Putting the Law in Its Place

Chapter 7

So if this message is one of heralding in God's blessing and the fulfilment of the promise, why is it that Paul experienced opposition? Surely this is a herald of good news. Not just good news — cosmically tremendous news. Opposition to it seems odd. And yet opposition was more the rule than the exception. People's reaction to the message was very mixed. Some embraced it, others demurred, and still others were outraged.

Jesus Himself anticipated that the Kingdom of God would not be received with equal joy. Much of His teaching — from the parable of the sower to His specific warnings to His disciples about opposition — implies a mixed response to His message. He even told His disciples that they would be persecuted by people who thought they were doing God's will.

What is the reason for this opposition?

There are many answers to that question, but a common one is that people are so used to law-based behaviour that any other talk is unnerving to the point of enraging. They say the moral law is there to make us better. It is there to make us righteous. Take that away and there's nothing left. There's anarchy.

But sometimes it's more than that. It's a belief that God made the moral law, and that He gave it so we can please Him and be good enough to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. That's how we "get to heaven."

This view of the moral law has been almost universal. In our modern world, however, we just use different language for it. We say "doing good" instead of "obeying the law." People who break the law are "bad people," probably headed for judgement and hell. People who keep the moral law are "good people," who deserve God's grace and are probably headed for heaven.

It seems, to me at least, that a large percentage of people think following Jesus is simply "doing good stuff" — being a good person. Just do your best, tick the boxes, and hope that's enough. Just do what God says. Obey His law. Try your hardest. God can't ask more of you than that. And anyone who has the temerity to suggest that in this life they can expect to enjoy a future with God in the next is seen as arrogant, even blasphemous.

This is law-speak. It is salvation through obeying the law. It is the modus operandi of many, including many Christians. It is what the Galatians are succumbing to.

And it is what Paul is passionately arguing against.

He is arguing that the law does indeed have a function — but that its purpose is different from what most people think.

To make his case, Paul the teacher reaches for a pretty straightforward analogy, drawn from everyday life:

Brothers, let me put this in human terms. Even a human covenant, once it is ratified, cannot be canceled or amended. (Galatians 3:15)

OK — set up a contract. Spell out the terms. Write it up and get both parties to sign. Once it's signed, it's binding to whatever the contract said. Every day in this modern world, all sorts of contracts (or covenants) are signed and sealed. It was no different in Paul's day. Paul is talking about a human covenant or contract. It's binding — and then he adds, "so it is in this case."

What?

What "case"? What case is he referring to? Is it his current message, or some contract in the past? And where in the Scriptures was a contract ever drawn up between human beings and God? There have been quite a number where the Almighty swears by Himself. Which one does Paul mean?

The clue is that he has already mentioned Abraham, and the context suggests it is this contract the Apostle has in mind.

When Abraham met God in Genesis 12, God promised him a load of stuff — an heir, land, and blessing to the whole world:

I will bless those who bless you and curse those who curse you; and all the families of the earth will be blessed through you. (Genesis 12:3)

But flip a few chapters on, and in Genesis 15 Abraham — like most human beings — asks God for a bit more reassurance. So far, not one of the promises had been fulfilled, least of all the land.

But Abram replied, "Lord GOD, how can I know that I will possess it?" (Genesis 15:8)

So God draws up a contract — a binding covenant.

Now, I acknowledge that God did not produce a document, flip through to the page where both parties sign, take out a ballpoint pen, sign and date it, and then hand the pen to Abraham saying, "That's where you sign — right there." I admit that. But what I do want to point out is that God did the cultural equivalent, as recorded in Genesis 15. When Abraham sacrificed the animals and cut them in half, laying each side out opposite the other in a grisly path, he was setting up the equivalent of a signing ceremony. Whoever walked between the slain animals was saying, "May what happened to these animals happen to me if I do not fulfil the terms of the contract."

So how would God pass between the halved animals? How would Abraham even see it? God is invisible, right? After waiting a while — long enough for the man of faith to shoo away the birds of prey, long enough for the sun to go down —

When the sun had set and darkness had fallen, behold, a smoking firepot and a flaming torch appeared and passed between the halves of the carcasses. (Genesis 15:17)

The smoking firepot and the blazing torch arose "on their own," so to speak, and passed between the pieces. That may sound creepy to us, but it shouldn't. It was God signing on the dotted line.^[1] The promise had been finalised. The document had been signed. Nothing could alter it.

