Jesus, Justice, and Justification

"Safe?" said Mr. Beaver; 
"don't you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you?  
 Who said anything about safe?  'Course he isn't safe.  But he's good.
  He's the King, I tell you." 

Dear Bethany,

(I do apologize for the length of time it has taken me to post this.  I wanted to be sure I had put my thoughts down coherently, which took some doing, and additionally I was in New York, which took some surviving.)

I am now going to embark on the (perhaps) last installment of my answer to your questions regarding my view of Dante's Inferno.  I would like to say at the outset of this post that I am now about to deal with issues that have troubled the minds of the saints for ages past and I do not pretend to be able to give more than a cursory defense of the belief of Hell.  Additionally, I want to lay down the fundamental groundwork that I, one: believe in the immutable and infinite goodness of God; and two: I hold to the authority of Scripture as the inspired word of God.  I hope that, as was the case of the Bereans, you will seek out the Scriptures to see if what I say is true.

I hope that in my post The Knowledge of the Holy I made it plain that a comprehension and appreciation of God is a necessary and possible thing.  I hope that I made plain in that post and in the tangential post "I Call All Times Soon" that not only is a comprehension and appreciation of God necessary and possible, but that mankind was made to fit cheek by jowl with God's nature.

I want to start with a mundane example which, as a general rule, all men recognize almost intuitively.  It is an example by law: id est, that when you make an infraction, the greater the personage the greater the crime.  I will be less penalized if I execute vehicular manslaughter on a random passer-by than if I try to overrun the President.  The crime, on the face of it, is the same: but because I am jeopardizing the life of a high official the second offense, made with malice aforethought, is of a greater degree of evil.  Neither offense is any less wrong: they are both wrong; but "the punishment must fit the crime" is a very biblical notion and takes into account not only the nature of the offense but the nature of the offended.

Let us say that there was a military coup orchestrated by a consul against his overlord.  Let us also say that the overlord possessed not only all virtue (wisdom, prudence, etc.) but also lawfully possessed the right to supreme power and, by extension, the right to be obeyed.  The infraction is of the greatest magnitude.  It outstrips the normal example of one man rising up against another because in this case the overlord's possession of lawfulness and virtue commands an even deeper response of respect.  Mankind was made with the necessity of taking pleasure in goodness, in recognizing it and emulating it.  All virtue is held in fief to the virtuous overlord.  Infraction is not a mere case of denying sovereignty (I say mere): it is a break with holiness itself.  It is a most awful, cowardly, mealy, despicable action, the greatest insult against the greatest good.  It is (and this is the really clever part) the most unmanly action a man has ever done.

It must follow logically that the infraction is seen in the light of the object insulted: if the object is of an infinite goodness, requiring infinite respect, then the offense if of an infinite quality as well.  If the overlord cannot but execute holy justice (which he cannot: there is no other justice that he can show), the punishment meted out on the offender will be equal to the crime, to the offended party, and will (and must) satisfy the overlord's virtue of justice.  It would be wrong in him (mark the preposition!) to do otherwise.  And the overlord cannot do otherwise.  He cannot turn a blind eye; he cannot say "there, there, let's be friends again: pax."  As a quality of holiness justice must be done.

I hope it follows then that punishment of rebellious men is not a bad thing.  If you allow the notion that punishment of evil is in itself evil you let in the notion that God is evil.  If you let in that notion, there is no goodness in all the earth, in all of heaven, in all of time: there is no hope, there is no light: all is arbitrary and mere whim on the part of a deity we should rather fear than love.  If justice is a virtue and rebellion is evil, punishment of rebellion must be good.

I do not say that it is pleasant.  This is the great struggle of the saints.  It is awful to think of a human being suffering infinitely the infinite punishment of his infinite infraction against someone infinitely sovereign and infinitely holy.  It is that awful thought which urges those who proclaim the gospel to "Repent and believe!" for the kingdom of God is at hand.  The hour to repent our rebellion is now for the time is imminent in which we must pay back the infinite debt we owe.  It is no light matter.  But if we give ground concerning the lawful necessity of justice we rip out a major bulwark of reality.  (The more I study him, the more I find that if you deny any one virtue in God you deny it just as much in man and moral foundations begin to crumble: if you pluck a single thread in a whole stocking, the whole stocking unravels.)

As far as damnation itself goes, I will not deny that it is a terrible thing.  The wrath of God is just and awful.  But it is never excessive, and by it two attributes of God's virtue are brought to light to be experienced and appreciated by men: his justice, but also his mercy.  The wicked and unrepentant pay the penalty for their rebellion to the exact measure and honour (without wanting to do so) God's justice.  The repentant and the righteous, having thrown themselves upon the merit of someone else's payment, become living images of God's mercy.  God does not stop with merely exhibiting his justice: he has other virtues to show and teach us.

