God Transforms

You have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God. (Colossians 3:3, italics added)

Though these are only a few of the Bible passages that describe the Christian as one who is “in Christ,” they were enough to show Carey that perhaps his assumption was wrong. He said to me, “I’ve never even thought about Christ being in me.” I have since discovered that most Christians haven’t.

Once Carey saw, and was convinced, that the New Testament teaches repeatedly that Christ dwells in Christians, his next question was direct and to the point. He asked, “What does it mean to be in Christ?” To answer that, he and I began examining one verse in greater detail: “If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!” (2 Corinthians 5:17, italics added).

Carey raised a few question based on this passage: “How did God do this? What exactly is a ‘new creation,’ and what difference does that make in our lives?”

I replied, “You know how a butterfly becomes a butterfly, I’m sure. That’s a pretty good analogy. The butterfly was once a caterpillar, a worm. It could only crawl, and could not fly. But it goes into a cocoon—a chrysalis, in which the root word, appropriately, is ‘Christ.’ And it emerges a butterfly, completely transformed. The old has passed. The new has arrived. It was once weighed down by gravity; now it can fly. Christians were once under the reign of sin, but now we can live in freedom.”

“I really like that analogy, Jim,” he said. “I think I understand it.”

“And can you also see why it’s so painful to me that so many Christians don’t understand this? When I hear a Christian say, ‘I’m just a sinner saved by grace,’ I want to say, ‘That makes as much sense as a butterfly saying, “I’m just a worm with wings.” ’ ”

Describe your level of awareness that Christ’s life in you is the key to your Christian identity.

We both chuckled. Then I concluded, “As a Christ-follower, you are completely reconciled to God. God is no longer dealing with you on the basis of your sin. You are forgiven forever. You’re also a completely new creation—your old nature has died, and now you have been made alive with Christ. Finally, you’re never going to die. Jesus defeated death by rising again, and he has imparted that new, eternal life to you. You are a completely new person who is able to experience heaven now and will be fully glorified on your final breath in this life. That seems like a good and beautiful gift, which could only come from a good and beautiful God.”

“I totally understand what you’re saying. But help me understand why I still struggle with sin. Why would a butterfly want to act like a worm?” Carey asked.

In Christ we have been raised up with Jesus to new life. We have been given a new identity—one in which Christ dwells. We have received the indwelling Holy Spirit. We have put on Christ (Colossians 3:10). Our citizenship is now in heaven. Our spirit now cries “Abba! Father!” as a beloved child of God (Romans 8:15). However, even though we have become new people spiritually, we still live in our old self’s body, which contains the remnants of sin. We still have our old narratives, our old memories and our old habits. We still live in a world that stands diametrically opposed to the truth of God. This is why we struggle3 with sin even after we’re regenerated.

The Bible describes this as a conflict of the Spirit against the flesh. The word flesh (Greek sarx)4 refers to living apart from God. Sarx is what I produce when I am disconnected to God and running on my own. Paul writes, “What the flesh desires is opposed to the Spirit, and what the Spirit desires is opposed to the flesh; for these are opposed to each other, to prevent you from doing what you want” (Galatians 5:17). Paul was writing to regenerate Christians, people “in whom Christ dwells.” The battle between sarx and Spirit5 does not end when we come up from the waters of baptism—in fact, that is precisely when it begins.

John Wesley, founder of the Methodist movement, states the situation this way: “Every babe in Christ is holy6, and yet not altogether so. He is saved from sin; yet not entirely: It remains, though it does not reign. . . . We are ‘reconciled to God through the blood of the cross:’ And in that moment . . . the flesh has no more dominion over us.” The Reformer John Calvin writes similarly, “For so long as we remain7 cooped up in this prison of our body, traces of sin will dwell in us; but if we faithfully hold fast to the promise given us by God in baptism, they shall not dominate or rule.”

In this life traces of sin are still with us. We are

inseparably linked to our unredeemed flesh8. Our bodies are mortal. Not just the bones and muscles, glands and senses, but mind and emotion as well. That vast, unbelievably intricate, electronic, chemical complex which is culturally, genetically, diabolically (at times), geographically, and pathologically- influenced mortality.

We do not have to be controlled by sarx, but we are susceptible to its demands when we are disconnected from Christ. Repeated sinful acts result from needs that long to be satisfied and cannot. We—who are no longer under sin (Romans 6:14)—nonetheless turn to sin to find what we feel is missing.

This is important because many Christians, like Carey, are stunned by their capacity to sin after their conversion. While sin is not actually normative before conversion (even the unregenerate don’t say about sin, “Hey, that was really life-enhancing!”), sin after conversion is even more disconcerting. If we are aware of and expect this conflict, it will help us deal with it; we won’t be surprised. Being forewarned will help us be forearmed.

Explain how, even though sin remains in the Christian, its power has been broken and it must not reign.

