Archives For Wrath
In many mainline congregations this Holy Week, the dominant motif with which scripture describes the meaning of the death of Jesus, substitution, will be judiciously avoided. Substitutionary atonement, it’s often said with no small amount of enlightened self-congratulation, is a medieval caricature, depicting an angry, wrath-filled God who kills Jesus- in our place- to vindicate and avenge his sin-besmirched honor.
To the extent this critique of scripture’s substitution motif is valid, it is valid only because we have narrowed the cast of characters in scripture’s salvation drama.
With the antagonist removed from the stage, humanity becomes the object of God’s wrath and, truth be told as unintelligible as it is, God the Father becomes the antagonist from whom God the Son saves us.
Such is what happens when we excise the Devil from the story.
Like Fred and Vilma, the Enlightenment tempts us to want to pull away the monster mask from the Jesus story in order to understand what’s really going on, when, in fact, it’s no longer possible to understand what Jesus thought was going on if you pull away the demons and devils from the story.
Call it what you will:
Sin and Death, as Paul does in Romans
The Principalities and Powers, as Ephesians does
Satan, as Jesus says in the Gospels
Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness, or the Adversary, as Jesus does elsewhere
Call it what you will, the sheer array of names proves the point: the Devil is the narrative glue that holds the New Testament together. The language of Satan so thoroughly saturates the New Testament you can’t speak proper Christian without believing in him. Even the ancient Christmas carols most commonly describe the incarnation as the invasion by God of Satan’s territory.
The Apostle John spells it out for us, spells out the reason for Jesus’ coming not in terms of our sin but in terms of Satan. John says: “The reason the Son of God appeared was to destroy the Devil’s work.”
And when Peter explains who Jesus is to a curious Roman named Cornelius in Acts 10, Peter says: “God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power…to save all who were under the power of the Devil.”
When his disciples ask him how to pray, Jesus teaches them to pray “…Deliver us from the Evil One…”
You can count up the verses.
More so than he was a teacher or a wonder worker. More so than a prophet, a preacher, or a revolutionary, Jesus was an exorcist and nowhere more so than upon the cross.
Not only is Sin, as in the Power of Sin- Satan, the New Testament’s narrative glue, it is the necessary antagonist to any coherent understanding of substitutionary atonement.
If there’s no Devil, there’s no Gospel.
Because, according to the Gospel, our salvation is not a 2-person drama.
It’s not a 2-person cast of God-in-Christ and us.
It’s not a simple exchange brokered over our sin and his cross. According to the Gospels, the Gospel is not just that Jesus died for your sin. The Gospel is that Jesus defeated Sin with a capital S. Defeated, that is, Satan.
The Gospel is not just that Jesus suffered in your place.
The Gospel is that Jesus overcame the One who holds you in your place.
God’s wrath isn’t directed at us or character flaw within us called ‘sin.’ God’s wrath, out of love for us, is directed at that which holds us in bondage, the Power of Sin.
It isn’t just that Jesus died your death. It’s that Jesus has delivered you from the Power of Death with a capital D, the one whom Paul calls the Enemy with a capital E.
According to scripture, there is a 3rd character in this story. There’s a third cast member to the salvation drama. We’re not only sinners before God. We’re captives to Another. We’re unwitting accomplices and slaves and victims of Another.
And even now, says scripture, the New Creation being brought into reality by Christ is constantly at war with, always contending against, the Old Creation ruled by Satan, and the battlefield runs through every human heart.
Without this third character in the salvation story, the Gospel is no longer Gospel. It’s no longer Good News.
Because when we push Satan off the stage of the salvation drama, when we cut the cast down from three characters (God, Us, and Satan) to two characters (God and Us), what happens is that we end up turning God in to a kind of Satan.
Here’s my sermon from Palm-Passion Sunday on Matthew 26.36-46, Jesus in the Garden in Gethsemane.
Every year during Passover week Jerusalem would be filled with approximately 200,000 Jewish pilgrims. Nearly all of them, like Jesus and his friends and family, would’ve been poor.
Throughout that holy week, these hundreds of thousands of pilgrims would gather at table and temple and they would remember.
They would remember how they’d once suffered bondage under another empire, and how God had heard their outrage and sent someone to save them.
They would remember how God had promised them: “I will be your God and you will be my People.” Always.
They would remember how with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm God had delivered them from a Caesar called Pharaoh.
Passover was a political powder keg so every year Pontius Pilate would do his damnedest to keep Passover in the past tense.
Every year at the beginning of Passover week Pilate would journey from his seaport home in the west to Jerusalem, escorted by a military triumph, a shock-and-awe storm-trooping parade of horses and chariots and troops armed to the teeth and prisoners bound hand and foot and all of it led by imperial banners that dared as much as declared “Caesar is Lord.”
So when Jesus, at the beginning of that same week, rides into Jerusalem from the opposite direction there could be no mistaking what to expect next.
Deliverance from enemies. Defeat of them. Freedom. Exodus from slavery.
How could there be any mistaking, any confusing, when Jesus chooses to ride into town- on a donkey, exactly the way the prophet Zechariah had foretold that Israel’s King would return to them, triumphant and victorious, before he crushes their enemies.
There could be no mistaking what to expect next.
That’s why they shout ‘Hosanna! Save us!’ and wave palm branches as they do every year for the festival of Sukkoth, another holy day when they recalled their exodus from Egypt and prayed for God to send them a Messiah.
The only reason to shout Hosanna during Passover instead of Sukkoth is if you believed that the Messiah for whom you have prayed has arrived.
There could no mistaking what to expect next.
That’s why they welcome him with the words “Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel” the very words with which God’s People welcomed Solomon to the Temple.
The same words Israel sang upon Solomon’s enthronement. Solomon, David’s son. Solomon, the King.
There could be no mistake, no confusion, about what to expect next.
Not when he lights the match and tells his followers to give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar (i.e., absolutely nothing).
Not when he cracks a whip and turns over the Temple’s tables as though he’s dedicating it anew just as David’s son had done.
Not when he takes bread and wine and with them makes himself the New Moses.
And not when he gets up from the Exodus table, and leads his followers to, of all places, the Mount of Olives.
The Mount of Olives was ground zero. The front line.
The Mount of Olives was the place where the prophet Zechariah had promised that God’s Messiah would initiate a victory of God’s People over the enemy that bound them.
