Avoiding the Plans of God

(Important: I show quite a bit more of my work on this subject here, here, and here. If, as you're reading this, you're tempted to think that I'm just vastly oversimplifying the whole thing, check out those posts. Then, if you still think that I'm oversimplifying the whole thing, let me know).

Can we avoid the plan God has for our lives?

Now, before we get into this, we need to clear one thing up: There are a lot of people (mostly 5-Point Calvinists) who divide God's plan (or "will") into two areas: Prescriptive Will, and Decretive Will. I've heard different names for those two types (Moral vs. Sovereign Will, Permissive vs. Efficient), but they all ultimately boil down to the same thing: God can "plan" or "will" or "desire" for you to do one thing, but he can "decree" that you do another thing.

Which, in itself, boils down to people wanting to say that God can "want" something without really wanting something.... in fact, that he can really, genuinely desire something while actively causing the opposite to come to pass.

Which is pretty much bullcrap, if you ask me.

This disconnect exists because certain theologies envision a God who decrees (irrevocably) each movement of every individual atom and every individual soul. The history of all of creation, down to each individual typo in this blog post, is decreed by God.

And at the same time, God "desires" that all should be saved (1 Timothy 2:3-4), and "wishes" that none should perish (2 Peter 3:9).

To be fair, Calvinists genuinely want to treat these passages with the weight they deserve (although I don't think they succeed). So from these passages, and others, they derive a second type of will: Sort of a "It'd be nice if..." will.

There's a pretty big problem with this, as I see it: How can God be so conflicted as to genuinely desire one thing while actively (and irresistibly) bringing the exact opposite to pass?

Is it Good for all men to be saved? God desiring for all men to be saved would seem to indicate that. But then, how can God decree for all men not to be saved? Can the opposite of Good still be Good?

Conversely, is it good for some men to be damned? God decreeing for some men to be damned would seem to indicate that. But then, how can God desire for all men to be saved? Can the opposite of Good be Good?

This theology does indeed proclaim a God who is sovereign over creation: It also seems to proclaim a God who irresistibly decrees a Universe that is less than totally Good, since he's constantly wishing for it to be otherwise. 

But what is the alternative? God must be sovereign, or else he is not God: Is this division of the will of God into "Basically Meaningless" and "Completely Irresistible" our only way out?

Here, as in so many places, C. S. Lewis (the patron saint of evangelical badassery) comes to our rescue with an explanation that is at once elegant, biblical, and freaking awesome. Let's go to Perelandra, as Ransom debates whether the results of the Fall make the Fall itself a "good" thing.

‘I will tell you what I say,’ answered Ransom, jumping to his feet. ‘Of course good came of it. Is [God] a beast that we can stop His path, or a leaf that we can twist His shape? Whatever you do, He will make good of it. But not the good He had prepared for you if you had obeyed Him. That is lost for ever. The first King and first Mother of our world did the forbidden thing; and He brought good of it in the end. But what they did was not good; and what they lost we have not seen. And there were some to whom no good came nor ever will come.’

BOOM. Drop the mic and walk away, Jack. Did that not just blow your freaking mind? Isn't that incredible?

God's got a plan alright. He has a plan, and we know it: His law is written on the hearts of everyone (Romans 2:15). And God has a plan for when we mess it up, too. He works all things to the good of those who love him, but that doesn't mean he causes "all things" to be (as in the Calvinist system).

God is just as sovereign in this theology as he is in the Calvinist theology. He is just as omnipotent, just as omniscient. But there is a key difference: God freely chooses to allow free agency to those made in his image: I go over the possible mechanics of such a universe in another blog post (It's a bit too long to include here).

God has a plan for us, but that plan changes as a result of our actions. So: Back to the original question:

Can we avoid the plan God has for our lives?

I think yes. I think we avoid it every time we sin, every time we turn away from the good God wants us to do. And I think that every person who goes to Hell has managed to successfully evade--forever--God's plan for their life.

They're Just Going to Use That Rain to Buy Drugs (OR "Thank God that He gives to those who don't deserve it")

“Now, you shouldn’t give money straight to the homeless. Studies have proven that 95% of the time, they’re going to use it self-destructively. Don’t let mercy make you dumb.”

That’s what our pastor said several Sundays ago, just as an aside to the main point of his sermon. A few minutes later, he told us how God “sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.” Then he told us that we need to be more like God.

And all I could think was... "But God, they're just going to use that rain to buy drugs!"

Now, this isn't about what my pastor said: he’s a great pastor, and to reduce his views on the homeless to these couple sentences would be extremely unfair. But this isn't the first time I've heard this from various people in the Church; rather, it comes as merely one more of a long chain of Christian thoughts on the homeless. They’re going to use it to buy drugs, they’re going to use it to buy alcohol, they could get a job so easily, they’re just lazy… they’re not worth your time, and they’re certainly not worth your money.

Has no one told God? Does he not know, has he not heard, that giving good things to the wicked is merely enabling their self-destructive behavior? He sends life-giving rain to the unrighteous… but they’re just going to use it to buy drugs.

I'm not here to dispute the statistics. My pastor used a specific number—95%—and even though that seems ludicrously inflated, I'm not going to try and disprove it. After all, I've heard it before, and I’m sure lots of people have. Let's say that it's true, just for the sake of argument. Let's say that every time you give $5 to a man on a street-corner, or to a couple pushing their cart, or to a woman standing outside the local grocery store, that's going straight to alcohol or some other self-destructive behavior.

And this is why we aren't supposed to give them money. But have we considered that maybe, just maybe, they’re just tired? Maybe they're tired of living in an ostensibly Christian nation that can't stand to look at them, that purposely avoids their gaze when stuck at a red light, that walks the long way around so they won't have to speak to a  homeless person. Actions speak louder than words, especially when we can't bring ourselves to speak any words to the homeless, except for a hurried, mumbled, "No, sorry…” And our actions often tell them that they are less than human. Maybe they’re tired of being less than human, of just being “the homeless.” And maybe the only way to make the day a little less unbearable is to be a little less sober.