John Wesley said that in order to be on guard against sin, we must be aware that its remnants remain. The false notion that we’re immune to sin, Wesley taught, “cuts off all watching9 against our evil nature, against the Delilah which we are told is gone, though she is still lying on our bosom. It tears away the shield of weak believers, deprives them of their faith, and so leaves them exposed to all the assaults of the world, the flesh, and the devil.” Of course, the best way to prevent the temptation from defeating us is to cling to the indwelling Christ. Jesus said we need to abide in him.

Because I am now a new person, a new creation, I also must live a new way. As one indwelt by Jesus, I can now live as Jesus did: in utter dependence on God, in a deep and intimate relationship with him, fully relying on God—not my willpower—to live the Christian life. Jesus used the image of a vine and its branches to describe this new way of living:

Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me. I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing. (John 15:4-5)

Jesus (the vine) is the life force that flows into us (the branches), thus producing fruit (love, joy, peace, etc. [Galatians 5:22]). Cut off from the vine, the branches cannot produce fruit. The power of production is not in the branch just as the power to live the Christian life is not in us. In fact, apart from Jesus, we can do nothing.

That’s why Paul said, “I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me” (Galatians 2:20 KJV). When we separate ourselves from Christ, his life no longer flows in us, just as the branch cut off from the vine no longer has life flowing through it. But we are actual partakers and participants in the divine nature of Christ: “he has bestowed on us the precious and very great promises, so that through them you may come to share in the divine nature” (2 Peter 1:4 NAB). I am not God (or even a god), but I have been given a new nature. My faculties have been infused with Christ’s life and power.

After I explained all of this, Carey asked, “So the key is to abide in Christ. How do we do this?”

How do we abide in Christ? Have you ever done this? How might it help you in the struggle with temptation?

I said, “To abide means to rest in and rely on Jesus, who is not outside of us, judging us, but is inside of us, empowering us. The more deeply we’re aware of our identity in Christ and his presence and power with us, the more naturally we’ll do this. We must get our narrative right and practice spiritual exercises to deepen our awareness of truth. In the end, Jesus’ way is easy. He said that his yoke was easy and his burden was light [Matthew 11:30]. Typically, we try to do what we think Jesus wants us to do—like you did with your bracelet—by your own strength. We can’t do that. But we ‘can do all things through Christ who strengthens’ us [Philippians 4:13].”

No one has stated this truth better than James S. Stewart in his classic book A Man in Christ:

“Christ in me” means10 something quite different from the weight of an impossible ideal. . . . “Christ in me” means Christ bearing me along from within, Christ the motive power that carries me on, Christ giving my whole life a wonderful poise and lift, and turning every burden into wings . . . not as something you have to bear but as something by which you are borne.

Do you know the difference between country dogs and city dogs?11 This is a wonderful illustration about our new identity in Christ and how we go about living the Christian life. Country dogs live in wide open spaces with a great deal of freedom to roam. They can go down to the creek, wrestle with a skunk, sleep in a sunny pasture or forage for food. And at first they do. But after a while the country dog stays in the same old place, day after day: on the master’s porch. The country dog has been “to Paris” as they say. He has gotten into a few scrapes and has seen the open range for what it is. Now, the country dog is content to stay near the master. After all, he may get a biscuit or a pat on the head or a belly rub.

The city dog is quite different. The city dog lives cooped up in a house and is forbidden to leave the home. The city dog has one aim: getting out! The city dog has learned when and how the doors will be opened, and how to nudge it just so in the hope of escape. The moment the door is cracked open, the city dog makes a run for it. The master may have to run after the dog or even get in the car and search the neighborhood for the fugitive, constantly yelling the dog’s name, begging it to come home. If the master sees the dog, he or she will likely have to bribe the dog with a biscuit or lasso the dog with a leash in order to get it home.

Which of the metaphors for our relationship with Christ (vine and branches, temples in whom the Spirit dwells, butterflies, or country dogs) best explains the concept of abiding in Christ and encourages you the most?

Those who approach the Christian life with a set of rules and laws and dos and don’ts are like the city dog. My experience is that many Christians feel cramped and confined, and would love to escape their rules. I know I did. Those who understand their identity in Christ are like the country dog. They know that they are not under the law, and they know that they can sin, but having sinned before, they know better. They are more content living close to the master. An Orthodox writer puts it this way: “The spiritual life is not12 a life of laws and precepts but a life of participation, affection and love, a life mingled and mixing with God.”

What I said earlier may have sounded shocking to some: Christians “can sin.” This does not mean that they ought to sin. We were not made for sin; we have died to it. But we certainly can and do sin. As Christians we are not under the law (Romans 6:14). No set of rules or lists of dos and don’ts define a Christian. And guilt is an ineffective motivator over time. But that does not mean we can do whatever we want, as Paul explains: “ ‘All things are lawful for me,’ but not all things are beneficial. ‘All things are lawful for me,’ but I will not be dominated by anything” (1 Corinthians 6:12).

I am free to make choices about what I do and do not do. But pay attention to this: Those choices should be made in light of who I am, not to determine who I am. I am one in whom Christ dwells, and that should guide my decisions. Will this activity be beneficial to me? Will that activity enslave me? These are the questions we now ask. We are now led by the Spirit, which is the secret to holiness. Understanding our true identity and acting from that is a much stronger motivator than guilt.

