The Gospel

“In the beginning, God . . .” (Gen. 1:1). The Bible opens with history’s most basic statement about reality.

God created, sustains, and rules everything that exists. Contrary to cultural misconceptions, he’s not Santa in the sky, nor a cosmic vending machine, nor an irritable drill sergeant, nor a deadbeat dad. He is the King of glory and the Lord of love. He’s an eternal community of persons, a Father loving his Son in the joy of the Holy Spirit. And because this loving and joyful God is Trinity—one God forever existing in three persons—love is at the heart of the universe.

This triune God made humanity—you and me—in his image to know and enjoy his love. We were made by God (which means he alone owns us) and for God (which means he alone satisfies us). Human beings were custom-designed to find meaning and fulfillment and life in our Creator above all else—above success, above popularity, above recreation, above romance, above self.

Is that the story of your life—being totally satisfied in your Maker and treasuring him above everything? It certainly isn’t the story of mine.

What happened?

We look for love in all the wrong places because something has gone terribly wrong in our hearts. This echoes what happened when our first parents, Adam and Eve, turned their backs on God and chose to call the shots themselves, fracturing his creation and plunging his image-bearers into an ocean of sin. Instead of living for our Maker, we live for ourselves. The tentacles of sin have deformed our hearts and disordered our loves. Every one of us has rebelled, by both nature and choice, against the Lord of love.

It’s easy to think of sin as a relatively minor thing—outward naughtiness perhaps, or a kind of heavenly parking ticket. But when the Bible talks about sin, it’s talking about “cosmic treason”—an insurrection against heaven itself.

It’s vital we grasp two truths about the nature of sin:

Sin is more relational than behavioral.

When Adam and Eve rebelled against God, it wasn’t just a behavioral boo-boo; it was a heart-level betrayal. We’ve cheated on our Maker, which is why Israel’s sin in the Old Testament is so often cast in terms of spiritual adultery. We’ve desperately sought to build our lives around other things—anything but him. We’ve taken good gifts and turned them into stand-ins for the Giver.

Sin is more vertical than horizontal.

Though its horizontal effects are devastating, sin is fundamentally a vertical problem. David, the “man after [God’s] own heart” (1 Sam. 13:14) confesses well the predicament of us all: “For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight” (Ps. 51:3–4; cf. Gen. 39:9; Luke 15:21).

But it gets worse. Ponder this: the result of our me-ism and idolatry is nothing less than a catastrophic chasm between us and God. “Your iniquities have made a separation between you and your God,” the prophet Isaiah declares, “and your sins have hidden his face from you so that he does not hear” (Isa. 59:2). We’ve bucked God’s design for us, his image-bearers, and so we’re severed from the ultimate Source of life and love. And when we die, it’s time for justice: “It is appointed for man to die once, and after that comes judgment” (Heb. 9:27).

As a result of our sin, we’re justly under God’s wrath—his holy and settled opposition to evil. “If God is for us, who can be against us?” Paul asks believers (Rom. 8:31). But the reverse, for those outside of Christ, is also true: If God is against you, who can be for you?

In grasping the gospel, then, how good do you have to be to enter heaven? Here’s the staggering answer: as good as God. Only persons whom God considers perfect can live with him forever.

This need for moral perfection, of course, is everlastingly bad news. Left to our own merit, we’re standing on the precipice of a hopeless future in hell—not just God’s absence, but the presence of his right and good justice.

Here’s how Paul explains it to the Ephesians:

“You were dead in the trespasses and sins in which you once walked, following the course of this world, following the prince of the power of the air, the spirit that is now at work in the sons of disobedience—among whom we all once lived in the passions of our flesh, carrying out the desires of the body and the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, like the rest of mankind.” (Eph. 2:1–3)

Instead of the credits rolling, though, Paul continues: “But . . .”

Have you ever thought about the fact that your entire eternity hangs on this one little word?

Something happened in history to change the trajectory for those who rely on Jesus for salvation, and here’s the decisive “but”: “But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ—by grace you have been saved” (Eph. 2:4–5).

After centuries of rebellion by God’s people, God’s Son—the second person of the eternal Trinity—became an embryo, a baby, a teenager, a man. We couldn’t get to God, so God came to us (Heb. 2:14–15). For 33 years, the carpenter from Nazareth lived a life of uninterrupted devotion and obedience to his heavenly Father. He prayed a lot of prayers but never once a prayer of confession, because he never had any sin to confess.

Jesus lived the life of moral perfection that Adam failed to live, that Israel failed to live, and that you and I have failed to live.

