by Rev. Reagan Cocke
If someone were to ask you, “What do you believe in?” what would you say? You might answer, “I believe in God,” but then where would you go? You’d probably talk about Jesus and about the cross. Pretty soon you’d be in a theological and doctrinal discussion, even though you never intended to go there! And sooner or later you’d be talking about anthropology as well.
Anthropology: are we humans good with a few faults that need fixing, or are we fatally flawed?
Paul in Galatians: I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but is Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. I do not nullify the grace of God; for if justification comes through the law, then Christ died for nothing.
Jesus in Luke: “Her sins, which were many, have been forgiven; hence she has shown great love. But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little.” Then he said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.” But those who were at the table with him began to say among themselves, “who is this who even forgives sins?” and he said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”
This woman was guilty of sin, and she knew it and she needed forgiveness from God—not some impersonal out there kind of God, but a God who knew her and her sins personally.
Retired bishop FitzSimons Allison says that exchanging the biblical categories of sin and grace for therapeutic categories of dysfunction and recovery represents pastoral cruelty. It also represents denial as to who were are as sinners. Listen to this fictional dialog from an episode of NBC’s ER from several years ago to hear what this pastoral cruelty sounds like coming from a supposedly Christian chaplain ministering to a man dying of cancer. As I read this, think about the Jesus’ response to the woman:
Lying in his hospital bed, a retired police officer confesses to this chaplain his long-held guilt over allowing an innocent man to be framed and executed. He asks, “How can I even hope for forgiveness?” and the chaplain replies, “I think sometimes it’s easier to feel guilty than forgiven.” “Which means what?” the dying man asks. “That maybe your guilt over his death has become your reason for living. Maybe you need a new reason to go on.” “I don’t want to ‘go on,’” he says. “Can’t you see that I’m dying? The only thing that is holding me back is that I’m afraid—I’m afraid of what comes next.” “What do you think that is?” the chaplain gently inquires. Growing impatient, the man answers, “You tell me. Is atonement possible? What does God want from me?” After the chaplain replies, “I think it’s up to each one of us to interpret for ourselves what God wants,” the man stares at her in bewilderment. “So people can do anything? They can rape, they can murder, they can steal—all in the name of God and it’s OK?” Growing intense, the dialogue draws to its climax. “No,” she responds, “that’s not what I’m saying.” “Then what are you saying? Because all I’m hearing is some New Age, God-is-Love, have-it-your-way bull! . . . No, I don’t have time for this now. . . . I want a real chaplain who believes in a real God and a real hell!” Not understanding she replies, “I hear that you’re frustrated, but you need to ask yourself . . .” “No,” he interrupts. “I don’t need to ask myself anything. I need answers and all of your questions and all your uncertainty are only making things worse.” “I know you’re upset,” she begins to say, provoking this final outburst: “God, I need someone who will look me in the eye and tell me how to find forgiveness, because I’m running out of time.”
The Apostles’ Creed tells us of the real God who got us out of a real hell by the real death of his real self in his real Son. There is real grace and it is not real cheap, but it is real.
