to be clear: it is also a sign of God’s judgment upon it and those who participate in it (which is to say, everyone). Indeed, in sinning, we alienate ourselves from the very source of life; death is the inevitable (but not to say, impersonal) implication of this estrangement and divide. I noted earlier that in taking on the burden on humanity’s sin at Calvary, Jesus also bore God’s wrathful condemnation of it. He did so as our representative, bearing punishment on behalf of others. But without the resurrection, Christ’s substitutionary offering before God would have been a rejected one. By taking the place of sinful humanity, Christ had to be raised. For only then could it be said that he himself had been justified as the representative man (bearing the divine punishment for sin before being vindicated) and that death, as a judicial consequence of sin, had been defeated.

Christ’s vindication – his being raised from the dead publicly – was necessary, in that without it, the guilt that he shouldered on behalf of humanity would not have been removed. The penalty of death would still have been in place, sin’s reign unbroken, and God’s condemnation upon us. Or, as I. Howard Marshall, a NT scholar, puts it:

“…The resurrection is God’s release of Christ from the punishment of sin that he is bearing; he remits any continuation of the punishment. Hence, there is now the possibility of a new relationship between God and the man whom he has judged in death, and so God can now forgive sinners” (“Aspects of the Atonement: Cross and Resurrection in the Reconciling of God and Humanity”, p.86).

The new relationship of which Marshall speaks is the new legal status of human beings, who because of Christ’s successful and accepted offering, can now escape sin and its divinely-ordained penalty, death, thereby enjoying a right relationship with the God who has forgiven them on the basis thereof. Insofar as we participate in Christ (through Spirit-impelled faith and union), we are counted as righteous before God. But that could only come about with the raising of Christ after his death. That is why Paul can say, in 1 Corinthians, that “if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins” (1 Cor. 15:17). He is pointing to the very thing I have suggested in this essay: that if Christ has not been raised, then he is still dead; and if he is still dead, then his offering was unsuccessful in paying the penalty for sin, since God did not remit the condemnation that befell Jesus as our representative. If that is so, then we are still locked in our sins, apart from God and facing the consequence of death.

“But”, Paul declares, “Christ has indeed been raised from the dead” (1 Cor. 15:20). All who are in Christ “will be made alive” in him (v.22). It is the fact of the resurrection that completes the sin-bearing work of Christ on the cross. More than that, it brings us assurance of our own vindication – our own acquittal, our own triumph over sin and death – as we are brought into union with him.

On Faith and Floods – God’s Response (Part 3.3)

The Death of Evil and the Birth of New Life

If the incarnation and identifying death of Christ were all we could say about God’s response to evil, one may wonder if he had responded to it at all. I mean, it’s one thing to suffer alongside the bereaved, as God did on the cross; quite another to actually do something about the source of that, and every other, form of suffering. But that is what the cross is: God’s ultimate “no” to evil’s reign, and in this third and final post, I shall outline the significance of the cross (and its sequel). By allowing sin to apparently crush him, Jesus not only experienced the horrors of a sinful world; nor did he simply do this as a way of demonstrating his radical identification with humanity and its plight. Rather, on the cross, God in Christ defeated evil. Through the very act of going to Calvary and dying at the hands of evil men, Jesus won a paradoxical victory over the malevolent forces that had captured God’s good world and warped his image-bearers.

Several passages help throw light on this mystery. Take Paul’s words in Romans 8:3, which we have already touched upon. Christ came in the likeness of sinful humanity, precisely to take upon himself the unimaginable burdens of sin and its companion, death. Incarnation leads inexorably to Atonement, where God’s representative freed the world from evil’s grip. And he did this via two, complementary, ways. First, he allowed himself to be the bearer of sin; here, the full significance of Paul’s words in Rom. 8:3 emerges. I said before that sin was drawn to this one point – Jesus’ body – whereby God condemned it for good. Sin was defeated, even as Jesus apparently was, and its rule brought to an end. The representative man stood in place of humanity in order that we would not have to bear the brunt of God’s just condemnation of sin. Second, Jesus eschewed the use of violence to win a victory over the various powers arrayed against him. Instead, he submitted himself to evil and its manifestations, giving us a remarkable picture of “evil doing its worst and being exhausted” (N.T. Wright). Evil had nowhere else to go, for its terrible cycle had been broken and its legitimacy stripped. Nowhere is this better expressed than in one of Paul’s latter letters, where he writes that the crucified Jesus “…disarmed the powers and authorities…ma(king) a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross” (Colossians 2:15). It was precisely through Jesus’ apparent defeat and humiliation that through him, God passed sentence on the powers that oppressed his image-bearers and his creation, and condemned for good that to which those same image-bearers had given themselves.

And so, we come back to Isaiah 53 to find confirmation of much of what has been said. The verses from Isaiah, which I quoted in my previous post, indicate that Jesus, the longed-for servant of the Isaianic prophecies, went beyond mere identification with the suffering and bereaved. Elsewhere in Isaiah 53, we read this:

“But he was pierced for our

transgressions,

  he was crushed for our iniquities;

the punishment that brought us peace

            was upon him… (Isaiah 53:5).

Jesus actually took the sin of others upon his own shoulders in order to deal with it. And deal with it he did, as he underwent the pain and the consequences of sin – abandonment, divine disfavor, death – in order that those made in God’s image might be set free from its pernicious effects (see, too, Mark 10:45, which consciously alludes to Isaiah). Many have gone through life suffering at the hands of a pervasive evil – victims of oppression and unrighteous men. But all of us, in our own way, have been caught in the maelstrom of chaos. The sin of which Paul spoke of in Romans 1 is something in which we have all participated, and from which we all need redemption. On the cross (in tandem with the resurrection), we see God’s upside-down solution to the question of its existence and our desperate need.