From the parody of Pilate’s parade to the palm leaves, from the prophesied donkey to the shouts of hosanna, from Solomon’s welcome to the exodus table to the Mount of Olives every one in Jerusalem knew what to expect. There could be no mistaking all the signs.
They knew how God was going to use him.
He would be David to Rome’s Goliath.
He would face down a Pharaoh named Pilate, deliver the message that the Lord has heard the cries of his People and thus says he: “Let my People go.”
As though standing in the Red Sea bed, he would watch Pilate and Herod and all the rest swallowed up in and drowned by God’s righteousness. God’s justice.
They knew how God was going to use him.
And when he invites Peter, James, and John, the same three who’d gone with him to the top of Mt. Horeb where they beheld him transfigured into glory, to go with him to the top of the Mount of Olives they probably expect a similar sight.
To see him transfigured again.
To see him charged with God’s glory.
To see him armed with it.
Armed for the final and decisive battle.
The battle that every sign and scripture from that holy week has led them to expect.
There on the top of the Mount of Olives Jesus doesn’t look at all as he had on top of that other mountain.
Then, his face had shone like the sun. Now, it’s twisted into agony.
Then, they’d seen him dazzling white with splendor. Now, he’s distraught with doubt and dread.
Then, on top of that other mountain, Moses and the prophet Elijah had appeared on either side of him. Now, on this mountaintop, he’s alone, utterly, already forsaken, alone except for what the prophet Isaiah called the ‘cup of wrath’ that’s before him.
Then, God’s voice had torn through the sky with certainty “This is my Beloved Son in whom I am well-pleased.” Now, God doesn’t speak. At all.
So much so that Karl Barth says Jesus’ prayer in the Garden doesn’t even count as prayer because it’s not a dialogue with God. It’s a one way conversation. Because it’s not just that God doesn’t speak or answer back, God’s entirely absent from him, as dark and silent to him as the whale’s belly was to Jonah.
There, on the Mount of Olives, Peter, James, and John with their half-drunk eyes- they see him transfigured again.
This would be Messiah who’d spoken bravely about carrying a cross transfigured to the point where he’s weak in the knees and terrified.
This would be Moses who’d stoically taken exodus bread and talked of his body being broken transfigured so that now he’s begging God to make it only a symbolic gesture.
This would be King who can probably still smell the hosanna palm leaves transfigured until he’s pleading for a Kingdom to come by any other means.
Peter and the sons of Zebedee, they see him transfigured a second time. From the Teacher who’d taught them to pray “Thy will be done…” to this slumped over shadow of his former self who knows the Father’s will not at all.
He’d boldly predicted his betrayal and crucifixion and now he’s telling them he’s “deeply grieved and agitated.”
Or, as the Greek inelegantly lays it out there, he tells them he’s “depressed and confused” such that what Jesus tells them in verse 38 is really “Remain here with me and stay awake, for I am so depressed I could die.”
And then he can only manage a few steps before he throws himself down on the ground, and the word Matthew uses there in verse 39, ekthembeistai, it means to shudder in horror, stricken and helpless.
He is, in every literal sense of the Greek, scared out of his mind. Or as the Book of Hebrews describes Jesus here, crying out frantically with great tears.
He is here exactly as Delacroix painted him: flat in the dirt, almost writhing, stretching out his arms, anguish in his eyes, his hands open in a desperate gesture of pleading.
God’s incarnate Son twisted into a golem of doubt and despair.
As though he’s gone from God’s own righteousness in the flesh to God’s rejection of it.
Peter, James, and John, the other disciples there on the Mount of Olives, any of the other pilgrims in Jerusalem that holy week- they’re not mistaken about what should come next. They weren’t wrong to shout “Hosanna!”
They’re all correct about what to expect next. The donkey, the palm leaves, the Passover- it all points to it, they’re right. They’re all right to expect a battle.
A final, once for all, battle.
They’re just wrong about the enemy.
The enemy isn’t Pilate or Herod but the One Paul calls The Enemy.
The Pharaoh to whom we’re all- the entire human race- enslaved isn’t Caesar but Sin. Not your little s sins but Sin with a capital S, whom the New Testament calls the Ruler of this World, the Power behind all the Pharaohs and Pilates and Putins.
They’re all correct about what to expect, but their enemies are all propped up by a bigger one.
A battle is what the Gospel wants you to see in Gethsemane. The Gospel wants you to see God initiating a final confrontation with Satan, the Enemy, the Powers, Sin, Death with a capital D- the New Testament uses all those terms interchangeably, take your pick. But a battle is what you’re supposed to see.
Jesus says so himself: “Keep praying,” he tells the three disciples in the garden, “not to enter peiramos.”
The time of trial.
That’s not a generic word for any trial or hardship. That’s the New Testament’s word for the final apocalyptic battle between God and the Power of Sin.
The Gospels want you to see in the dark of Gethsemane the beginning of the battle anticipated by all those hosannas and palm branches.
But it’s not a battle that Jesus wages.
Jesus becomes its wages.
That is, the battle is waged in him.
From here on out, from Gethsemane to Golgotha, the will of God and the will of Satan coincide in him.
That’s why they’re both- God and Satan- absent from him here in the garden.
Here in the garden he can longer hear God the Father in prayer.
And here in the garden he lacks what even in the wilderness he had- the comfort of a clear and identifiable adversary.
Here in the garden, they’re both absent from him because they’re both set upon him. Their wills have converged on him. They’ve intersected in him.
He can’t see or hear them now because he’s the acted upon object of them.
He is forsaken- by both God and Satan.
They’ve taken their leave of him to work their wills upon him.
Just as we confess that in Christ’s flesh is the perfect union, both fully divine and fully human; here in the garden we also confess that in him there is another union, a hideous union, of wills:
The will of Sin to reject God forever by crucifying Jesus.
The will of God to reject Sin forever by crucifying Jesus.
That’s the shuddering revulsion that overwhelms Jesus in Gethsemane.
The cross isn’t a shock.
But this is: the realization breaking over him that the will of God will be done as the will of Satan is done.
In him, upon him,‘thy will be done’ will be done for both of them, God and Satan, on Earth as in Heaven and in Hell.
But that’s what Jesus freely assents to here in the garden.
He accepts that he will be the concrete and complete event of God’s rejection of Sin.
He agrees to be made vulnerable to the Power of Sin and God’s judgment of it.
He consents to absorb the worse that we can do, as slaves to Sin.