Obviously, this doesn't excuse self-destructive behavior, but it also means that we absolutely cannot allow that to keep us from offering help. Rather, it means that we must be more spirited and more purposeful in our interactions with them. It means that we have to show them that we know they are more than the homeless.

Because speaking of them as "the homeless" at all can be a cop-out. I've met a lot of people on the street-corners of Fresno, but I've never met "the homeless." I met William and his wife Lory at Dominoes, and rather than settle for five bucks and a promise of prayer, they asked me to pray right then and there; I knelt down and prayed as their dogs licked my face. I met Abel at Little Caesars, asking if he could wash my car, and after I'd given to him he told me that God would pay me back many times over. I met Christopher on my way to Costco, and he asked me to buy him Raisin Bran, his favorite cereal. I met Alex on my way to youth group, and he showed me his scars, apologized for being scruffy, and told me that nobody could judge us except our Creator.  I met Robin outside of a Save-Mart, and when I didn't have any cash, I asked her what she wanted from the store. She asked me to get cat-food, tuna, and mayonnaise, because she already had bread for sandwiches.

They, like us, are individual, unique, beloved images of the invisible God. Not "the homeless" or "the poor." Not some faceless, nameless mass that we can explain away with statistics, that we can try and sentence in absentia as drunkards and addicts and wickedly lazy parasites. People. People with names, people with stories, people that had jobs but lost them, people who are disabled, or confused, or lost... people that are known and precious to God. 

Those are the people standing on street-corners, and no amount of statistics can capture them. Yes, some of them will probably use money for self-destructive behaviors. But the thing about gifts is that they always come with a choice, and they can always be misused. Take life, for example: I misuse mine on an almost daily basis. The Gospel itself is a gift that has been misused ever since we were given it. Grace, hope, intelligence, athleticism, money... all of these are gifts from God, which are often misused on earth. Can you imagine if God subscribed to the theory that we shouldn't give when our gifts might be misused?

That's probably why in all of the Gospels we never have an account of Jesus turning someone away. Try as hard as we might, we will never find the Bible story of the blind man who was refused sight because he'd only use it to lust, or the crippled man who remained crippled because he'd only use his limbs for stealing. Jesus never turned someone away who came to him for help: the healing of the ten lepers comes to mind, when only one out of the ten bothered to return to Jesus and thank him. Did Jesus revoke the healing on the other nine? Did Jesus make a vow to only heal those who were “worthy” from that point on? Of course not!

Giving to someone—whether it's supernatural healing in a village near Samaria, or a five dollar bill or even just a few minutes of your time on a street-corner in Fresno—means a lot of things. It means giving them the choice; it means giving them the opportunity to be righteous. It means being like God, and giving to those who may misuse your gifts. But most of all, it means treating that person who happens to be wearing raggedy clothes, who happens to be standing on the street-corner, as the individual, unique, immensely valuable image of God that he or she is.

Meditation By Rock

Original Post from EO:

At my very first summer camp, I heard DC Talk’s Jesus Freak playing from the loudspeakers before chapel. I didn’t know what it was, I’d never heard anything like it before, and as soon as I got back I asked my mom to find out. Fast forward to Christmas morning of that year: I awoke to find a few unexpected things sitting on top of the expected books and t-shirts I had received from Santa. There were, first of all, two small, thin objects, wrapped in paper; on top of them was an object of unfamiliar shape.

It was a CD player. My first CD player. And below it was DC Talk’sIntermission: The Greatest Hits and the O. C. Supertone’s Loud and Clear. I ate breakfast that day with my headphones wrapped around my ears (pretty sure there’s video testifying to that). Although that was years and years ago, I have no doubt that to this day, they remain among my most-listened-to CDs.

I grew up listening to Christian music. I grew up on DC Talk, O.C. Supertones, Relient K, Switchfoot, Toby Mac, and many, many others.  I grew up listening to them. I drove to school with Jesus Freak ringing in my ears (as well as the ears of anyone unfortunate enough be within earshot of my car), and I sang along to I Am Understood while doing chores. And to this day, every time I listen to Wilderness, I remember that it was on my very first CD.

Of course, I didn’t understand many of the songs when I first listened to them. I didn’t understand that DC Talk made a decision to emphasize the action, commitment, and vitality of love in an age that glorified (and continues to glorify) lust. I didn’t fully understand the wonder of the Incarnation and it’s impact on the problem of evil when I first heard it sung about by the Supertones.

But I understood enough, and I grew in my understanding. Christian music has its detractors, especially in the more intellectual of Christian circles. But ever since that first Christmas, I’ve grown up listening to music that challenged me, that caused me to ask questions, to think, to wonder, to grow. I’ve listened to theology for my entire life, and who I am is owed, in large part,  to the music I was blessed with.

I will give you just one example, although I feel as though I have dozens. I have written quite a bit on Job and Chesterton’s  The Man who was Thursday, and all of that started with the very first time I read Thursday. The book had an incredible impact on me, an impact that persists to this day. Whenever I think of suffering or theodicy, I do so through the lens of Chesterton. And that is, in large part, because of my music.

I read Thursday a couple of years into my time at college. And then I read, for the first time, the Anarchist complaint against God, where the Anarchist proclaims, “I do not curse you for being cruel… I curse you for being safe! You sit in your chairs of stone, and have never come down from them… Oh, I could forgive you everything, you that rule all mankind, if I could feel for once that you had suffered for one hour a real agony such as I–“. I knew what this complaint meant. It was not new to me. It was not unexpected, or unprecedented, or unheard of. Indeed, I had been thinking about it literally for years, ever since I’d gotten my first CD, where I listened to the Supertones ask “God, do you really understand what it’s like to be a man? Have you ever felt the weight of loving all the things you hate? Have you struggled, have you worried, how can you sympathize?”

And when the greatest of the accused defends himself with a simple question, with a “commonplace text,” that too was not unprecedented: It was merely the maturation and growth of the Supertone’s realization that “the wilderness” is an actual wilderness that God himself has endured.

