Understanding the Atonement

The campfire stories of our Christian journey, passed down through generations, centre on one pivotal concept: atonement. This uniquely English theological term, "at-one-ment," speaks to a reconciliation, a bridging of the chasm between humanity and God. While other faiths speak of divine forgiveness, only Christianity proclaims that this forgiveness was wrought by God's own agent, Jesus Christ. But what, precisely, transpired on that fateful day? For two millennia, we have grappled with this enigma. Even Jesus, in his earthly ministry, offered glimpses rather than explicit explanations. He spoke of the "necessity" of the Son of Man's suffering, of his body and blood "poured out for many, for the forgiveness of sins." Yet, the precise mechanism – exactly what, on a cosmic scale his death would achieve - remained shrouded in mystery.

The early Christians, seeking understanding, turned to the Hebrew Bible. They found, in the prophecies of Isaiah, the enigmatic figure of the "Servant of God," who "poured out his soul to death, and bore the sin of many." They read that "The LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all." While Jewish interpretations varied, the early Christians discerned a powerful resonance between this servant and Jesus Christ. The Apostle Paul and other New Testament writers employed four key concepts to articulate this connection: sacrifice, propitiation, reconciliation, and ransom.

First, **sacrifice**. In the Jewish tradition, sacrifice was a ritual of atonement, a means of appeasing divine wrath. From humble offerings to grand oblations, the belief was that a precious offering could stem God's anger. This concept led to the second: **propitiation**. The early thinkers believed that Christ's death was a propitiation, an appeasement of God's wrath. Through his suffering, they asserted, Jesus satisfied divine justice.

Third, **reconciliation**. This propitiating sacrifice, they believed, brought about reconciliation, a restoration of fellowship between humanity and God. This is the very essence of atonement, the "at-one-ment" that unites us with our Creator. As Paul wrote, "God through Christ was reconciling the world to himself." Fourth, **ransom**. To further deepen the meaning of the cross, the early writers introduced the concept of ransom. Enslaved by sin, and thus by Satan, the father of sin, we required a redeemer, a ransom paid to liberate us. As Mark records, Jesus declared that he came "to give his life as a ransom to many."

Yet, these early interpretations were not without their critics. Questions arose, challenging the very foundations upon which these doctrines rested. Was God truly a God of wrath? After all, Jesus himself proclaimed, "God so loved the world..." He revealed a God of love, a Father, Abba, who understands and forgives. Could this loving Father truly harbour wrath? Some argue that love and anger are not mutually exclusive, that a loving parent can indeed experience both.

Another point of contention was the existence of Satan. Is he a literal being, or a metaphor for the pervasive evil in the world? How could an all-powerful God permit a demonic being to torment his children? If Satan is merely a metaphor, then what need for a ransom? These questions challenged the traditional understanding of the cross, prompting theologians to seek new interpretations.

One such interpretation, proposed by Peter Abelard in the 11th century, was the **moral example**. For Abelard, Christ's death was a profound demonstration of God's love, a love so great that he aligned himself with human suffering. This act of love, Abelard argued, elicits a grateful response from humanity, inspiring us to live according to God's will.

In the 16th century, Faustus Socinus offered another perspective: the **supreme example**. Socinus saw Christ's death as a model of perfect obedience, a testament to unwavering trust in God, even in the face of suffering and death. As Peter wrote, "Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, that you should follow in his steps."

In the 20th century, Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury, introduced the concept of the **myth of redemptive violence**. Williams argued that Jesus' death was the ultimate consequence of his refusal to combat violence with violence. He exposed the fallacy of believing that greater violence can solve the world's problems. Christ is not a hero, in the tradition of Greek gods, or superman.  He doesn’t just use more violence to defeat the world’s violence.  Rather. he absorbed the world's violence, transforming it through love.  He even generates faith and hope in those around him at the moment of his death, such as the thief, the centurion, and in his dying care for his mother. Furthermore, Williams suggested that the cross is a stark illustration of what happens when we remove God from our lives, pushing him to the margins of society – literally outside the City - silencing his voice.

These interpretations, and countless others, offer diverse perspectives on the meaning of the cross. The symbolism of blood, the Day of Atonement, and many other theological concepts add further layers of complexity. But what, then, is the truth?

For me, the answer lies in embracing the totality of these interpretations. "All of the above!" I believe that each perspective holds a kernel of truth, even if that truth is metaphorical. Even if Satan is a metaphor, we still struggle against the forces of evil. If the metaphor of ransom helps us in this struggle, let us use it. If God is love, he is also capable of righteous anger. If the concept of propitiation helps us understand the transition from anger to forgiveness, let us embrace it.