And he consents to absorb the worst that God can do- the worst that God will ever do.
As Paul puts it in 2 Corinthians 5: “For our sake, God made him to be Sin who knew no sin.”
That’s what he accepts in getting up off the ground in Gethsemane.
And only he could accept it. Only he who was without sin- who was not enslaved by it- only he could freely choose, freely choose, to become it.
To be transfigured into Sin.
Thursday morning one of Aldersgate’s college students texted me a photo from the Washington Post along with a link to an article.
It was a photo of a little child, maybe 2 or 3 years old.
A boy or a girl, I don’t know- I couldn’t tell from the thick curly hair and red cheeks and a drab olive blanket covered up any pink or blue hued clue the child’s clothes might’ve given me.
From the child’s bright black eyes it looked like the child might be smiling, but you couldn’t be sure because a respirator was masking the child’s face where a smile might go.
Gloved grown-up hands rested on the child’s shoulders.
It wasn’t until I read the whole story that I realized those bright black eyes were empty.
“World Health Organization says Syria Chemical Attack Likely Involved Nerve Agent” ran the headline texted to me. And under the headline, under the hyperlink, the student texted me a question: “What do Christians say about this.”
And in the second line of text: a question mark.
Followed by an exclamation point.
What do Christians say?!
What do Christians say?
Looking into the vacant eyes of a nerve-gassed toddler?
What do we say?
Something trite about God’s love?
Maybe because we’ve turned God’s love into a cliche, maybe because we’ve so sentimentalized what the Church conveys in proclaiming “God loves you” but many people assume that Christians are naive about the dark reality of sin in the world.
But we’re a People who hang a torture device on an altar wall- we’re not naive. We’re not naive about the cruelties of which we’re capable. Nor are we naive about the dreadful seriousness God deals with those cruelties.
What do Christians say?
I don’t know that we have anything more to say than what we hear God say in Gethsemane.
The dread, final, righteous, wrath-filled “No” God speaks to Sin.
The nevertheless “Yes” God speaks to his enslaved sinful creatures.
The “Yes” God in Christ speaks to drinking the cup of wrath to its last drops.
That word ‘wrath’ gets confused in Church.
Sure, we’re all sinners in the hands of a wrathful God but scripture doesn’t mean it the way you hear it. God’s wrath doesn’t mean God is petulant and petty, raging at sinful creatures like you and me, reacting to our every infraction.
God, by definition, doesn’t react.
God’s wrath means that God never changes, that in Jesus Christ God has always been determined to reject the Power of Sin that binds his creatures as slaves.
So much so that God is dead set, literally over his dead body, dead set on killing it.
To set his people free from that Pharaoh. Once. For all.
St. Paul says that in Christ God emptied himself, taking the form of a servant.
Here in Gethsemane, Christ empties himself even of that.
He empties himself completely, pours all of himself out such that Martin Luther says when Jesus gets up off the ground in Gethsemane there’s nothing left of Jesus.
There’s nothing left of his humanity.
He’s an empty vessel; so that, when he drinks the cup the Father will not not move from him, when he drinks the cup of wrath, he fills himself completely with our sinfulness.
From Gethsemane to Golgotha, that’s all there is of him.
He drinks the cup until he’s filled and running over.
You see, Jesus isn’t just a stand-in for a sinner like you or me. He isn’t just a substitute for another. He doesn’t become a sinner or any sinner. He becomes the greatest and the gravest of sinners.
It isn’t that Jesus dies an innocent among thieves. He dies as the worst sinner among them. The worst thief, the worst adulterer, the worst liar, the worst wife beater, the worst child abuser, the worst murderer, the worst war criminal.
Jesus swallows all of it. Drinks all of it down and, in doing so, draws into himself the full force of humanity’s hatred for God.
He becomes our hatred for God.
He becomes our evil.
He becomes all of our injustice.
He becomes Sin.
So that upon the Cross he does not epitomize or announce the Kingdom of God in any way.
He is the concentrated reality of everything that stands against it.
He is every Pilate and Pharaoh. He is every Herod and Hitler and Assad.
He is every Caesar and every Judas.
Every racist, every civilian casualty, every act of terror, and every chemical bomb.
All our greed. All our violence.
He is every ungodly act and every ungodly person.
He becomes all of it.
He becomes Sin.
So that God can forsake it.
For our sake.
“Much more surely then, now that we have been justified by his blood, will we be saved through him from the wrath of God.”
Like many upper middle class mainline Protestants, which is to say white Christians, I’ve long taken issue with the concept of divine wrath, believing it to conflict with the God whose most determinative attribute is Goodness itself. Whenever I’ve pondered the possibility of God’s anger I’ve invariably thought about it directed at me. I’m no saint, sure, but I’m no great sinner either. The notion that God’s wrath could be fixed upon me made God seem loathsome to me, a god not God.
We commonly suppose that Christianity is primarily about forgiveness. Jesus, after all, told his disciples they were to forgive upwards of 490 times. From the cross Jesus petitioned for the Father’s forgiveness towards us who knew exactly what we were doing. Forgiveness is cemented into the prayer Jesus taught his disciples.
Nonetheless, to reduce the message of Christianity to forgiveness is to ignore what scripture claims transpires upon the cross.
The cross is more properly about God working justice.
The most fulsome meaning of ‘righteousness,’ Fleming Rutledge reminds readers in The Crucifixion, is ‘justice’ understood not only as a noun but as an active, reality-making verb. Though righteousness often sounds to us as a vague spiritual attribute, the original meaning couldn’t be more this-worldly. Justice, don’t forget, is the subject of Isaiah’s foreshadowings of the coming Messiah. Justice is the dominant theme in Mary’s magnificat and justice is the word Jesus chooses to preach for his first sermon in Nazareth.
To mute Christianity into a message about forgiveness is to sever Jesus’ cross from the Old Testament prophets who first anticipated and longed for an apocalyptic invasion from their God.
And it’s to suggest that on the cross Jesus works something other than how both his mother and he construed his purpose.
