His Name

 It had been my intent to share this guest post for Easter, but I didn't manage to get it done. Though I'm a couple of days late, you will find it to be a worthwhile read. I pray it blesses you!

Guest post from Jason Forbus:

Greek mythology has fascinated me since childhood. By the time I read the Odyssey and tragedies like Oedipus the King in high school, I was hooked for life. Decades later, I still enjoy those stories.

What has always intrigued me about these tales, however, is the portrayal of the gods. Or, to be picky in my translation, the immortals. Yes, they were powerful and lived on Mount Olympus (mostly) and threw thunderbolts and such. But the main distinction was that they—unlike humans—didn’t die. Humans, whether pawns, playthings, or puppets, were mortal. The gods were immortal. Yet, they weren’t benevolent, all-knowing, or even good—and certainly not holy. They offered no salvation, no sharing of eternity, no place on Olympus. They didn’t even claim to create anything. They could be childish, cruel, or quite merciless. They were just bigger, stronger, and immortal versions of us.

So, as the ancients often asked: why are the gods so cruel? Well, if as immortals they cannot age and cannot die, they are immune from mortal suffering. They are immune from loss. They literally have nothing to lose. So how could they know how we feel? Or care? How could they display—or even understand—things like self-sacrifice or courage? Where’s their risk? Where are their consequences? How could they possibly relate to mortals who do have something to lose? Why would they have empathy? Or altruism? It feels a little desperate to even expect those. It’s a bleak pantheon.

Our modern minds struggle to understand that the ancients really believed in their gods. Think of it like this. Do you believe the Atlantic Ocean exists? What about the sun? The very questions sound silly. But to the ancient Greeks, the immortals were relatable embodiments of natural forces. Helios was the sun. Poseidon was the sea.

I wonder about kids in ancient Greece, in cities like Athens and Philippi, growing up hearing the same stories that I did. And how their minds must have exploded when they heard about a God who could relate to them because he suffered. And died. And actually loved them. Oh, and this God didn’t claim to be the sea. But he walked on it and calmed its storms. He didn’t claim to be the sun; he just created it and all the other stars in the heavens. With his words. As for immortality, he stayed dead for three days, then took away death’s power over mortals. And wants to share his immortality with us. What?! Again, minds must have exploded all over the ancient world.

Philippi is just a UNESCO World Heritage site now, but in the first century AD it was the first place in Europe to hear about this God named Jesus who could suffer. The Apostle Paul, the one who shared this evangelion (“good news”) in Philippi, later wrote a letter to his friends there:

 In Philippians 2:6–8: Though he was God, he did not think of equality with God as something to cling to. Instead, he gave up his divine privileges; he took the humble position of a slave and was born as a human being. When he appeared in human form, he humbled himself in obedience to God and died a criminal’s death on a cross.

And in Philippians 3:20–21:

But we are citizens of heaven, where the Lord Jesus Christ lives. And we are eagerly waiting for him to return as our Savior. He will take our weak mortal bodies and change them into glorious bodies like his own, using the same power with which he will bring everything under his control.

This Easter I celebrate and profess and worship the God who understands me—yikes!—and loves me anyway. The one who died and lives. The one who offers salvation and eternal life—with him. Where “there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.” (Revelation 21:4)

And his name is Jesus.

Photo by Hugo Fergusson on Unsplash