reached anew for the parchments, and spread them before us. “Here,” he pointed and read aloud:
A leper came to him, and kneeling before him beseeched, ‘If you will to do so, you can make me clean.’ And Jesus touched him and said, ‘I will it; be clean.’ Immediately the leprosy left him, and he was cured. And Jesus said to him, ‘Go and show yourself to the priest, and offer for your cure what Moses has prescribed.’
Even here, Mark, our Lord’s miracle, although occasioned by the leper’s faith and belief, was nevertheless followed by the command that the sacrifice prescribed by the Law must still be offered.”
After all the times I had heard Paul insist that even Jewish believers were free of the strictures of the Law, this passage gave me pause. “But that is what I do not understand, Timothy. Why was the leper’s faith alone not enough to merit forgiveness and cure from an unconditionally loving God, without further offering of sacrifice?”
“Perhaps the answer is best found by considering your objection that God’s love must be unconditional, side-by-side with the notion of God’s justice in requiring the death penalty as a sacrifice in discharge of sin in fulfillment of the bargain made with Adam. Do you not see how the two notions can be harmonized?”
“Tell me.”
“If God Himself were to provide the sacrifice—just as Abraham said to Isaac on their way to Moriah—surely that would demonstrate His love, would it not?”
“No doubt it would.”
“And if that sacrifice were truly an ultimate one, akin to that which Abraham was preparing to make of Isaac, surely then it could be said that God’s love was truly unconditional, could it not?”
“Assuredly; I cannot think of a greater sacrifice than the life of one’s only son.”
“Then forgiveness through sacrifice is fully consistent not only with God’s righteous demand that the ancient bargain be fulfilled, but also with God’s unconditional love for the forgiven—provided that God furnishes the sacrifice and that the sacrifice is sufficiently great, such as, for example, with the gift of God’s son.”
“I am constrained to agree.”
“Do you recall what our Lord said about himself as a sacrifice?” Timothy spread the parchments before us again, and began perusing them. “Here,” he gestured:
‘I have come not to be served but to serve, and to give my life as a ransom for many.’
If, then, Jesus is truly the Son of God, his sacrifice would satisfy your concern regarding the harmonization of God’s unconditional love and His forgiveness, would it not?”
“It would; but how can it be just for God to impose punishment and sacrifice on one for the sins of another?”
“Your point is well taken, Mark, but not your premise; for if Jesus voluntarily submitted to the punishment and sacrifice, we can no longer say that it was imposed upon him by God, can we?”
“No.”
“And is that not the import of what we have just read?”
“I suppose it is.” I was suddenly struck anew with wonder over how great must have been Jesus’ love, to take on such an ultimate sacrifice voluntarily. I imagined him conflicted as the hour approached, yet bending to the will of his Father. I imagined him praying, Father, you have the power to do all things. Take this cup from me. But let it be as you will, not as I will.
Timothy continued on. “Are we agreed, then, that God’s justice and His love would be merged in the sacrifice of His only Son as atonement for man’s sins?”
“We are. But is that the true import of our Lord’s death, Timothy? Is he truly the Son of God, literally rather than metaphorically, begotten rather than adopted? How could he be God, yet human? And, must we believe this in order to be saved? We must talk more about this!”
“And tomorrow, Mark, we shall.” Timothy had that familiar calmness in his voice again, unhurried and at ease. “But let us stop for today.”
With that, Timothy yawned. How he could possible be tired, how he could fail to be stimulated by this discussion to the point of excitement, was beyond my ability to fathom—unless it be that with wisdom there comes a certain serenity. Timothy was far and away the most serene person I had ever encountered. And serenity cannot easily be shaken.
Chapter 6
Our next destination was Pylos on the western coast of the Pelopon-nese—and according to Homeric legend the city of King Nestor, the wise elder statesman of the Greeks who sailed against Troy, and who later hosted Telemachus during his quest to seek out his father Odysseus. We were heading north now; the wind would be less full in the sails, perhaps requiring some tacking.
My own sails, however, were still full of yesterday’s discussion, and the promise of greater understanding today. I had hardly slept, analyzing the arguments Timothy had made. As I turned them over and over in my mind, it occurred to me that I was looking for flaws in his logic with dogged determination, chipping away at it as one would chisel against a rock. It was almost as though I did not want logical proof to be available, as though I wanted to continue doubting. While a part of me wanted desperately to believe purely on faith without benefit of rational proofs, that part was losing out. Again.
What was this thirst for logical proofs that haunted me and made me feel so inferior in faith to Timothy and the rest of the brothers? Why could I not hold on to the passionate certainty that I had felt in my heart when I first heard Peter preach the Word two decades ago?
Timothy sat next to me in the stern, silently watching the sail billowing, appearing deep in thought. I knew that look—and knew not to interrupt it. At length he spoke. “I have been thinking through the night,” he said, “of how best to describe Jesus’ nature. It is difficult to do, for I am convinced that he has a dual nature, that of both God and man—although at first blush one nature would appear to exclude the other. This is what you wish to understand, Mark, is it not—how one can simultaneously be both the son of God and son of man?”
“That is precisely my question. As I believe, God has no body; God is pure spirit, uncreated, always existing, existing before there ever was a physical world—a physical world which God created. I see it as inconsistent for an incorruptible and immortal spiritual being to have flesh and blood, bone and sinew, which by nature corrupt and die.”
“Ah, just as I thought,” Timothy smiled. “You see the dilemma as one of logical impossibility, Mark.”
“What do you mean, logical impossibility?”
“I mean an impossibility which follows from the very definition of the terms used. For example, even presuming that God is all powerful and can do anything, He still cannot make a square circle, nor make a stone so heavy that even He cannot lift it, yet these ‘inabilities’ are not true limitations on His omnipotence, because they are mutually exclusive by definition. Do you see?”
“I think I do.”
“These physical qualities of man you mention, having corruptible flesh, blood, bone and sinew—you would agree that they are separate from the quality of a man’s soul or spirit, and not of its essence?”
“Of