Rather than forgiveness, we see on the cross God’s wrath poured out against Sin with a capital S and the upon the systems (Paul would say the Powers) created by Sin. On the correspondence between Sin as injustice and God’s wrath, consider Isaiah’s initial chapter:
What to me is the multitude of your sacrifices? says the Lord; I have had enough of burnt-offerings… bringing offerings is futile; incense is an abomination to me. I cannot endure solemn assemblies with iniquity. Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your doing from before my eyes; cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow…
Therefore says the Sovereign, the Lord of hosts, the Mighty One of Israel: Ah, I will pour out my wrath on my enemies, and avenge myself on my foes! I will turn my hand against you…
Christianly speaking, forgiveness is a vapid, meaningless concept apart from justice. The cross is a sign that something in the world is terribly wrong and needs to be put right. The Sin-responsible injustice of the world requires rectification.
Only God can right what’s wrong, and the cross is how God chooses to do it. God pours out himself into Jesus and then, on the cross, God pours out his wrath against Jesus and, in doing so, upon the Sin that unjustly nailed him there.
Summarizing the prophets’ word of divine wrath in light of the cross, Rutledge writes:
‘Because justice is such a central part of God’s nature, he has declared enmity against every form of injustice. His wrath will come upon those who have exploited the poor and weak; he will not permit his purpose to be subverted.’
Despite the queasiness God’s wrath invokes among mainline and liberal Protestants, it has been a source of hope and empowerment to the oppressed peoples of the world.
The wrath of God is not an artifactual belief to be embarrassed over, it is the always timely good news that the outrage we feel over the world’s injustice is ‘first of all outrage in the heart of God,’ which means wrath is not a contradiction of God’s goodness but is the steadfast outworking of it.
The biblical picture of God’s anger is different from the caricature of a petulant, arbitrary god so often conjured when divine wrath is considered in the abstract. ‘The wrath of God,’ Rutledge writes, ‘is not an emotion that flares up from time to time, as though God had temper tantrums; it is a way of describing his absolute enmity against all wrong and his coming to set matters right.’ Put so and understood rightly, it’s actually the non-angry god who appears morally distasteful, for ‘a non-indignant God would be an accomplice in injustice, deception, and violence.’
Maybe, I can’t help but wonder, we prefer that god, the one who is a passive accomplice to injustice, because, on some subconscious level, that is what we know ourselves to be.
Accomplices to injustice.
Perhaps that is what is truly threatening to so many of us about a wrathful God; we know that the bible’s ire is fixed not so much on the hands-on oppressors as it is against the indifference of the masses.
As Rutledge points out:
’,,,in the bible, the idolatry and negligence of groups en masse receive most of the attention, from Amos’ withering depiction of rich suburban housewives (Amos 4.1) to Jesus’ lament over Jerusalem (Luke 13.34) to James’ rebuke of an insensitive local congregation (James 2.2-8).
As Brett Dennen puts it in his song, ‘Ain’t No Reason,’ slavery is stitched into every fiber of our clothes. We’re implicated in the world’s injustice even if we like to think ourselves not guilty of it. Rutledge believes this explains why so much of popular Christianity in America projects a distorted view of reality; by that, she means sentimental. Our escapist mentality protects us not just from the unendurable aspects of life in the world but also from the burden of any responsibility for them.
Such sentimentality, however popular and apparently harmless, has its victims. I’m convinced we risk something precious when we jettison God’s wrath from our Christianity. We risk losing our own outrage.
Fleming Rutledge’s The Crucifixion might’ve convinced all on its own:
‘If, when we see an injustice, our blood does not boil at some point, we have not yet understood the depths of God. It depends on what outrages us. To be outraged on behalf of oneself or one’s own group alone is to be human, but it is not to participate in Christ.
To be outraged and to take action on behalf of the voiceless and oppressed, however, is to do the work of God.
During Lent I’m writing a series of review essays of Fleming Rutledge‘s new book, The Crucifixion: Understanding the Death of Jesus Christ, at Scot McKnight‘s popular Jesus Creed site. Here’s a snippet from the latest post on Rutledge’s work on justice and divine wrath.
I’ve changed my mind about God’s wrath.
Or, rather, my friend, Brian Stolarz has changed my mind.
When reflecting upon the category of divine wrath, thanks to Brian, I no longer think of myself. My mind goes instead to Alfred Dewayne Brown, Brian’s client (both pictured above).
Brian spent a decade working to free an innocent man, Alfred Dwayne Brown, from death row in Texas. Dewayne had been convicted of a cop-killing in Houston. Despite a lack of any forensic evidence, he was sentenced to be killed by the State on death row.
Brown’s IQ of 67, qualifying him as mentally handicapped, was ginned up to 70 by the state doctor in order to qualify him for execution. This wasn’t the only example of prosecutorial abuse in the case; in fact, the evidence which could’ve proved his alibi was hidden by prosecutors and only discovered fortuitously by Brian, years later. Dewayne was released by the state this summer. Brian has forthcoming book about the experience.
Meanwhile, Dewayne has a civil rights case pending to seek restitution for the injustice done to him.
To seek rectification, biblically speaking.
I spent about a half hour alone with Dewayne this fall as we waited for his presentation, with Brian, to a group of law students. I’ve worked in a prison as a chaplain and interacted with prisoners in solitary and on death row. Like my friend, Brian, I have a good BS radar. Dewayne was unlike the prisoners I’ve met. My immediate reaction from spending time with him was how difficult it was for me to fathom any one fathoming him committing the crime of which he was accused. My second reaction was to feel overwhelmed by Dewayne’s expressions of forgiveness over the wrongs done to him by crooked cops and lawyers, a prejudiced system, and an indifferent society. ‘I’ve forgiven all that,’ Dewayne told me in the same sort of classroom where lawyers who had turned a blind eye to his innocence were once trained into a supposedly blind justice system.
Here’s the crux of the matter, and I use that word very literally:
Dewayne is allowed to express forgiveness about the crimes done to him.
But, as a Christian, I am not so permitted. Neither are you.
If we told Dewayne, for example, that he should forgive and forget, then he would be justified in kicking in our sanctimonious teeth.
In The Crucifixion: Understanding the Death of Jesus Christ,Fleming Rutledge points out in her third chapter, The Question of Justice, we commonly suppose that Christianity is primarily about forgiveness. Jesus, after all, told his disciples they were to forgive upwards of 490 times. From the cross Jesus petitioned for the Father’s forgiveness towards us who knew exactly what we were doing. Forgiveness is cemented into the prayer Jesus taught his disciples.
Nonetheless, to reduce the message of Christianity to forgiveness is to ignore what scripture claims transpires upon the cross.
The cross is more properly about God working justice.