There are a dozen more examples, of Christology and Atonement and Theodicy and Apologetics, where my studies built upon the foundation of years of meditation-by-rock (or ska). These are only seeds… but they were planted early, and they were watered often. Every time I thought, really about what I was listening to (and often singing along to), I was meditating on some aspect of Christianity. Is it a viable substitute for actual learning, for meditation and prayer and Bible reading? Of course not. But as seeds, as reminders, as thought-provokers? Christian music is valuable indeed.

Follow-up post written here:

Yes, it's a reboot of an older post of mine, but it has a few new things to say.

I've heard a lot of the critiques of Christian music--from my good friend and archnemesis Alishia Lawman asking if the music had accepted Jesus into its heart, to the more serious accusation from many people at Biola of generally crappy quality compared to secular music. Bad Catholic's "Five Reasons to Kill Christian Music" is possibly the only post of his that I can absolutely disagree with on all counts.

Because at bottom, most critiques of "Christian Music" are actually critiques of bad Christian Music. They critique the faulty theology of particular songs, or the inferior musical or lyrical quality of certain songs. They critique the act of calling it "Christian Music," or they say that by labeling it as such, it makes certain implications about music that doesn't qualify itself as "Christian."

These critiques are all fairly easy to counter. Many songs espouse completely orthodox theology, and many songs actually go deeper into that theology than you might hear on a Sunday morning. Many songs are objectively good musical compositions. And the fact of the matter is, labels are nothing more than shorthand, for better and for worse, so the last accusation falls flat on its face (except for the somewhat silly Christians who object to music not on the grounds of lewdness or coarseness, but merely on the grounds of it not being Christian... I'll give you guys that one).

So what kind of Christian Music am I talking about in the above post? What is the label short for? Here it is: "Music containing lyrics that attempt to explicitly express specifically Christian theology without compromising the musical quality of the song as a whole."

I gave just one example in the above post at EO (here it is again).  I'll give you one more:

Anna and I read a book, called The Fault in our Stars, by John Green (one of Anna's Youtubers that she watches regularly). Green's novels are notorious (to me) for taking place in a twisted, hopeless world, where the protagonists eventually arrive at a Christian hope without first passing through Christianity, an impressive feat indeed. The Fault in our Stars follows two teenagers, both diagnosed with terminal cancer, as they fall in love, and it ends (spoiler alert) with one of them dying. The theme, throughout the whole book, is that of an explicitly uncaring universe, rivaling that of Farewell to Arms. The universe catches people up in its gears, grinds them up, and spits them out, all without caring one little bit.

And then, just a couple days after we read the book, we were driving somewhere listening (as we always do in my car) to my Christian Music. Today, it was Supertones day, and as were listening to Like No One Else, Anna suddenly leaned forward and said, "This answers it... this is the answer to The Fault in our Stars." It was the bridge, which says,
"Every time I shed a tear, it matters, it matters,
Every time I'm cold with fear, it matters, it matters,
When I got a broken heart, it matters, it matters,
Every time I fall apart, it matters, it matters,
When I think I'm all alone, on the road or when at home,
Every time I have to sneeze, every single breath I breathe,
When I'm in a dentist's chair, it matters, it matters,
Anywhere and everywhere, it matters, it matters."

Anna was right. This is the answer to The Fault in our Stars. This is the faith that defies the nihilism of the honestly atheist world. This is the faith that defies and comforts those who insist that nobody cares, that nobody understands. This is Christian theology, put to song, and if you think it shouldn't have been, then I want to fight you.

What to Me and to You? Jesus Surprises the Demons

Alternate Title: That Wacky Jesus is At It Again!

Original Post from EO:

When Jesus encounters demons in his travels throughout Israel, there are a couple reactions that we would expect from demons. Fear. Shuddering. Apprehension.

But there’s one reaction we see multiple times that, on first thought, wouldn’t be expected: Surprise.

In Mark 1:24, Jesus encounters a demon-possessed man–probably the first of his public career. In my NET Bible (viewable here), the demon’s first words are translated as “Leave us alone, Jesus of Nazareth!” The translators note, however, that the literal translation is actually, “What to us and to you?” It’s an idiom, effectively meaning, “We have nothing to do with one another: Why are you bothering us?” The demon seems more surprised than anything else.

We see this again in Matthew 8, with the famed demoniacs of the tombs. Again, their initial response to the coming of Jesus is surprise and puzzlement: “What to us and to you? Have you come to destroy us before the time?”

Now, there’s one more example of this phrase in the New Testament, but it has nothing to do with demons: Instead, we see it in John 2, when Mary tells Jesus that the wedding has run out of wine. She implies that he should somehow intervene, and his response? “What to me and to you?”

In all cases, the translators note that this idiom can carry two different tones: Defensive hostility, or indifference and disengagement. The indifference and disengagement is obvious when Jesus is speaking to his mother, just as the defensive hostility is obvious in the case of the demons. One thing that remains the same, though, is the surprise at being involved in the first place.

“What to me and to you?” Why are you involving me? What do you have to do with me? What did I do to you, that you are doing this to me? That’s all wrapped up in it. Jesus was surprised at being involved with the wedding, as it had nothing to do with him or his mission. The demons, too, are surprised, but not that Jesus noticed them in the first place (after all, they couldn’t hope to hide from the Son of God). They’re surprised that he cared what they were doing.

“What to me and to you?” What are you doing here, Jesus? I am doing nothing to you: Why do you care?

This is because the demons fundamentally misunderstand Jesus’ motivation, his goals and desires. They fail to understand Love.

In his masterpiece The Screwtape Letters, Lewis hits this theme again and again. His demons are constantly trying to get at God’s true motivations: “Love,” to the demons, is just a meaningless word, a nonsensical idea that must serve to mask God’s true intentions. This misunderstanding, this incomprehension of love, is what we see in the demon’s plaintive cry to Jesus.

It is obvious to us, because we understand that Jesus loves his people. We understand that his purpose in coming here was not to conquer, but to serve: Not to hurt, but to heal. When Jesus sees a man (or a woman or child) possessed by a demon, he loves that person and wants to help them. The demons, however, lack this understanding:  they see no reason at all for Jesus to seek them out. The demons of the Gadarenes are a  prime example of this: Why would Jesus come to them “before the time”? What are they doing to Jesus, that he would find them and punish them when his eventual victory is already on its way?