And note this from the story: Abraham was not required to do the same. This was all of God. As such it is not really a contract at all, but a covenant.

Paul now zeroes in on a single word in that promise:

The promises were spoken to Abraham and to his seed. The Scripture does not say, "and to seeds," meaning many, but "and to your seed," meaning One, who is Christ. (Galatians 3:16)

So the promise that all the world would be blessed through Abraham was not given to Abraham alone, but telescoped through history to Jesus, Abraham's seed. The whole world would be blessed because of Him.

And this promised blessing is not set aside by later events:

What I mean is this: The law that came 430 years later does not revoke the covenant previously established by God, so as to nullify the promise. (Galatians 3:17)

Which came first — the promise or the law? Duh. The promise.

So the Jewish law was set up way after the promise — over four centuries later. Yet the promise, made by God, still holds, just like a human contract that is duly established. The giving of the law does not cancel out the original promise; and, more to the point, neither does it fulfil it. It is not the expiry of the contract.

I believe this is the point the Apostle Paul would have us ponder. It is a position hardly ever articulated in our modern world, yet widely held. It is unspoken, but it is an idea held dear in people's hearts.

Down the centuries to our present day, people think the law fulfils the promise. God gave the promise to Abraham, and it is now fulfilled in the law. (And the idea may go further still — that Jesus simply helps us obey the law.) Some think, for example, that the precepts of the Sermon on the Mount are the highest moral code there is. And it has been said that if only everyone followed those precepts, the world would be set right. We would herald in the blessing. We would unlock the inheritance. So people have preached: follow God's law and receive the blessing.

"Do what's right and you will be blessed."

In one respect this has some truth. Doing the right thing generally brings, in some way, a blessing — even if it is only a clean conscience over a particular dilemma. Yet it is not The Blessing. It is not the promise given to Abraham. It is not being made right with God or being part of God's family. The law was not, and is not, the inheritance — nor do we unlock the inheritance by obeying it.

For if the inheritance depends on the law, then it no longer depends on a promise; but God freely granted it to Abraham through a promise. (Galatians 3:18)

So how does the blessing come? NOT through the law. If it did, then it would no longer depend on the promise. The blessing comes through the promise.

Why, then, was the law given at all?

Why indeed? A most excellent question.

Why then was the law given? It was added because of transgressions, until the arrival of the seed to whom the promise referred. It was administered through angels by a mediator. (Galatians 3:19)

In the film Crocodile Dundee (the first one), the main character, Mick Dundee — the loveable, laconic, weatherbeaten crocodile hunter — is asked about his relationship with God. After remarking how, as a fisherman, he is very similar to the Apostles and so can relate to them, he looks up at the sky in innocent affection and says, "Yeah, God and me. We're mates." I think that is echoed by many people in this modern age. If there is a God (and that's a big "if"), then what on earth would He have against them? They'd be mates.

Of course, someone like Mick, comparing himself to other characters, might reckon himself a pretty decent fellow. He may not be mates with everyone, but he's mates with enough people to think he's OK. But show Mick — or anyone like him — the demands of the Sermon on the Mount, with its injunctions about looking lustfully and loving your enemies, and he might chuckle and say, "Yeah, but no one can do that. We're only human."

This is when the law steps in and shows just how far short people fall. The law shows us transgression.

So the law shows us what God demands of people. It shows the standard. In this respect the law does two things. It both prevents transgression and, ultimately, causes transgression.

It prevents transgression by teaching us right from wrong. The law can, to a small extent, limit transgression. It is always better to follow God's law than not — however imperfect, and indeed hopeless, our adherence may be. We may fail continually, yet we can still learn, for example, that adultery is wrong. Not committing adultery is always better than committing it.

So if you who are evil know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask Him! (Matthew 7:11)

As evil as we are, we have the law to teach us what to do, despite how depraved we are. It is better to love our neighbour than to hate him. In fact, the law teaches us that it is wrong — wrong — to hate our neighbour (Leviticus 19:17; and see Proverbs 14:21).

So the law also shows us transgression. Previously we may have thought certain things were not wrong at all. The law comes and shows us that we are indeed wrong.

It shows that you and I — and the Mick Dundee types — are all severe law breakers. The law shows we cannot make the claim that we are mates with God.

But the law does something else. It actually causes transgression. This may seem counterintuitive, or even odd, because you would think the law is there to teach us what not to do. Yet it causes transgression because we human beings have a deep-rooted internal desire to rebel against God's law. The moment we are made aware of the injunction, we have a thought to break it. As soon as we know God's law, we start looking for ways around it.