You can read the rest of the essay at the Jesus Creed here: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/jesuscreed/2016/03/03/a-wrath-less-god-has-victims-by-jason-micheli/#disqus_thread
I’ve become convinced that its important for the Church to inoculate our young people with a healthy dose of catechesis before we ship them off to college, just enough so that when they first hear about Nietzsche or really study Darwin they won’t freak out and presume that what the Church taught them in 6th grade confirmation is the only wisdom the Church has to offer.
I’ve been working on writing a catechism, a distillation of the faith into concise questions and answers with brief supporting scriptures that could be the starting point for a conversation.
You can find the previous posts here.
10. Is the God of the Old Testament the same as the God of the New?
Were the evangelists who wrote the New Testament liars?
To disavow the God of the Old Testament not only commits the oldest of heresies, it makes unintelligible the central claim of the New Testament: that the God who raised Jesus from the dead and made him King of the Earth is the same God who raised Israel from slavery to a king in Egypt.
Both testaments of scripture testify to the one Word of God, the Logos, the Son.
The Word that takes flesh in Mary’s womb is the selfsame Word that spoke creation from nothing into being.
Because scripture is not the literal word of God but the mediated, collective witness to the Word of God, Jesus Christ, its testimony is not always clear or consistent, which can lead to the conclusion the two testaments depict two different gods.
The variation in how the testaments depict the one God; however, should be attributed to the differences of perspective among their witnesses not differences between their gods.
“There is only One who is good. If you want to enter life, keep the commandments.” – Matthew 19.17
11. How we do understand divine violence and wrath in the Old Testament?
Short answer: In submission to the revelation of God in Jesus Christ.
Longer answer: The Old Testament is the witness of Israel and the prophets to God and, as such, it narrates their experience of God and narration, by necessity, requires language and even our best language hang like ill-fitting clothes on the true God.
To believe that my sin can provoke a change in God (wrath) is idolatry.
It is to make God a god, another object in the universe.
Israel’s relationship with God, to which the Old Testament testifies, was most frequently marked by their sin.
Sin is something that turns God into a projection of our guilt and self-loathing so that we no longer see the true God at all. Instead we experience God as a judge, a paymaster, as angry and vengeful and violent. Thus the Old Testament’s depiction of God’s anger towards Israel’s infidelity reveals more about Israel’s infidelity than it reveals the true God.
Moreover, Israel’s election to love God in the world was also an election to suffer. The Old Testament is not simply any people’s testimony to God; it is the testimony of a people who often found themselves oppressed in a world that knew not God. Thus the Old Testament’s depiction of God’s anger and violence towards reveals more about Israel’s hunger for justice than it reveals the true God.
Finally, Jesus Christ is the full revelation of God. Christ reveals perfectly to which the Old Testament can only point. And in Jesus Christ we discover a God who commands us to turn the other cheek, love our enemies and pray for them; a God who commands us to put away the sword and would rather die than kill.
‘No one has ever seen God; it is God the Son who has made Him known.’ – John 1.18
Mark Driscoll is in the news (again) for making cringe-inducing comments about women et al (again). Even I have a line so you’ll have to click here to read about his comments on the ‘pu#@%$#@ nation.’
But, both because this past weekend we read Romans 8 in worship and because Mark’s all over twitter with a very different God than the One I find in scripture I thought I’d repost this from last summer:
Who is against us? Who will condemn us?
Who can separate us from the love of Christ?
For the Apostle Paul, they’re rhetorical questions.
They’re Paul’s way of implying that if you sense any ambiguity about the answer, if you feel any uncertainty about the conclusion, then you should go back to chapter 1, verse 1 and start over.
Reread his letter to the Romans-because Paul’s left you no room for qualification. There’s no grist for doubt or debate or indecision.
Don’t left the punctuation marks fool you because there’s only one possible way to answer the questions Paul’s laid out for you.
No one is against us.
No one will condemn us.
No one- no thing- nothing can separate us from Christ’s love.
Of course, as a preacher, I know first hand the danger in asking rhetorical questions is that there’s always one or two listeners in the audience who don’t realize that the question you’re asking has no answer but the obvious one.
The danger in asking rhetorical questions is that there’s always one or two people who mistakenly think the question might have a different answer.
I thought that would get your attention.
Or at least make you grateful I’m your pastor.
Just think, I make a single joke on my blog about Jesus farting and some of you write letters to the bishop; Mark Driscoll preaches an entire sermon about how ‘God hates you’ and thousands of people ‘like’ it on Facebook.
If you read my blog, then you know I feel about Mark Driscoll the same way I feel about Joel Osteen, Testicular Cancer and Verizon Wireless.
But he’s not an obscure, street-corner, fire-and-brimstone preacher.
He’s a best-selling author. He’s planted churches all over the world.
The church he founded in Seattle, Mars Hill, is one of the nation’s largest churches with a membership that is younger and more diverse than almost any other congregation.
Ten thousand listened to that sermon that Sunday.
And that Sunday ten thousand did NOT get up and walk out.
That Sunday ten thousand listened to the proclamation that ‘God hates you, God hates the you you really are, the person you are at your deepest level.’
And that Sunday at the end of that sermon somewhere near ten thousand people said ‘Amen.’
Which, of course, means ‘That’s true.’
Except it isn’t.
Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.
After all, technically speaking, it’s a ‘good’ sermon. It’s visceral. It’s urgent. It’s confrontational and convicting.
It’s the kind of preaching that demands a response.
Technically speaking, I bet Mark Driscoll’s sermon ‘worked.’
I bet it scared the hell out of people.
But what did it scare them into I wonder?
Because when it comes to Paul’s rhetorical questions, Mark Driscoll gets the response dead wrong. So dead wrong that anti-Christ is probably the most accurate term to describe it.
But you know that already.
I can tell from the grimace of disgust you had on your face while listening to him that you know that already.
You don’t need to be a pastor to know he’s wrong. And you don’t need to be a pastor to prove he’s wrong.
All you need are a handful of memory verses.
Memory verses like Colossians 1.15: ‘…Jesus Christ is the exact image of the invisible God…’
Which means: God is like Jesus.
And God doesn’t change.
Which means: God has always been like Jesus and God will always be like Jesus.
So no, God doesn’t hate you. God has never hated you and God would never hate you.
You don’t need to be pastor to prove he’s wrong; you just need to remember that John 3.16 does not say ‘God so loathed the world that he took Jesus’ life instead of yours.’
