Category Archives: Salvation
Kings. Scholars. Prophets. Warriors. Patriarchs.
When it comes to the family tree of Jesus Christ, these illustrious branches are the ones that most observers would expect to find. After all, He is the only begotten Son of God. That Jesus would come from an earthly line of royalty, leadership, and divine calling only makes sense. Yet while the lineage of Christ includes both political luminaries and spiritual giants, it also contains a few seemingly degenerate limbs as well.
Consider this collection of unsavory characters:
Fools. Liars. Charlatans. Fornicators. Murderers.
While most people would try to hide the more embarrassing details of their family history, Jesus displayed them openly. Scripture records that even the most revered members of Christ’s ancestry were guilty of unspeakable crimes: Jacob was a thief, Solomon an idolater, and David a killer.
But perhaps the most amazing thing about the genealogy of Christ (Matt. 1) is not the sins of the men who are listed. After all, there are 56 generations of them; one would certainly expect to find a skeleton or two. What is most interesting are the few women that are mentioned – five of them, to be exact:
Tamar, the daughter-in-law of Judah who tricked him into sharing her bed as an act of revenge.
Rahab, a formerly idolatrous harlot whose great act of faith was telling a lie.
Ruth, a foreigner from Moab whose entire race was a lasting reminder of the incest committed between Lot and his oldest daughter.
Bath-Sheba, an adulteress whose dutiful husband was murdered by the king to cover up their sin.
Mary, a teen-aged girl whose “unplanned” (yet divinely ordained) pregnancy certainly raised more than a few eyebrows.
There are 56 generations of men in Jesus’ family tree, yet He chose to highlight a mere handful of women – and they are possibly the most sordid of them all. It’s as if He wants us to pause as we read the list of names and think about their lives. And when we do, it is impossible to ignore the grace of God.
God’s grace is always remarkable, no matter the recipient. But when we consider the lives of women like Tamar, Rahab, and Bath-Sheba; it is impossible to ignore that His grace is freely bestowed on the undeserving, the undesirable, and the unlikely. Their stories, once marred by scandal and sin, are really not much different from my own. I was once an idolater, an adulterer, and an outcast – but God saw fit to save me and graft me into His Family Tree. I was totally undeserving of His favor, but He adopted me as His own and drew me by His love into the lineage of Christ.
So, the next time you come to that list of names, don’t skip ahead to chapter two. Read it all, and as you read, remember this: the message of the Gospel is as evident in Matthew Chapter One as it is at Calvary. For, at its heart, the message of the Gospel has always been that God lavishes His grace on the unlikeliest of sinners – even the most scandalous of us all.
To anyone who has ever walked down the streets of a busy metropolis, the situation is probably a familiar one. A poverty-stricken individual approaches you. Before he even speaks, you know what he wants: “a little help,” “just some kindness,” or “only a few pennies.”
What is your reaction? Do you empty your pockets? Do you offer to buy him lunch instead? Or do you ignore him and continue walking? Quite often, we choose Option C and neglect the opportunity to show the love of Christ to a stranger. And while we may be able to rationalize our inaction based upon a myriad of “reasons,” how much different would our response be if the beggar on the street was not a stranger at all?
Pretend, for a moment, that the person asking for help was another believer – a member of your own church. Would you still walk away? Probably not. Hopefully not. But what if you did?
Now, put the shoe on the other foot. What if you were the beggar in the scenario, and the person from whom you were seeking help was a leader in your church? There you are, starving and clothed in rags, and a fellow believer – a friend – simply passes by with a greeting: “I’ll pray for you. God bless!” What would you think of that person? How would you view the testimony of your friend?
It seems like an incomprehensible situation, but it’s lifted directly from the pages of Scripture. In the second chapter of James, the half-brother of Jesus writes: “If a brother or sister be naked, and destitute of daily food, and one of you say unto them, ‘Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled!’ – notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are needful to the body – what doth it profit (vs. 15-16)?”
James’ question is not merely a hypothetical situation, however; it is actually a poignant illustration of the point that he is trying to make: “What doth it profit, my brethren, though a man say he have faith, and hath not works (James 2:14)?”
