I don’t like social-media-fueled Christian controversies. Much of the hand-wringing feels overwrought, much ado about nothing. Or worse, it’s full of people capitalizing on someone’s missteps in order to elevate their own voice or promote their own brand.
That’s how I felt when Christian “Twitter” exploded over John Mark Comer’s comments about a book he had read on the atonement. He humbly retracted his original post as carelessly worded, added his criticisms and concerns about the book, and clarified his own views on the subject. It was beautiful and inspiring. Would that all public figures would be as gracious.
I’m not going to link to any of that or post screenshots of his comments. I have no interest in leeching off the brief online controversy. Some time I’ll post about why I think virtually every online Christian skirmish is off on the wrong foot from the start. [Hint: it has nothing to do with being nicer and everything to do with a methodological flaw.]
For this post, I’d like to go beyond the outrage, mischaracterization, and misunderstanding to three questions underneath it that animated the “conversation”…
1. Why did Jesus die?
The topic sparked so much heat because of how important our view of the cross really is. Why did Jesus die?
I think the Nicene Creed can help us.
For all the atonement theories and human attempts—and there are many fruitful metaphors and paradigms—at understanding the meaning of the cross, we cannot move beyond the core of early Christian confession.
The Nicene Creed answers the question by answering the question that comes logically prior: Why did Jesus come?
The Creed says is simply and profoundly:
“For us and for our salvation, he come down from heaven…”
What was the goal of the incarnation?
He did this for us and for our salvation…
Now we must begin to connect these two things: us and our salvation. Christ’s coming and Christ’s death were for us and for our salvation. This salvation for which Christ came was attained through the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ…For all the atonement theories and human attempts—and there are many fruitful metaphors and paradigms—at understanding the meaning of the cross, we cannot move beyond the core of early Christian confession. A couple of centuries before the Council of Nicaea, Paul wrote to the Corinthians about a kind of early “rule of faith,” a sort of proto-confession. I passed on to you as most important what I also received: Christ died for our sins in line with the scriptures, he was buried, and he rose on the third day in line with the scriptures. (1 Cor 15:3–4)
Why do we need salvation? What did we need saving from? The way this verse puts it, Jesus died for our sins—for all our failures and fractures, for all the ways we have sinned against God and against each other.
2. What is sin, actually?
In our culture, “sin” can sound antiquated—maybe even embarrassing. But think about how, in our world, we do have ways of naming when something has gone terribly wrong. Cancel culture, for example, is all about calling out violations so severe that they deserve relational death. That’s just a modern echo of what Christians mean by sin: a breach, a breakdown in trust, a rupture—whether between us and God, or us and one another. “Sin” simply gives us a name for what we all feel and experience.
I recently read an essay by a woman who came to faith while studying at Oxford. She described how, in our era of dating apps, endless options, and “self-made morality,” people are exhausted. We’re desperate for a stronger word than “I don’t like it” to name what feels deeply wrong. For many—both inside and outside the church—“sin” is making a comeback, not to shame but to relieve: to finally have a word strong enough for what ails us.
The Bible gives us more than one image for sin. Sometimes we imagine sin as simply “behaving badly,” as if God’s a cosmic referee waiting to throw a flag for every infraction. But it’s more than that.
First, sin is dominion—it’s a power that sits over us like a Pharaoh holding people in slavery. That’s why the Gospels link Jesus’ death to Passover: sin requires deliverance.
Second, sin is a decision—we cooperate with it. We’re not just innocent victims. We repeat the sin of turning from God in our own lives.
Third, sin is a contagion—it spreads, like a virus. Adam and Eve may have been “patient zero”, but now the infection is universal. We didn’t just inherit a problem; we spread it, too. It divides and isolates us, driving wedges between people from the very beginning of the story.
If sin is a dominion, we need rescue.
If sin is a decision, we need forgiveness.
If it’s a contagion, we need healing.
Jesus’ death on the cross provides all three. He frees us; He forgives us; and He heals us.
[This is an AI-assisted summary of some of the talking points in this clip below from a series at Rockharbor called “Objection”. Check out other clips and the whole series at Rockharbor’s YouTube channel.]
This is far from all that needs to be said about the atonement. It is really only the starting point. Christ’s death is substitutionary. In fact, the substitutionary aspect is central. (More on this in this excellent book I read earlier this year.)
It’s because Christ died for us— on our behalf and in our place— that He dealt with the penalty of sin and the power of Sin, forgiving us, freeing us, and healing us.
3. Who is this for?
Salvation is not the only focus on the incarnation and the cross in the Creed. Embarrassingly, you are too. All this— the coming down from heaven, the going to cross and dying, the burial, and the resurrection— was “for us”, for you. In fact, the early Christians went on to repeat it by saying that he was crucified “for our sake”. Twice in two sentences, we are told that this was for us, for you.
But who is the “us”? There’s a voice in our heads that quickly disqualifies us. “Sure, that might be you, but it’s probably not me.”
I find it significant that the early Christians who wrote the words of the Creed mention two names in this stanza on Jesus. These two human names are the only human names in the entire confession of faith…
For us and for our salvation he came down from heaven: by the power of the Holy Spirit he became incarnate from the Virgin Mary, and was made man. For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered death and was buried.
Mary and Pilate. The peasant girl and the politician. The powerless and the powerful. The oppressed and the oppressor. The lowly and the mighty. The humble and the proud. Certainly, they play different roles in the story, yet both are named here. Mary is venerated ever so slightly with the adjective Virgin, emphasizing the miraculous nature of her pregnancy. But Pilate is not vilified. I wonder if it’s because the early Christians, watching even Constantine slowly turning toward faith, held out hope that anyone could be saved, no matter their associations or past or wickedness or status.
From the low to the highest of the high, and for everyone in between, Jesus came. This is the “us” in the “for us.”
…There is no virtue that earns the gift of Jesus Christ, and there is no wickedness that disqualifies us from receiving Him. It was for us—all of us—that He came.
Excerpts are from my book on the beautiful vision of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit found in the Nicene Creed and how it be a purifier for our faith and a unifier for the church.
I hope the publicity leads people to actually read Andrew Rillera’s book, it’s well worth checking out.