No, it says ‘God so loved…that he gave…’
You don’t need to be a pastor to know that God isn’t fed up with you. God isn’t sick and tired of you. God doesn’t hate the you in you because ‘God was in Christ reconciling all things- all things- to himself.’
In case you forgot, that’s 2 Corinthians 5.19.
It’s true that God is just and God is holy and anyone who reads the newspaper has got to think God’s entitled to a little anger, but you don’t have to be a pastor to know that none of those attributes trump the Paul’s Gospel summation that ‘while we were still sinners, God died for the ungodly, for us.’
God has not had it up to anywhere with you.
You don’t need to have gone to seminary to know that; you just need to have gone to church on June 30.
That’s when we heard Paul testify from his personal experience that no matter how much we sin, no matter how often we sin, no matter how we sin, no matter how much our sin abounds, God’s grace abounds all the more.
‘There is therefore now no condemnation…’
‘We have peace with God…’
Whatever needed to be set right, whatever needed to be forgiven, whatever needed to be paid, ‘it is finished.’
That’s in red letters in my bible. Jesus said it.
His cross, the Letter to the Hebrews says, was ‘a perfect sacrifice, once for all.’
So there’s nothing in your present, there’s nothing in your past, there’s nothing coming down the pike- and just in case you think you’re the exception let’s just say there’s nothing in all of creation– there’s nothing that can separate you from the love of God.
You don’t have to be a pastor to realize that you can say this a whole lot of different ways.
But it all boils down to the same simple message:
God. Is. For. Us.
Not against us.
But you know that.
Mark Driscoll may have 10K people in his church but I’d bet every last one of you would run him out of this church.
You would never sit through a sermon like. You would never tolerate a preacher like that- you barely tolerate me.
You would never participate in a church that had perverted the Gospel into that.
God hates you. God’s fed up with you. God’s sick and tired of you. God’s suffered long enough with you. God’s against you.
You would NEVER say that to someone else.
But here’s the thing- and maybe you do need to be a pastor know this:
There are plenty of you
who say things like that
all the time.
Not one of you would ever say things like that to someone else, but, consider it on the job knowledge, plenty of you say it to yourself every day.
Plenty of you ‘know’ Paul’s questions are rhetorical.
You know there’s only one possible answer, only one way to respond: God is for us.
When it comes to you and your life and what you’ve done and how God must feel about the person you see in the mirror, your inner monologue sounds a whole lot more like Mark Driscoll than it sounds like Paul.
You may know this, but as a pastor I definitely do.
Even though you’d never say it in a sermon, you tell yourself that surely God’s fed up with you for the mess you made of your marriage or the mistakes you made with your kids or the ways your life hasn’t measured up.
Even though you’d never dream of saying to someone else ‘there’s no God will forgive that’ that’s exactly what you tell yourself when it comes to the secret that God knows but your spouse doesn’t.
Even though there’s no way you’d ever consider saying it to someone else, you still tell yourself that there’s no way your faith is deep enough, commitment strong enough, beliefs firm enough to ever please God.
Even though it would never cross your mind to say to someone else ‘God must be angry with you for something…God must be punishing you…’ many of you can’t get that out of your mind when you receive a diagnosis or suffer the death of someone close to you.
God hates you. God’s fed up with you. God’s sick and tired of you. God’s suffered long enough with you.
I can’t think of one of you who would let a voice like Mark Driscoll’s into this pulpit on a Sunday morning.
And yet I can think of a whole lot of us who every day let a voice just like his into our heads.
So here’s my question: why?
I mean- we know Paul’s being rhetorical. We know it’s obvious. We know there’s only one possible response: God is for us.
Why do we persist in imagining that God is angry or impatient or wearied or judgmental or vindictive or ungracious or unforgiving?
If it’s obvious enough for a rhetorical question then why?
Why do we persist in imagining that God is like anything other than Jesus?
Is it because we tripped up on those bible verses that speak of God’s anger?
Is it because we’ve all heard preachers or we all know Christians who sound a little like Mark Driscoll?
Sure we have.
Is it because we’re convinced the sin in our lives is so great, so serious, that we’re the exception to Paul’s ironclad, gospel
equation: God is for us?
Is it because we think we’re the exception?
Maybe for some of us.
But I wonder.
I wonder if we persist in imagining that God is angry and impatient and unforgiving and at the end of his rope- I wonder if we imagine God is like that because that’s what we’re like.
I wonder if we imagine God must be angry because we carry around so much anger with us?
I wonder if we imagine there are some things even God can’t forgive because there are things we won’t forgive?
I wonder if we imagine that God’s at the end of his rope because there are plenty of people with whom we’re at the end of ours?
I’ve been open with you in the past about my sometimes rocky sometimes resuscitated relationship with my Dad.
I’ve told you about how my dad and me- we have a history that started when I was about the age my youngest boy is now.
And I’ve told you about how even today our relationship is tense and complicated…sticky- the way it always is in a family when addiction and infidelity and abuse are part of a story that ends in separation.
As with any separation, all the relationships in the family got complicated. And as with many separations, what happens in childhood reverberates well into adulthood.
What I haven’t told you before is that I had a falling out, over a year ago, with my Mom.
The kind of falling out where you can no longer remember what or who started it or if it was even important.
The kind of rift that seemed to pull down every successive conversation like an undertow.
The kind of argument that starts out in anger and then slowly advances on both sides towards a stubborn refusal to forgive and eventually ages into a sad resignation that this is what the relationship is now, that this is what it will be, that this thing is between us now and is going to stay there.
We had that falling out quite a while ago, and I’ve let it fester simply because I didn’t have the energy to do the work I knew it would take to repair it.
And, to be honest, I didn’t have the faith to believe it could be repaired.
There’s no way I can say this without it sounding contrived and cliche.
There’s no way I can say this without it sounding exactly like the sort of sentimental BS you might expect in a sermon.
So I’ll just say it straight up and if it makes you want to vomit go ahead. I read Romans 8 late this week and it…convicted me.
And so I called my Mom.
‘We need to talk’ I said.
‘You really think so?’
It was a rhetorical question. There was only one possible answer: yes.
And so I began by telling her that I’d been reading a part of the bible and that I’d just noticed something I’d never noticed before.
I don’t know why I’d never noticed it before.
Romans 8.31-39 is, after all, one of the most popular scripture texts for funerals. I’ve preached on this scripture probably more than any other biblical text.