What does he gain from it? That is what the demons struggle with, because the answer–nothing at all–is incomprehensible to them. Jesus gains neither wordly nor celestial power by casting demons out of people; He merely hastens a process which is already unfolding. He gains fickle followers and earns the wrath of the ruling class, and that’s just about it.

And that’s actually something we could all stand to remember, I think. Because the demons aren’t wrong. They do know our inherent value. From a standpoint of objective worth, in and of ourselves, our bodies and spirits are broken and twisted, no use to anyone but as a plaything, something to exercise control and power over, soon to be discarded and destroyed. There is no objective value, no worth. We are not useful to God.

And therein lies the wonder of his love for us. Humanity is valuable because of God’s love, and it doesn’t stand apart from that.  We are valueless to the demons, worthless on any scale that has to do with merit or usefulness: But to him, we are precious.

Follow-up post written here:

This post, unlike a lot of other posts I've written, very nearly wrote itself. From the initial idea, to right about 1 1/2 paragraphs towards the end, it all flowed really smoothly. Demons failing to understand love, Jesus gaining nothing, etc.

Then things took a strange turn, and I realized that the demons were right. The post sat there, unfinished, for a day or so as I thought about how to finish it.

The demons are right in their assessment of our objective value, of our worth and usefulness. They are correct to be surprised when the Holy One of God intervenes. Why the hell would the gloriously powerful Son of God take the time to make one individual person--a broken, rebellious soul and a broken, corrupted body-- more comfortable? What in hell, heaven, and earth could possibly be in it for him?

Humanity brings nothing to the table. Humanity is worthless, valueless. In a world without God, humanity is nothing special: A collection of atoms and molecules, set in motion by certain electrical impulses in the brain. Nothing.

Even in the Christian world, we can often come to believe that we are, in and of ourselves, important. Not so: We are important in that God chose to involve himself with us, and only in that regard. We are important because God created us, because he chose to care for his creation, because he chose to offer himself to created beings that could offer him nothing in return.

He first loved us, not just when we were still his enemies, but when there was never even the slightest possibility that we could be valuable outside of the value he chooses to give us. And by this we know love.

What Happened After...

We'll skip over the night at Gethsemane, the denials, the weeping. If you want to read it, just let me know. After that, though, in between the denials and Easter morning, Peter drops out of the Gospels. We do not know what happened then, but we can guess.

I woke, shivering and wet, to morning light and the sound of birdsong. I was at Gethsemane. Why...[1]

This very night, you will deny me three times. I jerk upright, clutching my knees to my chest. No. No no no. Surely not-

I do not know the man! Yes. I had denied him. And now-

He deserves death![2] Tears came to my eyes, already sore from weeping, and I put my head between my knees. My master had been taken in the night, and I had done nothing. Worse than nothing. It would have been better if I had stayed away like the others. But I thought I could fix it. I thought…

I jerked to my feet and, stumbling to the nearest tree, I beat my fists on it. I screamed. My fists hurt, but I kept beating them on the tree. I screamed again, louder and longer. My hands were raw and beginning to bleed—then I screamed again, and my throat hurt, and I tasted blood. I welcomed the pain. But it was not enough. It was nothing compared to what they had done to Jesus last night. What I had done to him.

I was no longer screaming. I was crying, and instead of beating against the tree I was leaning on it for support. I sobbed into the rough bark as Christ’s words, and mine, went through my head over and over again, mixing and jumbling but never stopping. You will deny me three times- I do not know the man- three times- may God strike me down- three times- deny- deny- deny- may God-

“Simon!” John’s voice. I could hear people running down the path. I turned around, away from the tree, and began to hastily rub my arm across my face, but then I stopped. They would see me as I was. “Simon!” This time it was Andrew. They were getting closer. No need to answer. The sound drew closer.

My legs were giving. I slowly sank down the tree—I was sitting down, my back to the tree, when they finally ran through the gate. John was in the lead—he had always been a fast runner—with Andrew and James right behind him. They saw me right away, but as they all rushed towards me, John slowed and let the others pass him. Our eyes locked, and in his eyes and on his face I saw the deep grief, for Jesus and all of us, and something more—pity. For me. He knew what had happened. But I could tell by the way the others were hastening towards me that they did not have any idea what I had done. Andrew stooped down next to me and put a hand on my knee, while James remained standing and put his hand on my shoulder. On their faces I could see the same sadness and fear that I was feeling, and there was even a good amount of guilt—but it was nothing compared to what I was feeling.

Andrew was about to say something, but when he saw my face, he paused, and then he said, “You know, then?” I nodded. “You know that they have taken him to Pilate?” Pilate? I shook my head, but then I stopped. Of course they would go to Pilate. Only he could… execute someone. Andrew, carefully watching my face, nodded when he saw the realization hit. “They are asking him to authorize the… the…” I raised my hand, put it on top of his, and nodded. I knew. After a moment, he continued. “We left the others behind to watch and listen, but right now, he is expected to… give his approval.” I nodded again. But still…

“What about the people?” I asked. Or tried to ask. Even I could not understand my croaking, wet, torn voice. After several tries, John, standing behind Andrew, finally understood and said, “The people… are fickle. The priests have been out in the city all morning, stirring up the city against him. There are still a few of us who follow Jesus, but the rest… At this rate, there will be a riot if Pilate decides not to… to execute Jesus.” He stopped, unable to speak anymore, and I nodded again. Of course.

The birds still sang in the trees, their song mingling with the soothing sound of wind in the olive branches. It was so strange, how something so big could happen and the world just did not seem to care.

After a while, Andrew said, “We are going back to Jerusalem, to see what is happening. Will you come with us?” And, rising, he held his hand out to help me up. But I shook my head and remained sitting. As James moved to rejoin John, Andrew asked, “Why not? What will you do?”

The question caught me by surprise. What would I do? What could I do? I shrugged, and then, looking at my scraped and bleeding hands, I said, “Wait. Wait for God to strike me down.” Hopefully I would not wait long.

