Finding beauty in the messiness of the Atonement
Sunday begins the arduous five-day journey to Good Friday. The tradition in which I grew up never paid much attention to the liturgical calendar, so it has only been in the last few years that I have stumbled upon the greater Lenten tradition. Of course, along the way, I began to work out my own personal theology. This means that every Easter, I am forced to contemplate what the Atonement really means to me, as well as the language I use to talk about it.
I remember when I encountered the different theories of Atonement in my very first Christian Doctrine class. I had already begun an internal struggle about reconciling crucifixion, resurrection, salvation, and my burgeoning penchant for liberation, but until that lecture, I didn’t have the verbiage to express my struggle.
My struggle was, admittedly, pretty immature at the time. I was trying to form opinions while looking at a tiny piece of Christian doctrine and an even more miniscule piece of Christian history. To be sure, I still abhor penal substitution as a theory of Atonement, but these days I can better articulate why that is.
I still agree, as I did three years ago, with Richard Dawkins when he said, “Atonement, the central doctrine of Christianity, is vicious, sadomasochistic, and repellent.” But, unlike my younger self, I can actually accept this as okay. It is repellent. It is vicious. It is dirty and bloody and gruesome.
But it is also beautiful.
The story of the cross is one that has been used to dominate and conquer, both spiritually and physically, for centuries. Armies have invoked the blood of Christ that was spilled for them. Warlords have killed “heathens” under the guise of their own salvation-granted superiority. It is easy, in light of Christian history, to become disenchanted with the story we recognize during Holy Week.
I still find myself looking at the story of the Atonement as one of divine example. Jesus, as God, offered up his entire physicality, as much a part of who he was as his divinity. He chose to become a sacrificial instrument, ending the need for the Judaic tradition of sacrificing lambs to be atoned. In that act, the Holy One reached down and said that there was no more need for bloody sacrifices, that God was willing to die to show how great the Creator loved all of creation. Everyone.
It was an outpouring of love like none seen before or after in history. The example Jesus set is summarized beautifully in the fifteenth chapter of John: “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”[1]
This is what Holy Week means to me. It is an example of how far we must be willing to go for one another. The example of Jesus’ life leading up to the point of Crucifixion is the story. Nativity and Resurrection are just bookends on a life-story of giving, of meeting needs, of love poured out freely. This is the atoning power of the incarnation of the Holy in our world and in our flesh. The Atonement that Jesus modeled in life was dirty and bloody and gruesome. He touched the sick, ate with whores, and befriended thieves. Jesus told them they were beautiful creations. He apologized for what their society had made them and offered them liberation.
And so, as we enter the final week of Lent, I wonder if we should reflect on what our society has made of people. Who are our downcast? We surely have poor people. We have whores. We have thieves. We have Samaritans. We have lepers. Tax collectors. Pharisees. Centurions. Disciples. Martyrs.
Can we look at the traditions of Holy Week and extrapolate some sense of contemporary application that isn’t exclusive and commercialized? Can we look at the Last Supper as an invitation for everyone to join us at the table? Is it possible that we can talk about the Crucifixion as something other than eschatological economics? Can the Resurrection be less about eternal salvation and more about living a full, intentional life? I hope so. It is my certainly my goal.
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