Indeed, the crucifixion of Jesus stands as the paradoxical liberation of those who have been crushed and enslaved by the encroaching chaos (whether their own or that of others). The seminal event in the Old Testament is the Exodus, where God led his peopleIsraelout of slavery and into freedom. Well, the New Testament speaks of the positive results of Christ’s crucifixion in those terms. John 1:14, for example, looking back at Jesus’ life from the vantage-point of a post-resurrection world, remarks that “the Word became flesh and made his dwelling amongst us”, with the assumption that this indwelling would somehow lead to the defeat of evil. Here, the evangelist deliberately uses language that evokes images of God dwelling in the midst of his people after their flight fromEgypt, all in an effort to describe the incarnation of Christ. The radical identification of God with humanity thus dovetails with the “exodus” from sin and evil that has been accomplished through Christ walking the road toCalvaryduring Passover – the time when his kin celebrated their own flight from oppression. Humanity has been facing a deeper kind of slavery than any mere earthly form of bondage, and we witness it everyday. The cross was one half of God’s double-sided plan to finally, decisively, put a stop to sin and release the captives.

Of course, none of what I have claimed for the cross would be the case if it weren’t for its sequel, the resurrection. The crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus are indissolubly linked, and without the latter, the former would have been the failure of yet another would-be Messiah (of which there were many at the time). I said before that God, through Christ, held the powers up to contempt and triumphed over them (Col. 2:15). This is true and indeed happened at the point at which Christ himself was held up and crucified. But that act would have been incomplete – nay, meaningless – without the resurrection. God’s victory over evil and sin through the work of Christ needed the promise, and the reality, of new life, if a new world free from these forces could come into being. Let us return to Romans 8 for a moment. We saw that Paul began by talking about God himself doing what humanity could not – hatching an escape from the clutches of sin. Those who were formerly slaves are now free because of what the Creator-Redeemer has done through Jesus. But, more than that, Paul speaks of the wider, creational transformation that will take place as a result of the epochal work of God (8:19-22). This is the promise of the resurrection: that those made in God’s image should not be gripped any more by the manifold examples of evil in this world. He has dealt with it decisively on the cross, allowing it to do its worst, before condemning it in the person of Jesus. The worst possible manifestation of sin is death, the complete negation of life and creation. Thus, the resurrection stands as the permanent sign that sin and death have been truly defeated. Jesus’ resurrection was a vindication of his sacrifice at Calvary in addition to being the first step in God’s new world: a world beyond pain, chaos, suffering, misery, angst, hatred, evil. A world beyond sin.

We should not forget that, in the midst of the efforts of God to redeem his world, those made in his image stand at the centre of this project. It is no different with the resurrection, for it is humanity that will be the beneficiaries of what God, through Christ, accomplished at Easter. Once more, I shall turn to Paul, and his letter to the Corinthians. He speaks about death’s end, of sin’s final condemnation – of the ultimate defeat of evil (1 Corinthians 15) – which hinges upon the reality of the resurrection, the birth of new creation. In assuring his audience of the resurrection and their own participation in everything that it stands for, Paul writes, “…Death has been swallowed up in victory” (15:55). Those who share in this resurrection will gain new, imperishable life, untouched by the corruption of the present world. This is the ultimate Christian hope, and the grounding for our belief that evil will be vanquished. As Paul writes, we who are “in Christ” will participate in new creation, given that he has taken upon himself the evil and the sin in this world (2 Corinthians 5:17, 21). A divine exchange, if you like, has occurred, by which those God has created have the chance to be free from evil – this world’s and their own – finally and permanently.

*          *          *

So, we reach the conclusion (almost): God has spoken against evil’s reign, and decisively so. He has borne the brunt of evil in himself, through the incarnational work of Jesus, identifying radically with those who have suffered and continue to suffer. But through that work, he has also condemned evil through the apparently bizarre act of submitting to it. However, as we have seen, it was via that sacrifice that God exposed and condemned sin in sinful man, liberating victims, bringing his wrath to bear upon evil, and doing so graciously yet justly. Finally, he has given us a concrete sign that evil will see its end. The empty tomb means that sin and death no longer have mastery over God’s world. Of course, we can ask why that new world has not yet arrived. That would require another piece entirely. Nevertheless, the resurrection functions simultaneously as the provisional fulfillment of a plan God began with the calling of Abraham and a glimpse of new, uncorrupted life – the firstfruits of a redeemed creation. This is what people can hold onto when the world seems to be crashing down around them – that the God who has himself suffered, and who has defeated evil, will bring about the promised new world for which so many long.

The End?

I would be remiss if I did not tell the whole story. I may have given the impression that all will be saved, and that all will leave behind this world, with all its points of suffering, and participate in a new world that is free from the attendant consequences of evil. But I would not be true to the witness of Scripture, and the reality of sin. By no means is one’s entry into this resurrection life a joyous fait accompli. One must accept it and receive it. Moreover, one must ground oneself in the work of another – Jesus Christ. Yes, we have all been victims of sin and evil throughout our lives; some more so than others. But, as I said earlier in this piece, we have all participated in that corruption in various ways. God has not only called us out of this place, he has made a way for us to be rescued – not just from our own pains and hurts and misery, but from the very presence of sin itself. The embrace of Christ as the One who stood as our representative; redemption from the decaying consequences of sin; and reconciliation with God in a creation restored and renewed – these are of a piece. But the question is: will we respond?