“What?” Shock and horror were plastered across his face. “What do you mean, Simon? Why? I do not understand-”

“No, you do not!” John had not told him. But he still needed to know. “You do not understand, Andrew! I betrayed him. I abandoned him. I-”

“Simon, we all did! We all ran away, just like he said we would. But now-”

“I followed him, Andrew.” The tears were coming again, but the anger at myself, at what I had done, was holding them back for now. “I followed him to the house of Caiaphas. I was there, in the courtyard, while they were questioning him. But then someone recognized me, and asked me if I was his disciple. Do you know what I said, Andrew?” He slowly shook his head, understanding beginning to dawn. “I said no! And then I said I did not even know who he was!”

Pity was on his face now. Pity I did not deserve. He spoke gently. “Simon, you were panicking. Any one of us would have done the same. It could have happened to-”

“Three times, Andrew!” The tears were beginning to come, choking me, blurring my vision. “Three times, I denied him, just as he had said. Only I did not listen. Three times! Three…” I could not continue. My head dropped between my knees again. I do not know what they decided. All I know is that when I looked up again, only Andrew was there, sitting against the tree across from me. When he saw me looking up at him, he tried to smile, and he looked like he was about to say something, but I dropped my head back down. I was so tired, and I had no more tears.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember John was shaking me awake. He was very distressed, and Andrew was crying behind him. “It is happening now,” he said. “He is carrying his cross to the place of the skull. Will you come with us?” His tone was gentle and questioning.

Would I go? I should. But I did not want to. He would see me again, look at me again, and know that I had betrayed him and denied him and…

“No,” I said, in barely more than a whisper. And John nodded and, on rising, walked quickly back out of the garden, with Andrew following behind.

I had been wrong. I did have more tears.

Rome

More tears. I still remember the sudden jolt, the spike of insight that said you miserable coward. You cannot even face the man you followed for three years. The man you swore to die for. The man you denied three times. Run, coward, run. And then I had run, drawing in deep, sobbing, gasping breaths as I ran to Golgotha.  He was already on the cross by the time I got there, but I stopped before I drew close. There, a little ways off, were the others. I did not go to them. All the shame and anger in the world could not have forced me to get closer, to see the pain and disappointment in his eyes. Then had come that horrible cry—“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”—and I wanted to say it too. I was abandoned, lost and alone, without purpose. After a while, John and the women had drawn closer, but I still stayed behind. And after, when it was over, John had found me, and I was too broken to resist when he drew me along, both us crying. But he was merely grieving and afraid. I was shattered. Ashamed. Angry. Terrified.

Israel

Jerusalem

It was Saturday, and we did not know what to do. I remembered when he asked us if we, like so many others, would leave him, and I remembered what I had said. Lord, to whom shall we go?[3] Now, he had left us, been taken away, and we had to ask ourselves the same question. Where would we go?

John was staying with a friend in the city, and he had taken me with him.[4] It all seemed pointless, now. There was nothing left. We had believed Jesus was the Son of God. We thought he had a plan. We thought he was going to save us. And now he was dead. I wanted to be angry at him, angry at God, even angry at myself… but the grief overwhelmed the anger. There was no room for it amidst the sadness. Jesus was dead.

It was almost noon, and my stomach growled. I had not eaten anything since… since Passover. It had been more than a day since I had eaten. John, sitting against the opposite wall, raised his red-rimmed eyes. His voice creaked and cracked as he said, “Have you eaten anything since…” I shook my head, and he nodded. Wordlessly he rose, shakily and slowly, and made his way to the door. He opened it and immediately the smell of fresh bread wafted through the air. He turned, and I saw the basket in his hand, flat loaves peeking out of it. His friend must have left it there. He brought it over and sat down next to me, setting the basket down in front of us. But then we left it there. We did not touch it. We did not speak. We hardly even breathed. We sat there and wondered how long our eyes would continue to make tears.

After a very long time, John shook himself. He reached for the basket and dragged it towards himself, then he pulled a loaf of bread out of it. He broke it in two and tried to give one half to me, but I did not move. He opened his mouth and, after a hoarse cough, said, “We have to eat, Simon.”

I did not want to say anything, but he kept holding the bread there, so I said, “What is the point, John?” He slowly lowered the bread, and I continued. “Why should we eat? What is left for us to do? Our hope is gone. Dead.” Crucified. He was still for a moment, but then he shook his head. Slowly he raised his piece of bread to his mouth and bit into it. I watched him tear off a chunk of bread, chew, and swallow.

“It is good,” he said quietly. Then he held out the other piece to me again. “Eat, Simon. It does not matter what we will do after. For now, we will eat. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?” And he took another bite, watching me while he chewed, and almost involuntarily my hand rose and took the bread. My stomach rumbled, and the smell grew stronger as I raised it to my mouth. I took a bite. It was good. As soon as I swallowed, I realized how hungry I was and took another bite. John was doing the same, and before long he reached into the basket and pulled out another loaf, again breaking it and giving half to me.

We did not talk anymore, and tears still came, and after the bread we sat in silence. What would we do? What could we do? Our hope was dead. Shattered. Broken, like me.

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[1]Peter disappears from the Gospel narrative following Matthew 26:75. He does not reappear until after the resurrection in John 20:2. The following section is, therefore, entirely speculative. However, I have attempted to keep Peter’s character intact. He has no misconceptions about the gravity of his sin. He knows it to be horrible. He is ashamed of himself. Therefore, he would not go to where he would be likely to meet the other disciples. However, neither would he simply wander the streets for anyone to see. The Garden of Gethsemane could serve both as a comfort and a self-inflicted punishment, reminding Peter of his Lord and his own betrayal of that Lord. The Garden, then, seems a likely place to retreat to.

[2]Matthew 26:66

[3]John 6:68

[4]From John 20:2, we learn than that Peter and John were together following the crucifixion. That it is only Peter and John is nearly certain, because only they are mentioned throughout the entire narrative section—surely the others would at least have been mentioned once had they been present when Mary Magdalene came to them. Lenski (John 1336) says, “Where were these two? Where were the rest of the eleven? Who can tell? Only these two were here—that is all.” I do not know why Peter was with John and not Andrew, his own brother. Perhaps he was still ashamed to be near the others. Perhaps he had a special friendship with John (Lenski reminds us of John 18:15-16, and we may also remember John 13:24). However, speculation can only take us so far. John and Peter were together: where and why Scripture does not reveal. 