When I was deep within one of Western Australia's tourist caves, there was a stalagmite close to the designated path. People had been asked not to touch it as they passed by, because human oils affect the formation and alter its appearance. The stalagmites in the cave were very pale — almost white — except for one. The one we were told not to touch was almost black. It was black from the number of people who had touched it. People continually broke the command despite being told not to. It was black with human touch.

Our guide laughed and said it was part of the human desire for learning and a desire for touch. That may be true, but I thought at the time that it was also a desire to do exactly what we'd been told NOT to do.

In the story of Adam and Eve, they were basically told they could do anything they liked. Anything — except eat of the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil. Anything except one thing. That's a pretty broad canvas to paint on. And what do they immediately gravitate towards? The one thing they've been told NOT to do — even though they've been warned that this action will have catastrophic consequences.

So in this way the law was given because of transgressions. It is not the inheritance, but it drives us towards it. It was given until the Seed, the one to whom the promise referred, had come.

Which brings us to another metaphor Paul will use to describe the role of the law. But first, a qualifying statement: the law, Paul says, "was administered through angels by a mediator."

The mediator Paul is referring to is the man who first received the law on Mount Sinai — Moses. He was the great prophet and leader who led the children of Israel out of Egypt, through the wilderness, and onto the edge of the Promised Land. An angel first spoke to Moses through the burning bush. When God speaks, it is often through His angelic messengers.

The point is that the law did not come directly from God (not as the promise did). It came through angels and through Moses, the mediator. Being indirect, perhaps, implies that the law — for all its greatness — is not as great as the promise. Having a mediator means there is more than one party involved. The promise, by contrast, came from the one God.

It would seem Paul is saying that the promise is, in one sense, "more pure" than the law. The promise came directly from God.

A mediator implies more than one party. But God is one.

"So hang on a minute," someone may cry, scratching his head in frustration. "This can't be true. It's madness. God is good, right? So if the law is from God, it's good, right? And now you're saying it's opposed to God's promise?"

Is the law, then, opposed to the promises of God? Certainly not! For if a law had been given that could impart life, then righteousness would certainly have come from the law. (Galatians 3:21)

No way! says Paul. Absolutely not! But all of this turns on what we think the function of the law actually is.

Is the function of the law to make people righteous?

Yes! Yes! cry us human beings. What other purpose could it serve?

But Paul disagrees. If that were the law's function, there would be a lot of righteous and just people walking around. As Paul says, if any law could have imparted life, then righteousness would certainly have come by the law.

The function of the law is not righteousness. The function of the law is to lock us up.

But the Scripture pronounces all things confined by sin, so that by faith in Jesus Christ the promise might be given to those who believe. Before this faith came, we were held in custody under the law, locked up until faith should be revealed. So the law became our guardian to lead us to Christ, that we might be justified by faith. (Galatians 3:22–24)

Why do people find this concept of the law troubling? Because it shows us the reality of our situation. We are already condemned. We are in custody. All of us. The law is a jailer who keeps us under lock and key — who does not allow us our freedom. Who cannot allow us our freedom.

One problem with this metaphor for us in the modern world is that it conjures up images of a mean, corrupt jailer who can be bribed, or who taunts us, beats us, and generally mistreats us — not unlike the characters in a Clint Eastwood movie. The sort with a streak of sadism in them.

But the character of the law is more like a noble, incorruptible jailer. Someone who doesn't want to trip us up, but who has to carry out the punishment, locking us up because that is what his job is. He does not respond to our cries in the dungeons — because he cannot.

Indeed, Paul uses the term guardian, which I think softens the image, though only a little. Guardians in the ancient world could be rough on their young charges. They were not like the benevolent Mr Brownlow, the kind benefactor to Oliver Twist. They were perfectly entitled to keep their juniors under lock and key — to discipline them and to make sure they were not spoiled. All that aside, jailer or guardian, the law locks us up.

The question is: locks us up for what? An eye for an eye? Purgatory? Karma? This is not stated outright in the passage, though it is implied. In his other writings, Paul gives a fuller answer.

Just imagine that we personify the law as a jailer, and imagine we are chained up behind the bars of a prison. We call the law over to us, and we ask him how long we are going to be in here. The law would blink at us in astonishment. And the conversation might go something like this:

"Oh, I don't think it's going to be very long."