I said to Carey at this point, “Was watching that garbage on the television truly compatible with who you are?”

“No. Before, when I thought I was a corrupt sinner, the answer was yes. What I see now is that the person who thinks they’re a sinner may turn the TV off, but with some regret and with a desire to turn it back on. The person who knows who they are in Christ can learn to turn it off without any lingering desire.”

At that moment I knew he was getting it.

One of my favorite stories is about John of Kronstadt. He was a nineteenth-century Russian Orthodox priest at a time when alcohol abuse was rampant. None of the priests ventured out of their churches to help the people. They waited for people to come to them. John, compelled by love, went out into the streets. People said he would lift the hungover, foul-smelling people from the gutter, cradle them in his arms and say to them, “This is beneath your dignity. You were meant to house the fullness of God.” I love that phrase: you were meant to house the fullness of God. That describes you and me. Knowing that this is our true identity is the secret to walking in holiness.

Like John of Kronstadt, we can say to the broken, “Your brokenness does not define you.” You are one in whom Christ dwells. You were meant to house the fullness of God. We welcome them like the prodigal son, restoring them to their true birthright, even if they have trouble accepting it. But we offer the same message to people like Carey—the good and upright “elder brothers,” the ones who try so hard and fail. To those who struggle to be perfect, who live with a deep sense of failure and self-hatred, the message is the same: You are one in whom Christ dwells. Your glory is not in what you do, but in who you are.

Both the wounded and the legalists need to hear an even deeper paradox. It is in our weakness that God’s power is revealed. The broken feel they have nothing to offer; legalists feel their perfection is what makes them valuable. Both are wrong. We minister out of our brokenness. We heal others through our vulnerability because that is where Christ shines most brightly. Then we can offer them the one thing people most need: Jesus. Henri Nouwen writes:

The question is not:13 How many people take you seriously? How much are you going to accomplish? Can you show some results? But: Are you in love with Jesus? . . . In our world of loneliness and despair, there is an enormous need for men and women who know the heart of God; a heart that forgives, cares, reaches out and wants to heal.

I shared with Carey the truth that God’s power is made perfect not in perfection (which is an illusion and a delusion) but in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9). I encouraged him to trust that others want to know and experience the Christ that he knows, the One he discovered when he quit trying to earn his acceptance and simply received it.

In your own life, have you experienced the paradox that weakness and vulnerability allow Christ to shine most clearly? Or have you experienced it through the life of someone you know? Explain.

My friend and colleague Patrick Sehl is director of campus ministries at Friends University, where I teach. Patrick is a master of visual illustrations. Wanting to communicate the paradox of how we minister to others through our brokenness, he took a cardboard box and asked his students to “beat it up.” They punctured holes in the box, kicked it around and tore pieces off of it. Then he placed the box on a table in front of them all. Underneath the box was a light. He dimmed the house lights, and then turned on the light inside the box. He didn’t need to say any more. They all understood. The light of Jesus shines clearly through our broken places.

The New Testament approaches the Christian life by telling us who we are and whose we are, and then it encourages us to live in a manner worthy of that identity. Carey was able to understand this, and his life changed accordingly. His particular struggle was with lust, and I talked more specifically with him about that temptation—where it comes from and how it can be dealt with. But the same process works for any of our besetting sins. The second book in this series, The Good and Beautiful Life, looks specifically at those struggles, dealing head-on with anger, lust, lying, greed, worry and the like. But no matter what the vice, our identity in Christ is the foundation for dealing with them. It takes time to understand this. Old narratives are hard to change. The best approach is to keep soaking in the truth of our identity in Christ, practicing spiritual disciplines that deepen those truths and being part of a community that will reinforce those truths.

Carey came to see me a few years later. His smile never left during our conversation. He said, “I think the day I got it was when I was preparing for a trip out of town. I used to get nervous, and I would pray, ‘Lord, I don’t want to fail you again.’ But this time I had no anxiety. When I got to the hotel room, I walked to the television, closed the doors of the console and smiled. I whispered to myself, ‘I know who I am. I am a child of God. I house the fullness of God.’ I was never tempted to turn the TV on, even to watch the news. I’m not prideful. I know that sin remains, as you taught me. But it doesn’t reign anymore. I used my free time to read and to rest. I knew I could sin, and I knew that God would still love me. But I didn’t want to sin. That’s when I knew it had finally taken root in me. I never knew it could be this easy.”

He continued, “And best of all, I got the courage to share my story with some other people. I was afraid at first that I would be judged. But that’s not what happened. Instead, a lot of people came to me and asked if I would help them. Not long afterward, I started an accountability group for guys who struggle with lust. We meet weekly to encourage each other. We remind each other who we are. The changes I’ve seen are dramatic.”

God is in the business of changing names. Abram to Abraham. Saul to Paul. And he changes your name and mine: from sinner to saint, from being a person living in isolation to a person in whom Christ dwells. He takes that which is broken and mends it by his grace. And he reaches out to others through those places where his grace is most visible in us.