Yet preaching it for funerals, with death and eternity looming, I never noticed how this passage about how no one is against us, how no one will condemn us, how nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus- it comes at the end of Paul’s chapter on the Holy Spirit.
It comes as the conclusion to Paul talking about how we are to live according to the Spirit- according to Christ’s Spirit.
It comes as the conclusion to Paul talking about how we are the heirs of Christ’s ministry, about how that inheritance will involve certainly suffering but that the Spirit will help us in our weakness.
This ‘nothing shall separate us’ passage- it comes as the conclusion to Paul telling us how the Holy Spirit will work in our lives to conform us to Christ’s image so that we might live up to and in to calling.
In all the times I’ve turned to Romans 8 for a funeral sermon, I’ve never noticed before that, for Paul, it’s not about eternity.
It’s about living eternity now.
Who is against us? Who will condemn us?
Who can separate us from the love of Christ?
Paul’s questions might be rhetorical.
The answers might be obvious and certain.
But that doesn’t make them easy or simple.
I’d never noticed that for Paul here in Romans 8- it’s actually meant to be the kind of preaching that demands a response.
Because if you believe that God in Jesus Christ is unconditionally, no matter what, for us then you’ve also got to believe that you should not hold anything against someone else.
If you believe that God in Christ Jesus refuses- gratuitiously- to condemn your life, then you’ve got to at least believe that it should be ditto for the people in your life.
And if you believe that nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus, nothing in all creation, then you must also believe that because of the love of God in Christ Jesus then nothing, nothing, nothing should separate us.
From one another.
Scot Mcknight has this up over at his Jesus Creed site. This week Dennis continues our sermon series through Romans by looking at Romans 1.18-32 in which lists the symptoms of a creation suffering under God’s wrath, or, better put, suffering un-righteousness. Romans 1.18-32 is the antithesis to Paul’s thesis in 1.16-17.
Since ‘wrath’ is the subject, I thought I’d offer this reflection on God’s wrath from Amos 7.
I’m sure you’ll know what I mean when I say that being a pastor is a lot like having a family member who is constantly in the tabloids.
I mean: here I am with this public relationship with someone who routinely shocks and outrages a reliable percentage of the population. While I can only guess what kinds of questions relatives of Lindsay Lohan and Tiger Woods are forced to answer, I do know the feeding-frenzy kinds of questions I consistently have to suffer thanks to my relationship with a different sort of celebrity.
This week I found myself in a conversation with a Unitarian Universalist clergywoman named Janice. Interrogation might better describe our exchange. Her every question to me was like the glare and flash of a paparazzi’s camera.
For those who might not know- Unitarianism began a few hundred years ago during the Enlightenment. As such, it was very much a reflection of its time. The Unitarian movement sought to strip traditional Christianity of its primitive, out-dated and superstitious trappings.
In many ways, Unitarianism is like Christianity but with less vocabulary for you to memorize since words like Trinity and Incarnation and Atonement and Resurrection have all been kicked to the wayside.
Janice has long, unnaturally black hair. She was wearing a hippie-sort of linen dress, had tattooed clover wrapped around her arm and, appropriate to her enlightened tradition, she was wearing not one but at least five different religious symbols on her hemp necklace.
She had a notepad on her lap which she wrote in whenever I spoke, as if she were the therapist and I was the delusional, misguided patient. She even kept referring to me as a ‘pre-enlightened’ Christian.
Now I’m sure you all know someone in your family or in your neighborhood who is a Unitarian and I’m sure they’re wonderful people. And I know there’s a Unitarian Church just down the road from us, and I’m sure that it’s filled with wonderful people. So the last thing I want to do is offend anyone when I tell you that I just wanted to slap Janice.
We were sitting around a coffee table: Janice and me and three other clergy from varying denominations. I was the last one to show so I got stuck sitting in a low, awkward butterfly chair with everyone else towering over me. And obviously given my height I’m sensitive to such things.
The chair was narrow across too; it kept me from being able to cross my legs or move my arms and only increased my sense of being trapped and on trial.
Because our meeting had no clear ending, the conversation unraveled quickly with Janice electing herself grand inquisitor. So with me trapped in my butterfly chair, like a reporter from the Enquirer Janice fired question after question at me:
Do you still believe in the Resurrection?
Surely you don’t still believe in Jesus’ miracles do you?
You don’t seriously think Jesus was God-in-the-flesh?
And the virgin birth…don’t tell me you…?
With her every question and my every yes she grew more incredulous.
How do you still hold to a pre-enlightened faith, she pressed, given everything we now know about the universe?
As if to teach me a thing or two about the universe, Janice’s next round of questions proved that she could make time stand still.
She kept me on the defensive, wanting me to explain every inconsistency and every troubling passage in scripture, every wicked thing ever done in Christ’s name, every theological claim we make in here that can’t be proven empirically. And the whole time she kept writing in her notebook!
Towards the end of the interrogation, Janice looked up from her pen and paper and she took a sort of cleansing breath and sighed, and, adopting a good-cop tone of voice, she said: I just don’t see how anyone can reconcile the God of the Old Testament with the God of the New.
I kept my mouth shut. By that point I knew exactly what I wanted to tell her but it wasn’t of a theological nature. Besides, I was afraid I might need her help to get out of the butterfly chair.
So I didn’t say anything.
Then she looked at me and she said:
Okay, you tell me. When you read the Old Testament what sort of God do you see?
As much as I wanted to slap her and throw her through the window, the truth is on some days, with certain passages of scripture, it’s a good question.
It’s a good question today because when you read through the Book of Amos you might end up with an answer that troubles you. You might decide that what you see in this book is a God who is incongruent with the God you know in your heart. You might conclude that the God who speaks a Word to Amos can’t be the same One who said to the Father ‘Forgive them for they know not what they do.‘
What do you see? It’s a good question.
God asks Amos that same question in today’s text. And in that moment, what Amos sees is how Israel doesn’t measure up, doesn’t make the grade, doesn’t meet God’s expectations. But a ‘plumb line‘ is not the only thing Amos has seen in these seven chapters.
Amos is a prophet, which means ‘seer.‘ Prophets see what will come to pass.
And God has given Amos a lot to see.
Amos has seen God sending locusts to devour Israel’s crops. Amos has seen God ordering a shower of fire to eat up the land. He’s seen God’s anger roaring like a lion. He’s seen God shipping the Israel off into exile. He’s seen God made nauseous by the worship of his People.