Israel’s long-awaited Messiah became “obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross” (Phil. 2:8). The One who made the law kept it and then died for those who had broken it. The law-maker became the law-keeper and died in the place of law-breakers.

We’ve now reached the white-hot center of the Christian faith: the death of Jesus Christ. On the cross, God punished his Son, who is perfect, for the sins of those who are not.

But that’s not the only thing that occurred. If all God did was cancel our sin, that would have simply brought us back to zero. But on the cross, Jesus didn’t just absorb our sin; he also gave believers his perfect righteousness, certified by his empty tomb (Rom. 4:23–25). In the eyes of a holy God, it’s now as if we’ve done nothing to offend him and everything to please him.

Paul puts it like this, referring to Christ: “[God] made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Cor. 5:21). On the cross, God treated Christ as if he had lived a believer’s sinful life so he could treat us as if we’d lived Christ’s spotless life. No wonder theologians call this “the sweet exchange.”

What does this mean practically as we grasp the gospel for ourselves and others? Well, in the words of the Puritan Richard Sibbes, “There is more mercy in Christ than sin in us.” No matter who you are or what you’ve done, hear the magnificent news: there is more mercy in Jesus than sin in you.

In our cultural moment, it’s vital to grasp that Jesus didn’t die merely to boost our self-esteem or to set a moral example. Such a perspective, however well-meaning, domesticates what he did. He stooped to take our place on the cross because we scramble to take his place on the throne.

And yet we must be careful not to leave Jesus hanging on the cross.

After his death, his brutalized corpse was placed in a “secure” tomb (Matt. 27:65–66), never to be heard from again. Except, he was heard from again—because the power of death could not suppress the Author of life (Acts 2:24; cf. 3:15). And so, as he’d promised, on the third day he exited the tomb.

The resurrection isn’t an “add-on” to the gospel story—because without it, there’s no gospel story. In raising Jesus from the dead, God was publicly affirming that his sacrifice on the cross had been accepted, a just and complete payment for sin. If on Good Friday redemption’s check was signed, on Easter Sunday the check cleared.

And one day, this same Jesus—who died and rose and ascended to heaven and intercedes for his people—is going to make a comeback. Those who haven’t trusted him will receive justice; those who have will receive mercy. Our ultimate hope as Christians isn’t evacuation from this earth but the restoration of this earth. God’s redeemed people will inherit a remade world, unmarred by the scourge of sin. This is why the Scriptures portray our future home in concrete, material terms—“new heavens and a new earth” (Isa. 65:17; cf. 2 Pet. 3:13; Rev. 21:1–4). Contrary to popular belief, we won’t be floating around playing golden harps with chubby angels. We’ll be running and working and playing and singing and laughing and resting and reveling in the endless wonders of our good and beautiful God.

When you pass through a highway toll and interact with the person in the booth, is it a meaningful experience? Not exactly. It’s a business transaction: you pay the money; he raises the bar. You do your part; he does his.

Becoming a Christian is not like this. It’s not a cold transaction. It’s more like getting married—an intensely personal union. You throw yourself on Jesus for mercy; he catches you and never lets go.

So, as we grasp this gospel, here’s the most important question you could ask: What must I do to be right with God?

Turn

First, we turn from sin. We’re skilled at confessing the evil of others, but we should be most devastated by our own. This is the meaning of repentance—changing your mind and doing an about-face, a 180-degree pivot from living for yourself.

Trust

Second, we trust Jesus Christ. We say “no” to sin and “yes” to him, embracing what he has accomplished for us and his invincible promise to forgive. Repentance and faith, after all, are two sides of the same coin.

Treasure

We also treasure Jesus. Technically, this isn’t a third step—it’s the outcome of the second. But it’s worth spelling out because many “accept” Christ the way one accepts, say, a root canal. Grasping the gospel, though, entails embracing Jesus as Lord and Savior and Treasure.

What this means, among other things, is that Jesus Christ is infinitely more than a get-out-of-hell-free pass. He’s a living person to follow, worship, cherish, and enjoy. Knowing him is the only way to be restored to a right relationship with the God for whom we were made (John 14:6; 17:3). Through him we can experience the joy of forgiveness, the help of the Holy Spirit, and the hope of the world to come.

No person is saved by getting baptized, going to church, reposting Christian sentiments, praying a prayer, signing a card, walking an aisle, or throwing a pinecone into the fire at summer camp. The critical question facing each of us blows right past everything outward, for it’s laser-aimed at the heart: Are you, right now, relying on Jesus alone for your standing before God?

This is the greatest story ever told—and anybody can get in on it.