Where is Peter--rather, perhaps we should call him Simon, for now--to go? What is he to do? Would it be even remotely possible to return to his life as a fisherman? On that Saturday, the bottom had well and truly fallen out of the world, and the full sense of the despair of Ecclesiastes crashed in upon the disciples, with the added sting of knowing, however briefly, that there was more to existence than this crushing hopelessness.

Like this post?  Check out the full work, Simon, Who Is Called Peter! It combines the readability of First-Person narration with biblical accountability in the form of copious footnotes, allowing you to see the world of the New Testament through the eyes of Jesus' most notorious disciple. 

The (Last) Passover

To us, it is the Last Supper: but to them, it was Passover, a time of joy and remembrance. But the comforting ceremony and celebration of Passover are, unfortunately, short-lived.  They are interrupted by predictions of death and betrayal and faithlessness, which both frightens and angers Peter. To us, the story is finished, and it's easy to ignore what it would be like to actually be part of the story. We are quick to pass judgement, to say, "They should have understood, Peter should have remained strong, he was a coward!" And we can forget that we are all, at times, fools and cowards. One thing that remains certain, that never wavers, is that Peter really does love Jesus.

After a short time, Jesus cleared his throat, and we all looked up again. He said, “I have greatly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer. For I tell you, I will not eat it again until it is fulfilled in the Kingdom of God.”[1] And he took the nearby cup and filled it with wine—the finest we could find—and prayed briefly over it, giving thanks. Then he drank deeply from it, and when he lowered the cup, he said, “Take this, and drink it amongst yourselves. For I will not drink of this fruit of the vine again until the Kingdom of God comes.” And he passed it down the table, and we each took a drink of it. After that we ate the bitter herbs and washed away the bitterness with another swallow of wine. And then…

“Praise the Lord!” Jesus began suddenly, without warning, and it took us a moment to catch up and begin singing with him. “Praise, O the servants of the Lord, Praise the name of the Lord!” Jesus’ tiredness seemed to fall away from him as he looked up to heaven and sang loudly. “The Lord is high above all nations, and his glory above the heavens!” Slowly we disciples did the same. We were still confused, and puzzled, but for now we were no longer troubled. Something was going to happen tonight, maybe something horrible, but for now we were praising our God and remembering our Rescuer. Our God had brought our ancestors out of Egypt—surely he could save his Son. My voice rose louder as we reached my favorite part: “Tremble, o earth, at the presence of the Lord, at the presence of the God of Jacob, who turns the rock into a pool of water, the flint into a spring of water.”

And then, as the praise ended, Jesus carved the lamb, the sound of the knife loud in the sudden silence, and the meal began and we talked and laughed, happy in the presence of good friends and good wine. I could not remember an unhappy Passover, and this one was no exception.

 But it could not last. After a while, when the meal was almost over, Jesus cleared his throat loudly, and we all fell silent as we turned towards him. The sight of him wiped the smile from my face: I could see pain once again on his face, in his eyes, and when he spoke, I could hear it in his voice.

“I tell you this truly: one of you will betray me.” And that was it. All he said. I sat back in shock as the table exploded around me.

They were all asking him the same question: “Is it I, Lord?”

Jesus answered, and we immediately fell silent to hear him speak: “He who has dipped his hand in the dish with me will betray me.” That told us nothing. We had all been dipping bread into the bowl with him. I caught John’s eye, sitting next to him, and motioned that he should ask Jesus who it was. He did, quietly, and Jesus answered, but I could not hear him over the noise. I could see the puzzlement and fear on John’s face as Jesus dipped the bread he was holding it into the bowl and handed it to Judas, lying on the other side of him.[2] Judas asked him something, but I could hear neither his question nor Jesus’ answer—Judas, however, went white.

Then Jesus said to Judas, loudly enough for all to hear, “Do what you are doing quickly.” And Judas left without a word, hurriedly and nervously. I was puzzled, but James, sitting next to me, whispered that he might be going out to buy supplies for the rest of the festival, and I nodded. That was probably it. He had our money, anyway.

Jesus gave us no time to think about it, in any case. He cleared his throat again, and once we were all looking at him, he took up one of the remaining pieces of bread and broke it. I started, looking at the last piece of lamb, still on the plate. This was new.[3] This was not part of the ceremony. He said, “Take this bread and eat: this is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” And then, while we were still eating it, uncertain and confused, he poured a new cup of wine and, holding it up, said, “This cup is my blood of the new covenant, poured out for many, for the forgiveness of sins. Drink.” And we did, still confused, but not daring to ask what he meant. Indeed, we did not have time, for he immediately began teaching us again.

“I will soon leave you,” he said, “and where I am going, you cannot follow.” I jerked, and a fragment of dismay left my mouth before I could stop it. Jesus continued, “I will give you a new commandment: that you love one another, just as I have loved you. That is how people will know that you are my disciples.”

As soon as he finished speaking, I said, “Lord, where are you going?” And why could we not follow? As if I would not follow wherever he went.

Jesus answered, shaking his head and smiling sadly as if he had read my thoughts. “Where I am going you cannot follow now. But you will follow after.”

I asked again. “Lord, why can I not follow you now? I will lay down my life for you!” I would, if it came to that—and Jesus seemed certain that it would.

“Simon, Simon,” Jesus said, shaking his head, and I flushed angrily. Not Peter, now, not “rock,” but Simon again. “Satan demanded that he have you, the he might sift you like wheat.” What? Me? Sifted? The room was dead quiet except for Jesus’ voice, which continued calmly, clearly, sadly. “But I have prayed for you that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned again, strengthen your brothers.”

Turned? I would not turn! I replied indignantly, “Lord, I will go with you to prison and to death!” My breath caught in my throat when Jesus only shook his head.