James 2:14 has long been the source of consternation among students of the New Testament. On the surface, it would seem that James is contradicting the doctrine of justification by faith. A cursory reading may suggest good works are somehow necessary for salvation, and that faith alone is not enough. Nothing could be further from the truth. Instead, James is indicating that a faith devoid of godly works is a useless faith, and certainly not of God. In other words, if a man’s works do not show some indication – whether small or great – of a continual transformation into the image of Christ, then the question will inevitably be asked: “Was it ever saving faith to begin with?”
To prove his point, James offers up the illustration of the destitute believer and his heartless brother. In the illustration, the needs of the starving brother are clearly refused. The most shocking part of the story, however, is not the inaction of the fortunate believer; it is his acknowledgment of the destitute brother’s situation. His command to “depart in peace” was both outwardly pious and terribly religious. In essence, the fortunate believer is saying, “Go with God! Trust him to fill all your needs!” While this sounds good, it accomplishes nothing. When the fortunate brother leaves, the destitute brother is still naked and starving. Rather than offering pious idioms, the fortunate brother should have been the answer to the destitute brother’s prayer.
The point that James is trying to convey is that the “faith” of the fortunate brother is useless (unprofitable), and as empty as the poor man’s belly. Just as this “faith” failed to fill the needs of the destitute brother’s body, so it had already failed to meet the needs of the fortunate brother’s soul. This kind of faith – a faith without works (Christ-like behavior) – offers no proof of the spiritual change in a “believer’s” heart, because the heart in question was never actually changed.
Like his response to the situation of a brother in need, the faith of the fortunate brother is merely an acknowledgement. An acknowledgment, however, is merely passive; faith, as it is described in Scripture, is always active. While we are saved by faith alone, it takes a specific kind of faith to convert the soul. The “faith” that functions solely as an acknowledgment of a condition or a creed (James 2:19) is not enough. This kind of faith is incapable of rendering any sort of spiritual change. In a mature believer, true faith is evidenced by active godliness and Christ-like behavior. There is no action – no good deed – that can reconcile a man to God; we are justified and saved by faith alone. It is a man’s actions, however, that give evidence of his salvation.
So, when James asks, “Can faith save him?” in verse 14, what he is really asking is this: “Can this kind of faith – a faith without works – be saving faith?” And the answer to that question is a resounding “No.” True faith – saving faith – will give proof of itself through the transformation of a person’s behavior. Sometimes, it is a subtle transformation (as in the life of a child); other times, it is drastic and impossible to miss. Either way, saving faith will always give evidence of its own existence. Like every aspect of the believer’s life, the purpose of saving faith should be the glory of God, and nothing brings Him more glory than when the life of a sinner is radically changed into a reflection of the Savior.
© 2010 Jeremy Austin Watts
“Who shall I release unto you? Bar-Abbas, the murderer… Or Jesus the Christ, Who is called the King of the Jews?”
Pilate stood before the increasingly riotous mob and asked them to make their choice. On one hand, the Roman procurator offered up a Man whose message was peace. On the other, a man whose mission was war. One preached intercession on behalf of His enemies; the other was an insurrectionist with blood on his hands. One had restored life to those who had died; the other brought death to those he hated. If ever there existed two men of more diametrically opposed worldviews, history has failed to record it.
Little is known about the second prisoner – a man named Bar-Abbas – aside from what is recorded in Scripture. What we do know is that he was a remarkable prisoner (Matt. 27:16), a murderer (Luke 23:19), and the leader of a band of insurrectionists (Mark 15:7). More than likely, Barabbas was a Zealot, a member of a notorious sect of political revolutionaries feared for their merciless exploits. Their numbers were composed of ruthless assassins and fanatically devoted militants. Additionally, Bar-Abbas was also a brigand (John 18:40) – a ruthless bandit similar to the ones recounted in Christ’s parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:30). The modus operandi of these unsavory thieves was to ambush solitary travelers – Jews and Gentiles alike – and leave them for dead after robbing them of all they possessed. In short, Bar-Abbas was a career criminal and a man of decidedly unscrupulous moral character. And because of his notorious blood lust and thoughtless violence, Bar-Abbas had been condemned to death.
But that was all before Jesus.