Our task, on the journey of faith, is to continue exploring the depths of this mystery, peeling back the layers of meaning, discovering new insights with each passing Good Friday. The death of Jesus is an inexhaustible source of wonder, a canvas for our imaginations, a testament to the boundless love of God. Let us, then, embrace this mystery, and allow it to transform our lives, shaping us into the image of the one who died for us all.

The Golden Rule

Isaiah 55:6-9

Seek the Lord while he may be found;

    call upon him while he is near;

let the wicked forsake their way

    and the unrighteous their thoughts;

let them return to the Lord, that he may have mercy on them,

    and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

    nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord.

For as the heavens are higher than the earth,

    so are my ways higher than your ways

    and my thoughts than your thoughts.

Matthew 7:7-12

 “Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. Is there anyone among you who, if your child asked for bread, would give a stone? Or if the child asked for a fish, would give a snake? If you, then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask him!

“In everything do to others as you would have them do to you, for this is the Law and the Prophets.

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Today, in the middle of Lent, we turn our gaze to the words that have echoed through generations: words that, if we truly listen, can shake the very foundations of our understanding. Isaiah thunders, “Seek the Lord while he may be found; call on him while he is near. For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

And then, a carpenter’s son, a radical preacher, echoes this sentiment in a way that cuts through the centuries: “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.” 

But let us be clear, lest we fall into the trap of a transactional faith, a divine vending machine where we insert prayers and receive material rewards. This is not the promise of a celestial Santa Claus dispensing trinkets and baubles. This is a promise of closeness. A promise of intimacy with the divine, a communion that transcends the fleeting desires of the flesh.

We have been sold a bill of goods, a distorted image of a God who micromanages our lives, who rewards the pious with worldly riches and punishes the “unbelievers” with earthly suffering. This is a cruel caricature, a grotesque distortion of the profound mystery that lies at the heart of existence. For if God’s ways are truly higher than our ways, if God’s thoughts are beyond our comprehension, then to presume we can predict or control the divine is the height of hubris.

And yet, we cling to this illusion, this comforting delusion that we know God’s mind, that we can manipulate the universe with our prayers. We build walls around our faith, excluding those who do not share our particular brand of piety, forgetting that the divine spark ignites in every heart, regardless of creed or dogma.

Jesus, in his wisdom, offers a simple, yet profound, guide: “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets.” This, my friends, is not a uniquely Christian principle. It is the golden thread that weaves through the tapestry of human wisdom. It echoes in the Hindu concept of ahimsa, non-violence, the Jain principle of anekantavada, respecting multiple viewpoints, the Buddhist emphasis on metta, loving-kindness, the Confucian principle of shu, reciprocity, and the Jewish teaching of “what is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbour.”

This is not a coincidence. This is the inherent truth, the universal language of compassion that transcends the boundaries of religion. It is the recognition that we are all interconnected, that our actions ripple outwards, affecting not only ourselves, but the entire web of existence. To harm another is to harm ourselves. To love another is to love ourselves.

We are not called to build walls, but to build bridges. We are not called to judge, but to understand. We are not called to hoard, but to share. We are not called to demand, but to seek. To seek not material possessions, but the very presence of the divine, the connection to the source of all being.

This seeking, this knocking, this asking, is not a passive endeavour. It requires courage, vulnerability, and a willingness to let go of our preconceived notions. It requires us to confront our own biases, our own prejudices, our own fears. It requires us to look beyond the surface, to see the humanity in every person, regardless of their background, their beliefs, or their circumstances.

For the kingdom of God, the realm of the divine, is not a place we arrive at, but a state of being we cultivate. It is a way of living, a way of interacting with the world, a way of loving. It is a recognition that the sacred resides within us, within each other, and within the very fabric of creation.

Let us, then, abandon our illusions of control and embrace the mystery of the divine. Let us open our hearts to the wisdom that flows through all traditions, all cultures, all beings. Let us live the golden rule, not as a mere platitude, but as a radical act of love, a testament to our shared humanity. Let us seek, not the fleeting comforts of this world, but the eternal embrace of the divine, the boundless love that transcends all understanding. For in that seeking, in that knocking, in that asking, we will find the true treasure, the true fulfilment, the true meaning of life.  Amen

Standing on the precipice of faith

Texts:  Exodus 34 and Luke 9

Friends, siblings in the journey, we stand here, perched on the precipice. Wednesday (or Thursday) comes the ashes, the stark reminder of our mortality, the call to introspection. But before we plunge into the Lenten wilderness, let us wrestle with two visions, two encounters that sear themselves into the very fabric of our faith.