“Will you die for me, Simon? I tell you the truth, the rooster will not crow till you have denied me three times.”[4] Before I could say anything, he began speaking again, as if he had not just told me that I would betray him! I found it hard to sit still, to pay attention, but I forced myself to. “When I sent you out with nothing, no money-bag or knapsack or sandals, did you lack anything?” A few of the disciples, unsure of the right answer, said no. He continued. “But now let the one who has a moneybag, or knapsack, or sandals, take them. And let the one who has no sword sell his cloak and buy one. [5] For I tell you that the Scriptures about me shall soon be fulfilled, and I will be counted as a criminal.”

 A sword? We would need a sword? Suddenly I remembered the two swords I had seen, and, pointing to them, I said, “Look, Lord! There are two swords here!” I stood and walked over to them, taking one off the wall and feeling the weight of it in my hand. I had always imagined holding a sword.

Jesus sighed and said, “It is enough.”[6]

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[1]The proper reconciling and ordering of the gospel accounts of the Last Supper is difficult but entirely possible. See Hendriksen (Luke 959-60) for the Order of the Passover Feast. The washing of the feet (John 13:1-20) likely occurs before the meal has actually started. The meal then begins with a prayer of thanksgiving and the drinking of the first cup of wine. Hendriksen (Luke 961) links this to Luke 22:17-18: Lenski, however (Luke 1043), links the same verse to the final cup of wine, immediately before the general eating of the lamb begins. It is, to a large extent, irrelevant which is true, because in any case Jesus’ prediction of betrayal would have come afterward, while everyone was eating freely. In summary: the washing of the feet is first. Then, before the eating of the lamb, is the cup of wine mentioned in Luke 22:17-18. Then, during/after the general meal, is the revelation of a traitor and the majority of Jesus’ teaching. Towards the ending of the meal, which would normally be formally ended by the master of the house to eat the last morsel of lamb, Jesus “proceeded to do something entirely new” (Lenski (Luke 1045). It is at this point that the Passover transitions into the Last Supper (Hendriksen (Luke 960) and, according to some commentators (Lenski, Luke 1044), the Sacrament of communion. 

[2] Hendriksen (Matthew 906) says that all at the table would have likely dipped bread in the bowl with Jesus at some point. John’s account, then, does not conflict with this but comes after: John asks, “Who is it?” and Jesus tells John specifically, “It is he to whom I give this bread.” (Hendriksen, John Vol. 2, 247).

[3]Both Lenski and Hendriksen agree that “at this point Passover passes over into the Lord’s Supper.” (Lenski Matthew 1023, Hendriksen Matthew 908). Lenski goes into greater detail, saying, “We shall be safe in assuming that the institution of the Lord’s Supper came at the close of the somewhat ample period of freely eating the Passover food… So about the time the housefather would have gone over to number nine [the ninth stage of Passover], the eating of the last morsel of the lamb, thus stopping all further eating, Jesus proceeded to do something that was entirely new.” It is unclear whether Jesus then, after this, ate the last portion of lamb and continued on with the traditional Passover ceremony. Lenski identifies the singing of hymns mentioned afterward in Matthew 26:30 with “the second part of the hallel, Ps. 115-118, perhaps also the last part, Ps. 120-137, with which the Passover was usually concluded.” Passover was likely ended in the usual manner, but it is still important to note that Christ instituted a new ceremony with new meaning in the midst of the old one.

[4]This section is my best attempt at combining John 13:36-38 with Luke 22:31-34. It is important to note that Lenski sees two predictions of denial: one, recorded by Luke and John, in the upper room, and another, recorded by Matthew and Mark, on the way to the Mount of Olives (Matthew 1035). Mark and Matthew both specify the time as being after they had left the room to go to the Mount of Olives. They also both include that the rooster will crow three times. By contrast, Luke and John certainly seem to place the prediction while they are still in the upper room, with a significant amount of discourse still to be done before leaving, and neither of them mention the double crow and are likewise very similar in language. Given this, Lenski’s interpretation seems preferable to one that conflates the two into one.

[5]Commentators disagree sharply on the proper translation of this section. Most seem to agree that Jesus is talking about a shift, a change in the daily life and work of disciples following his death. The disagreement stems from what Jesus means by his talk of buying a sword (Luke 22:36). Hendriksen (Luke 976) states that the sword cannot mean a literal blade for use in self-defense: instead, the sword is to be taken figuratively as a symbol of courage, of which the disciples will need all they can muster.  Lenski (Luke 1068-9), however, contends that “purse, wallet, sword are not to be allegorized into something spiritual… The injunctions are concrete and simply use specific examples to indicate a complete course of conduct.” Additionally, he adds that “A sword would be needed for protection” from bandits and brigands in their travels. Nolland (Luke 1076) agrees, saying “The sword is thought of as part of the equipment required for the self-sufficiency of any traveler in the Roman world… Protection of one’s person is in view.” I have sided with Lenski and Nolland for this reason:  the purse, bag, and sandals are actual, useful items—items that would be absolutely necessary for Christians traveling through the new, hostile world after Christ’s ascension. There is no reason to allegorize or symbolize them into something else. The sword is in no way separated from these things but is included among them, and Jesus gives no hint that we are to treat the sword differently than the other things. There is a clear reference here to Luke 9:1-6, where Jesus told them the exact opposite (do not take a cloak, moneybag, etc., with no mention of swords) and at that time, the disciples “did not lack anything” despite not bringing these things. This will now not be the case. Before, God provided for the disciples even though they lacked basic necessities. Now that Jesus tells them to bring those things when they did not need them previously, the implication is that God will not provide in the same way. Bring money, sandals, a knapsack, because you will need these things: money and the knapsack to protect against starvation, and sandals to protect against rough terrain and consequent injury. The implication is that God will no longer provide for these things as directly and immediately as he did before. The sword, then, comes as a logical continuation. Before, God protected you from bandits in the same way he protected you against starvation. Both would prevent you from doing God’s work: therefore, both need to be avoided. The sword serves the same purpose as the money-bag and sandals: protection.