Bar-Abbas stood before the angry mob, disoriented and confused. He had stood in this very place before, at his own trial. It was here that Pontius Pilate had reviewed all the evidence against Bar-Abbas and found him unequivocally guilty of murder and sedition. And it was in this very place where the procurator had condemned him to die. But now, even the governor stood in disbelief as the crowd chanted the name of Bar-Abbas, demanding his release. But Pilate was bound to his word, and to the customs of the city. He signaled to the guards, and they moved toward Bar-Abbas. They removed his manacles, and violently pushed him down the stairs and toward the mob.
“You’re free,” the Roman soldier said, punctuating his words with an oath.
Bar-Abbas didn’t understand. An hour ago, he had sat in a cold prison cell – his body beaten from a scourging, his wrists chained to a stone wall, his nostrils filled with the stench of death. Just an hour ago, he had been contemplating his final hours on earth. An hour ago, the shadow of the cross had consumed his thoughts. But now he was free.
“What shall I do then with Jesus, which is called the Christ?”
Bar-Abbas glanced at the disbelieving expression on the governor’s face, as the crowd replied with a new chant: “Crucify Him!” Suddenly, Bar-Abbas realized what was happening. This other Man on trial was no mere commoner; on the contrary, He was perhaps the greatest celebrity in all Jerusalem – the Prophet from Nazareth, the powerful Healer called Jesus. Some had called Him the Messiah; still others had called him a charlatan and a blasphemer. Now, the people wanted the Prophet crucified.
But Pilate knew that Jesus was innocent. He had not offered Bar-Abbas’ freedom to the crowd at random; it was a power play. He had hoped that the people – especially Caiphas and the Sanhedrin – would be so appalled by Bar-Abbas’ crimes that they would relent to the release of the Christ. But it hadn’t worked. The religious leaders had coerced the crowd into demanding Bar-Abbas’ freedom – and Jesus’ death. The full weight of the situation came crashing down on Bar-Abbas: Jesus of Nazareth had taken his place. At morning’s light, He would carry the cross that had been meant for Bar-Abbas. The Messiah would die; the murderer would live.
No one knows what happened to Bar-Abbas after his release. Books have been written, motion pictures have been made, and sermons have been preached that speculate upon the direction his life took after that fateful day. One would hope that Bar-Abbas understood the greater significance of everything that happened that night in Pilate’s court. Bar-Abbas had been undeniably guilty of every charge that had been brought against him, and he had been sentenced to the just recompense of his deeds. Pilate had decreed that Bar-Abbas should be put to death for crimes against the state; but God had decreed that His Only Son would die instead. If ever there was a man who could claim that Jesus Christ had died in his stead, it was Bar-Abbas.
And so can I.
Just as Jesus literally took the place of Bar-Abbas on Calvary’s cross, He also took my place under the just wrath of God (Rom. 1:18, Rev. 14:10, Matt. 26:39, Mark 15:34). Bar-Abbas was guilty of insurrection against the government of Rome; I was guilty of insurrection against the government of God. Just as Bar-Abbas was the enemy of the state, so was I the enemy of a God (Rom. 5:10, 8:7; Col. 1:21; Ja. 4:4). And just as the law of the Empire condemned Bar-Abbas to death, so was I cursed by the Law of the Creator (Gal. 3:10-13).
The sovereign hand of God was at work that night in Pilate’s Hall, and in Pilate’s heart (Pro. 21:1). Even before His Son was nailed to Calvary’s tree, God was showing us what salvation was truly about: that the Innocent King should suffer in the stead of His guilty creation. Had Christ not come, Bar-Abbas would have died for his crimes – and I would have died in my sin. I once stood before the Holy Prefect as guilty as Bar-Abbas, and even more so. I had hated without cause, and was guilty of murder (Matt. 5:21-22). I had stolen from God the glory due His name. And I deserved to be destroyed.
But that was all before Jesus.
He took my place before the angry mob; I took His place in calling for His death. He took my place beneath the Roman scourge; I took His place in delivering the blow. He took my place beneath the cross’ beam; I took His place in hammering the nails. As the Father turned His face away, Christ took my place beneath the all-consuming wrath of God. Now, when the Father looks at me, I take Christ’s place of honor as God’s beloved son.
JESUS TOOK MY PLACE: that is the Gospel, according to a murderer named Bar-Abbas – and according to a sinner like me.
© 2010 Jeremy Austin Watts