And in today’s text he sees God vowing never again to pass Israel by, in other words, never again to forgive.
What do you see?
The hard fact is that in the Book of Amos God threatens to kill and destroy, God promises to send fire and pestilence and famine.
The hard fact is that in the Book of Amos there are 28 different verbs to describe God destroying what he’s created.
The hard fact is that even when you come to the end of the Book of Amos there is no word of hope.
There is no good news.
That wherever God’s mercy is mentioned it’s done so in the past tense because God’s mercy is all dried up, his patience has run out. God’s no longer willing to wait for us to change.
There’s a lot to SEE in Amos.
But I wonder- is that all there is to see?
I spent time not long ago in Cambodia, visiting with our mission partners there. I think it must be because of the language barrier I experienced there but most of my memories from Cambodia are visual. Most of my memories are of what I saw.
And so I don’t recall many conversations I had there. I don’t remember much of what I or anyone else said, but I do remember seeing.
I remember seeing:
Young men fishing for food in a thickly polluted pond.
Toddlers playing tag barefoot in an alley strewn with broken glass while others their age cried for breakfast.
School children walking home from school and disappearing into the smoke and smog of a garbage dump- because that’s where home was for them.
I remember seeing.
An old woman- a Sunday School teacher- sitting in a dark, hot corner of a decrepit old apartment building.
The hands that reached out for bread as I served the Eucharist- rough hands, broken and worn-down hands, wrinkled hands, dirty hands.
Teenage girls praying frantically and loudly and with tears on their cheeks, leaving no mystery about how hard their lives were.
Shanty towns filled with the poor and the forgotten, displaced from their homes in the city to make room for ‘progress.’
What sticks with me is what I saw.
And I’d like to be able to tell you that my reaction to seeing all of that was a sense of fulfillment that despite all of the challenges there this church is doing so much to help. I’d like to be able to tell you that my reaction to seeing all of that was one of humility- humility that the people I met there had such faith and joy despite having nothing.
And even though those things are all true; they’re not what I felt upon seeing everything I saw.
No, what I felt first, what seeing made me feel:
Anger and Indignation – that so many could be forgotten and so many others refuse to see them.
Impatience and Exasperation – that things are still so far from what God intends and so many assume there’s no other alternative.
I wanted to Judge…someone… anyone.
When you read the Old Testament, what sort of God do you see? Janice asked me.
I knew what she was getting at.
I knew she was hoping to checkmate me into seeing that the God of the Old Testament is angry and vindictive and impatient, that He frequently threatens to punish and to destroy and to call off creation completely and start over, that this God bears little resemblance to the One who, while we were yet sinners, died for us.
And the truth is-
If that’s what you’re looking for, then there’s plenty of examples to find. In the Book of Amos especially.
But if you read through scripture and see only an angry, arbitrary God,
then you’re not seeing all there is to see.
We think of prophets as future-predictors, as fortune-tellers. We think of prophets as people that God empowers to see what God will one day do. And so Amos sees plagues of locusts and famines and showers of fire and punishment and destruction.
But as much as that, prophets are people empowered by God to see the present, to see what God sees right now, to see how things are today, to see the things we refuse and choose not to see.
And so when you read through scripture, when you read through the Old Testament, when you read through the Book of Amos you don’t see a God who is arbitrary or petulant or vindictive.
You instead see a God who is righteously angry.
Angry over the way his people use violence on one another. Angry because they value silver and gold more than each other. Indignant for how they obey convention over covenant and for how they’re more faithful to the propriety of their worship than to the message of their scripture.
What you see is a God who is angry because His People refuse to see the poor, refuse to lift up the weak, refuse to remember the forgotten.
When you read the Old Testament, what sort of God do you see? Janice asked.
And I didn’t take the bait. I didn’t say anything.
After a moment or two she closed her notebook and, sounding disappointed, she said to everyone around the table: ‘Well, I don’t see how a loving God could ever be angry.’
And struggling to get out of the butterfly chair, I replied: ‘I don’t see how he couldn’t be.’
Some of you asked me that very question after my Hell sermon for our Razing Hell series. I didn’t have time to write up a response and, lucky duck, Scot McKnight beat me to it:
The almost universal traditional view of hell in the Christian church is that it is a lake of fire, that it will last forever and ever and that the wicked will be conscious and tormented endlessly. So Edward Fudge, in his Hell: A Final Word , sketches what we find in the lake of fire text in Revelation.
The Lake of Fire in Revelation in Revelation 20:14-15
Then death and Hades were thrown into the lake of fire. The lake of fire is the second death. 15 Anyone whose name was not found written in the book of life was thrown into the lake of fire.
First, the lake of fire is probably related to Daniel 7′s river of fire, a fire that destroys evil world leaders (the Beast and the False Prophet).
Second, in Revelation the Beast, the False Prophet and Satan/Serpent are thrown into the Lake of Fire. The place for the unholy trinity of evil. They are “tormented day and night forever and ever” (20:10). Only they are said in the Bible to be tormented endlessly.
Comment: Yes, Fudge is right; no one else is said to be tormented forever. But wicked humans are tossed into the same Lake of Fire in the next chapter. But Rev 14 has humans with much the same finality — humans, the smoke of their torment, endless. More importantly, God is thereby now theologically and logically connected to endless torment. The unholy trinity may be upgradings of sin and evil and wickedness but they are still said to be tormented endlessly. Fudge appeals next to a human — Hanns Lilje — but this is an argument from a human or an authority or an experience. It doesn’t for me wipe away the glaring reality of an endless torment administered by God. The problem of endless torment is now officially connected to a theological problem.
Death is tossed into the Lake of Fire (20:14). Hades is tossed into the Lake of Fire (20:14).
The Lake of Fire is the Second Death. The death of the age to come. Lake of Fire is defined by Second Death, meaning that Second Death is the ruling image. The two options are life (eternal, city of God) and death (final, second death, Lake of Fire). Humans enter the Lake of Fire, the Second Death: Rev 21:8.
So for Fudge all texts dealing with endless torment are explained, destruction is seen as the ruling image, Death is the outcome, and the absence of life is the outcome for the wicked. For Fudge the emphasis — undeniable — in the Bible is a fire that consumes or destroys, not a fire that purges or that torments. Edward Fudge makes the best case of anyone alive today for the annihilationist viewpoint.