First Exodus 34. Moses descends, face radiant, a reflection of divine glory. The people, they shrink back, terrified. They cannot bear the light. They demand a veil, a buffer, a distance. How familiar is this fear, this desire to shield ourselves from the raw, unfiltered presence of the divine? We build our theological walls, our doctrinal barricades, our sometimes stale religious worship, afraid of the unsettling truth that God’s glory might disrupt our comfortable certainties. We prefer our gods domesticated, predictable, fitting neatly into our pre-conceived boxes. We want a God who affirms our status quo, who blesses our comfortable lives, who reinforces our prejudices. But the light, the sheer, blinding light of God’s love, refuses to be contained. It spills over, it transforms, it demands a response.

Then, Luke 9. The mountaintop, a glimpse of the transfigured Christ. Peter, James, and John, overwhelmed, confused, wanting to build shrines, to freeze this moment of ecstatic revelation. They want to possess it, to control it, to turn it into a religious spectacle. But the voice, the thunderous, undeniable voice, shatters their carefully constructed illusions. “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” Not build a shrine, not create a ritual, not cling to the past. Listen.

And therein lies the challenge, the radical, unsettling challenge of our faith. To listen. Not to the echo chambers of our own certainties, not to the voices of power and privilege, but to the voice of the one who embodies God’s love, God’s justice, God’s radical inclusivity. To listen to the one who challenges our assumptions, who overturns our tables, who calls us to love our enemies, to care for the marginalized, to dismantle the systems of oppression that perpetuate suffering.

The voice that booms from the cloud, it is a call to action, not passive adoration. It is a demand to engage with the world, to confront injustice, to embody the love that Jesus preached and lived. It is a call to dismantle the veils we construct, the veils of fear, of prejudice, of apathy, that keep us from seeing the face of God in every human being.

Some will say, “But the God of the Old Testament, the God of Moses, that’s a God of wrath, of judgment.” They cling to the old paradigms, the old hierarchies, the old power structures. They want to keep God confined to the pages of ancient texts, to the dusty halls of tradition. But the God revealed in Jesus, the God who speaks from the cloud, is a God of love, a God of liberation, a God who breaks down the walls that divide us.

The voice that commands us to listen is not a voice of authoritarian power, demanding blind obedience. It is a voice of invitation, a voice of love, a voice that calls us to participate in the ongoing work of creation, the ongoing work of redemption. It is a voice that empowers us to be agents of change, to be beacons of hope in a world shrouded in darkness.

This Lent, let us not retreat into self-denial for its own sake. Let us not engage in empty rituals or performative piety. Let us instead use this time to listen deeply, to listen to the still, small voice within, to listen to the cries of the oppressed, to listen to the whispers of the Spirit. Let us strip away the veils that obscure our vision, the veils of privilege, of complacency, of fear. Let us confront the darkness within ourselves and within our world.

The transfiguration, it is not a moment frozen in time. It is a glimpse of what is possible, a glimpse of the kingdom of God breaking through into our reality. It is a reminder that we are all called to be transfigured, to be transformed by the light of God’s love.

And that command, "listen to him," it is not a suggestion. It is a mandate. It is a call to action. It is a call to radical discipleship. It is a call to embody the love of Christ in our words, in our actions, in our very being.

Let us not shrink back from the light. Let us not build shrines to our own comfort. Let us instead embrace the challenge, embrace the transformation, embrace the radical love that calls us to be co-creators of a more just and compassionate world. Let us listen, truly listen, to the one who speaks from the cloud, the one who embodies the very essence of God’s love. And let that listening transform us, transform our communities, transform our world.  Amen.

On this rock I stand - the intersection between science and religion

 For Thursday 5 Dec 2024

In today’s Gospel, we hear a familiar image from Jesus: “Everyone then who hears these words of mine and acts on them will be like a wise man who built his house on rock. The rain fell, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on rock. And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not act on them will be like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell—and great was its fall.” (Matthew 7:24-27)

 Today’s Gospel is one of Jesus’ more famous parables.  Did some of you learn the Sunday School hymn: ‘the wise man built his house upon the rock’?  I know I did.  This powerful image, of building our life on rock or on sand, seems to invites us to think about our lives in terms of foundation and stability.  Many a preacher has challenged us, over the years, to ponder the strength of our beliefs when the storms of life come. But I think there is more here than meets the eye. What does it really mean to build on the rock? What does Jesus want us to understand about our faith and its foundation?