To understand justice and justification in an overarching sense one has to go back to Paul.  In Romans 5 (I highly-as-heaven suggest reading the whole letter) he tackles the subject of Eden and Gethsemane and why original sin exists and why any of us can have any hope in Christ.  Not a lot of people like the doctrine of original sin, but the truth of the matter is that, if you axe original sin, you've just axed your own hope of salvation.  The doctrine behind the doctrine is that of federal headship, that when Adam our forefather stood the test in the Garden of Eden we were counted (not magically or whimsically, but by virtue of God's design of reality) in him, so that we stood or fell with him.  He fell, and his sin passed down and down to every generation and we all imitated his sin after him.  In the same way - or in the ultimate way - when Jesus stood the very same test in the Garden of Gethsemane and passed it, and offered his pure life a ransom for the lives of many sinful, all who were subsequently born in him share in his righteousness.  By virtue of his act all men in him are vindicated.  Justice has been met.  It is not a case of a man simply naming the name of Jesus Christ and God, pleased as a parent might be that an infant said "Da-Da," calls off the whole damnation deal.  Legally, justice has been met.  The debt is not merely stricken from the books, it has been paid in full. 

The damnation of the wicked and the death of his son are exhibitions of his justice.  The offering of his son and his righteousness imputed to us are a triumphal parade of his mercy and grace.  In nothing that he does is God ever not good, can he ever not be praised.  I do not say that it will always be pleasant, or that, from a man's view, it may always seem fair, but the more righteousness is worked in us the more we will see what is right and true and what is not.

"I'm longing to see him," said Peter, "even if I do feel frightened when it comes to the point."

"We Defy Augury."

"The readiness is all."
Hamlet

While on my trip I learned a very useful skill: writing on the run.  My five-and-a-half by three-and-a-half inch Moleskin notebook (of a lime green hue) doesn't give me a lot of bulk to counteract any joggling that comes from being on the run, but I despise writing sloppily and I needed to write, so I learned pretty quickly how to filter out the craze of New York and Boston and hone in on Plenilune, and manage such tolerably good handwriting that my notebook was once taken from me and exhibited to several members of the class who (evidently - I wasn't privy to any facts) have large, messy handwriting as an example of what handwriting in notebooks ought to be.  (I might have felt more pleased about this if I hadn't been yanked out of an otherwise fascinating imaginary world into the stark, breathless bustle of Boylston Street.)  So, while I have been gone for almost two weeks, I have been writing.  What is a world without pen and paper?  I submit that it is an unhappy world.


“Oh, you’ve done very well with her.”  Skander’s tone was both sincere and bitingly caustic.  “She looked beautiful this evening—charming, assured—in that red gown she looked like a goddess.”
Plenilune 

Most of all she hated herself.  She, the victim, had been thrown into this world of crowns as a bone to be squabbled over, a pawn to be moved, a woman to be coddled, a slave to be prodded, a curse to be averted, a fate to thwart.
Plenilune

"Did you think you could play this game with us?  You are no match for my family or the quarrels that may arise among us."
Plenilune

Night had fallen low over the land.  It seemed to have heaped up so heavily in the sky that it was sinking under its own weight, groaning lower and lower over the fells.  She sat wrapped in a fine surcoat of doeskin and ermine, for the summer night was growing chill and the hushing rush of wind in the rowan-wood bore portents of rain, and watched the dark moth-wing dusk gather about them and the firefly-lights spring out of the black.
Plenilune

The old spark flashed into his face.  “You come upon a man in the dead of night like a vision, and expect a cool reply?  You might let a man collect his wits once you have dashed them out of his hands.”
Plenilune

Rupert was looking off another way: his voice came muffledly: “You know Mark Roy.  Those were Aikin Ironside and Brand, his sons.  Aikin is much like Centurion in temperament—I do not trust him, though his blade is quick to bite deep.  Brand—” Rupert looked round and peered, too, into the gloom after them to where they stood in the ring that was forming round the piles of wood.  “Brand has high sentiment and a short temper.  He knows how to be violent.  He may make a good friend.”
Plenilune

“Centurion of Darkling-law,” said the blue-jay man, leaning close; “politely behind Bloodburn though he has rights enough to be first.  He is a good man, Centurion, and a seasoned warrior.” 
“Is that the measure of a man?” asked Margaret with a faint edge in her voice.
Plenilune

They opened in a blaze of glory.  There was a crack and a shock and an arch of light—from which, Margaret could not quite tell—and the two were at it with a passion, hurling spells and casting spells aside to left and right, filling the air with windblown sparks...  They were fantastic and terrible, and not altogether safe, to watch.  The elements and the full fire of wrath whirled from their hands at each other with the deftness of a juggler whirling his golden balls, but the backwash could be blinding and sometimes blows were cast wide.
Plenilune

Margaret did not remember getting to her feet.  At one moment she was seated on the edge of the bed, turned sidewise to see Aikaterine’s face, and the next she was standing before the maid, looking just a little downward into the other’s face, with her forefingers resting heavily on the white-clad shoulders.  She could feel the collar bone sharp beneath her fingertips and, at odd, punctuated moments, the soft throb of blood beneath the skin.  But it was the eyes she looked into, the almond-coloured, dark-spangled eyes that looked back demurely into her own.  There was no fear in them, but there was, perhaps, little hope, too. 
Plenilune

 “I’m not a man of lies—only passing good looks.”
Plenilune