[6]The controversy over Luke 22:36 is continued here. Most agree that they are referencing two, actual, Roman short-swords. Hendriksen (Luke 977) sees Jesus’ reply as “curt and decisive,” picturing Jesus as frustrated by the disciples’ inaccurate understanding—they think that he is speaking of actual swords, and his “It is enough” is meant to cut the conversation short before further misunderstandings can be formed. Nolland (Luke 1077) also sees it as expressing frustration, but for a different reason: Jesus is talking about actual swords, but the focus is not on acquiring them (as the disciples believe) but on “the need for the disciples to cope with hitherto unexperienced and therefore yet unexpected difficulty. The Apostles seem to settle for the detail (having swords) without any real readiness to grapple with what the call to have swords means for them.” Lenski (Luke 1070) agrees that Jesus says it “to end the matter,” only because nothing more can be said on this point. Additionally, Lenski offers a possible explanation for where the two swords come from. It is not likely that they mean knives used in the Passover—the word consistently means “sword” and not “knife.” It is even more unlikely that on this night, Passover night, two of the disciples would have come armed to the feast. The most likely explanation is this: “‘Lo, two swords here!’ means that they hung right there in the upper room and belonged to the owner of the house. Peter took one of them on leaving.” I lean more towards Lenski’s interpretation (see above footnote), and also accept his explanation of the origin of the swords, given Peter’s demonstrated ineptness with the blade and the lack of other plausible explanations.

This is, rightly speaking, the last of the Passover's. Before this Passover ends, Jesus does something new, something that hadn't been done before, and turns it into Communion. It becomes something similar, but greater: We do not eat the sacrificial lamb, but  the very body and blood of God Himself, given for us for the forgiveness of our sins. 

Like this post? Check out the full work, Simon, Who Is Called Peter! It combines the readability of First-Person narration with biblical and scholarly accountability in the form of copious footnotes, allowing you to see the world of the New Testament through the eyes of Jesus' most notorious disciple.

Do you wash me?

As John and I finished preparing the table, I noticed that everyone’s feet were very dirty—mine were as well. I winced… the master of the house had not provided a servant to wash our feet. Still, John and I had been working all day. Surely we would not be expected to do it—and anyway, someone would volunteer eventually.[1] We finished and, double-checking that everything was ready, signaled for the others to come and take their places. Everyone wanted to sit next to Jesus, and there was even arguing over who deserved it more. John and I argued that we deserved to sit next to him, given that we had been working all day, but the others disagreed. By chance I saw Jesus shift, saw his face, his expression, and immediately I felt a deep sense of shame.

I stopped speaking, and the others quickly saw what I had seen and fell silent as well. We reclined wherever we found ourselves, and John, standing closest to Jesus, was able to be next to him after all. But as soon as I had settled in, I realized that our feet were still dirty—dry, dusty, and a little uncomfortable. No one had washed them. I saw everyone else thinking the same thing, looking towards the basin and towel, ready for us to use.

But no one moved, except Jesus. He rose up, and as we all watched him in disbelief, he took off his outer robe and wrapped the towel around his waist. I wanted to speak, wanted to say something, anything—but I could not. I could only watch in growing horror at my own pride as Jesus poured the water into the basin and, carrying it back to us, began washing Andrew’s feet. I saw the shame on his face as Jesus poured the water over his feet and dried them with the ends of the towel around his waist. I could see his thoughts: It should be me washing his feet. It was my thought as well—all of ours, I think, as he went around the table and washed our feet. When he finally came to me, I could not take it anymore.

            I stopped him, and said, “Lord, do you wash my feet?” I should be washing his, not the other way around.

            He smiled, gently and sadly, but his voice was firm as he said, “You do not understand what I am doing now. Afterward, you will understand.”

            After? After what? Anyway, it did not matter. “Lord,” I said wretchedly, “You will never wash my feet.”

            Still the sad smile. “If I do not wash you, you have no part in me.”

            Fine. If he wanted to wash me, he could. I needed it. But I would be washed completely.[2] “Lord, then not my feet only but also my hands and head!” I should stop talking. I knew I should.

But I did not, and my shame only grew as Jesus, shaking his head with that sad smile still on his face, said, “He who has bathed already only needs to wash his feet. He is already completely clean.” He was speaking to all of us now. I nodded, still not understanding, really, but he continued. “And you are clean,” he said, looking at all of us, and the smile disappeared as he went on: “But not all of you.” Then he continued, washing my feet and everyone else’s, and no one spoke. We were ashamed and confused, and we did not know what to do.

After he had finished and dressed, he reclined at the table again and, gently and patiently, said, “Do you understand what I have done to you? Do you know why?” He did not wait for us to answer, but went on. “You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right to do so, because that is what I am. If, then, I, as your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash each other’s feet.” He stopped speaking and looked around the table, and I could not meet his gaze. I had been proud. I should have washed his feet, and theirs—but I had not.[3]

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[1]Hendriksen (John Vol. 2, 228): “The washing of the feet was customary… it was, after all, a menial task, a task to be discharged by a servant… But here in the upper room there was no servant. Hence, one of the disciples should have performed this task. But none was willing.”

[2]MacArthur (John 12-21, 67): “Though he may have missed the Lord’s point and thought He was referring to a physical washing, whatever Jesus was offering, Peter wanted all of it.”

[3]John’s account of the Last Supper is so long that it would be impractical to attempt to include it all in this narrative. I will include only the points most relevant to Peter, with the understanding that I am not attempting to exclude the rest of John’s narrative which I do not explicitly include.

We might well remember Isaiah 43:19: "Behold, I am doing a new thing: now it springs forth, do you not perceive it!" Of course, that could be the theme verse for all of the gospel story, but now it reaches a fever pitch: Jesus will take the Feast of Passover, commemorating, in many ways, the very birth of the Jewish people, and he will turn it into a Sacrament. He will fulfill the Old Covenant and personally implement the New. And now, as before, it will not be perceived immediately. 

Like this post? Check out the full work, Simon, Who Is Called Peter! It combines the readability of First-Person narration with biblical and scholarly accountability in the form of copious footnotes, allowing you to see the world of the New Testament through the eyes of Jesus' most notorious disciple.