When we hear the word “rock,” we might immediately think of certainty, of immovable truths. After all, in our world, certainty feels like security. We crave clarity. We want answers—clear, final, and unshakable. This is true in many parts of our lives, whether in science, philosophy, or religion. We seek to have everything figured out, to hold our beliefs firmly and never waver. We often assume that certainty is what makes a faith solid and secure.

But is that really what Jesus meant? Is the rock about knowing everything, about being sure of all the answers? Is it a call to build our lives on unwavering certainty? Or is it something deeper, something more open?

Franciscan writer, Richard Rohr, challenges us to reconsider this idea. He compares the way many of us approach our faith to the scientific method. Scientists, as he points out, are not afraid of not knowing. They are willing to experiment, to test, and to learn, always open to new discoveries and evidence. Yes, science operates in the material world, but its method—its openness to discovery—is something we might learn from. Scientists move forward with a sense of humility, knowing that their understanding is always subject to change. They’re not afraid to fail, to be wrong, and to revise their theories. They build on what they know, but they don’t assume that everything is already known. And that, I think, is where faith and science intersect: in the willingness to live with mystery, in the trust that the journey of discovery is itself valuable.

Now think about this in relation to our faith. So often, we treat belief like a set of facts to be defended rather than a living, evolving practice. We insist on knowing everything about God, everything about the world, and every answer to every question. We want to be certain that we have it all figured out. But too often, when the storms of life crash around us, we find that our certain faith in, say, a God who answers our prayers, or the God who protects and shields us from harm, or who fights for us on the battlefield becomes severely tested….or it crumbles away.  When the foundations of the faith we have built around us are undermined, rock can quickly turn into sand.

To build on the rock is not to possess all the answers but to trust in the God who is the foundation of all things – the ground of our being.  It is to root ourselves in a faith that is open, humble, and alive, like the scientific method itself—always growing, always learning, always ready for new discoveries. Jesus does not call us to build our lives on sand, which shifts with every new breeze, but on the rock of God’s presence in our lives. This rock is not immovable because it is rigid and unchanging; it is immovable because it is the foundation of trust in the one who holds all things together, seen and unseen.

Think of the great scientists and thinkers of history, those who have transformed the world with their discoveries. They did not start with all the answers. Instead, they approached the world with a sense of wonder and curiosity, with a willingness to experiment, to fail, and to grow. They never stopped asking questions. What they built on was not a fortress of certainty but a foundation of humility and openness to the unknown. They trusted that, even in their uncertainty, they were on a path toward greater truth.

This is the spirit Jesus calls us to: a faith that is not afraid of doubt or failure but is rooted in trust in God’s love, God’s grace, and God’s presence. We are called to build our lives not on the shifting sands of certainty but on the solid rock of faith that is alive, always growing, always transforming. This kind of faith does not ignore the storms of life; it faces them with courage and hope, knowing that no matter how fierce the winds or how deep the floods, we are grounded in the love of God.

And yet, even as we build on this rock, we must remember that the rock is not something we possess in its fullness. We cannot hold it in our hands. We cannot define it in the precise, mathematical way we might like to. The rock is God, the eternal foundation of all things, a foundation that invites us to trust even when we do not have all the answers. It is not a foundation of certainty but of love—love that calls us forward, love that transforms us, love that invites us to take the next step, even when we do not know exactly where it will lead.

When the storms come—and they will come, for that is part of life—we will not fall, not because we know everything, but because we trust in the one who holds us. The rains will fall, the winds will blow, and the floods will rise, but our house will stand, not because we have built it perfectly, but because we have built it on the love and grace of God.

So let us ask ourselves today: what kind of foundation are we building on? Are we building on the rock of trust, of love, of openness to God’s presence in our lives? Or are we building on sand—on rigid certainty, on the illusion that we can control everything? If we are to build a life that stands firm in the face of the storms, we must build on the rock—not of certainty, but of humble trust in the God who is with us, who calls us to grow, to experiment, and to trust in the mystery of life itself.

May we have the courage to build on the rock of faith, always open to the unexpected, always grounded in love, and always trusting that God’s presence will guide us through every storm. Amen.