"You mean I'm going to get out of here?"

"Definitely."

"Oh, that's so wonderful!"

"Really?"

"Yes — I can't wait to enjoy the sunshine of God's glory."

"Um — I'm sorry to tell you, but that's not going to happen."

"What do you mean?"

"Given what you've done — given who you are deep down in your very soul — you're never going to enjoy the sunshine of God's glory. Never. I should know. I'm the law."

"But you said I'd get out of here! And you're the law — you don't lie."

"That's true. But didn't anyone tell you? You're going to get out of here all right. You're on death row."

This is possibly the most misunderstood part of Paul's message in our modern world.

It is not as if somehow we ended up in jail by landing on the "Go to Jail" square on the Monopoly board of life. That things didn't work out for us, we got in with the wrong crowd, and we ended up in the clink. That the roll of life's dice didn't favour us, that we weren't privileged or blessed with opportunities — and then the law came in and said we were hopeless, that we just needed someone to give us a chance, and Jesus is that very person, offering us the "Get Out of Jail Free" card so we can skip down the board game of life, never fearing the "Go to Jail" square again.

Nor is the idea that somehow we were frittering our lives away in pleasures and trivialities, not realising there were deeper things, until the law comes in as a shock-jailer to teach us there is a better way to live — that we need to stop living superficial lives and start living lives of meaning and responsibility.

Nor is it that the custody of the law is all in our imagination — that we need only realise this is an illusion left over from past negative teaching, that talk of sin and laws is unhelpful and possibly hurtful, primitive and best discarded, and that we need to discover our true selves and tap into our tremendous potential, with Jesus helping us achieve it — the sort of victorious life the great ones of history offer us.

This is not what the Apostle is saying. He is saying something considerably more bracing than "There's something missing in my life — maybe it's Jesus," or "Just give us a break," or "Just live better," or "Tap your inner potential."

"What is the function of the law?" asks Paul. It is to show us our true position. It is to tell us that we are in spiritual prison, on death row, and that we deserve it. We have been found guilty. We have no defence we could scramble together. There is no loophole.

Yet we can be so blind to our own position — so bewitched into thinking we're not so bad — that we end up with a truly twisted view of our own spirituality. That is when the law steps in as a jailer, as a guardian, to lock us up. The law makes it crystal clear where we are. We were never skipping down the Monopoly board of life. We're on death row. There is no untapped potential. We are not the promise — despite good-hearted people trying to teach that all we need is a break.

This brings us to the central issue. It's not that we modern folk misunderstand the character of the law. We just don't want the law to be there in the first place. Some of what's in the law may strike us as OK, even sensible — but when it starts to threaten our turf, we would rather ignore it, or bypass it. We would rather say it's irrelevant in this modern world, or that it doesn't apply to us, or chuckle and say, "Yeah, but no one can do that."

Yet even as you read this, there are individuals catching the bus or the train, driving to work, walking past you in the street — people who are not Christian, who do not know Christ, who have never entered a church — and yet who feel they are in a dungeon. A dungeon to which they rightly belong. Even though they cannot articulate it, they feel God's law lying heavy upon them. They are weighed down by the chains of their sin. They feel they are on death row.^[2] Talk of discovering their potential is nauseating to them. Talk of whitewashing over their sins against God is a counsel of despair. Talk that they just "need a break" is cruelty.

They feel the jailer locking them up, with no chance of escape.

But imagine these people reading the next verse:

Now that faith has come, we are no longer under a guardian. (Galatians 3:25)

Barabbas was convicted of insurrection and murder. He was waiting in his cell with at least two others for their crucifixion while Jesus was on trial. It is highly likely their cell was not too far from the trial.

The prisoners must have heard the crowd chant, "Barabbas! Barabbas!"

One wonders if the murderer could hear his own name and tried to make sense of it. His words are not recorded for us in the Gospels — but the words of his fellow prison-mates are, spoken as they hung on their respective crosses. If Barabbas was like his fellow prisoners, it seems he did not dispute his crimes. He did not dispute his punishment. What was he thinking in the hours before his crucifixion? Pride? Regret? Or blind panic, trying to savour every last second of life?

The prison door swings open and the jailer comes in. It is time for his march up the hill to be crucified. The other two are taken out. The jailer turns to him, takes out a key, and removes his chains.

"You're free to go," says the jailer. "I don't know exactly what happened, you bandit — but it seems some other bloke has taken your place."