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In chapter 5 of his Gospel, Luke unfolds the following scene: Jesus is teaching in a crowded house, and a paralyzed man is lowered through the roof to ask for healing. Jesus answers by forgiving his sins. Shocked, the scribes and Pharisees accused Jesus of blasphemy—for who, they ask, can forgive sins but God alone? In response, Jesus heals the man’s paralysis. At this, the crowd is amazed. They glorify God, they’re filled with “awe,” and they exclaim, “Today we have seen paradoxa!” (Luke 5:26). The word paradoxa is unusual. It’s used nowhere else in the New Testament, and translations are divided as to its meaning; the ESV renders it “extraordinary,” the NIV and NASB say “remarkable,” but many others prefer “strange things” (KJV, NKJV, NRSV, ASV, WEB, YLT). Dictionaries of ancient Greek retain both positive and negative meanings and also add “paradoxical.” It seems that either the crowd as a whole was confused by what it had witnessed, not knowing exactly what to make of Jesus, or the crowd was divided, with some denigrating Jesus as a blasphemer and others praising him as a prophet of divine commission. Either way, paradoxa captures the crowd’s belief that it witnessed something supernaturally strange, unsettling, and inexplicable, something perhaps paranormal, as we might say in English. The word paradoxa therefore isn’t inherently negative, but it isn’t inherently positive either—it connotes the kind of astonishment that leaves one bewildered, wondering what the source of the paradoxa might be. Are these of demonic origin? Are they divine? Without context, who can tell? In my recent book Josephus and Jesus (read TGC’s review), I show that the ambiguous connotations of paradoxa reveal remarkable new evidence for Jesus’s miracles—evidence, moreover, that comes from an early, non-Christian writer well placed to know all about Jesus of Nazareth. Accusations Against the Source of Jesus’s Miracles First, a bit of background. The implications of paradoxa aren’t unique in the New Testament and call to mind the debates recorded in the Gospels regarding the source of Jesus’s power. They also fit with what other unbelievers accuse Jesus of doing. The Jewish Talmud claims Jesus practiced “sorcery.” The Toledot Yeshu (second to fifth centuries), a hostile Jewish biography of Jesus, presents a frankly ridiculous account of Jesus somehow obtaining the four sacred letters of God’s name, YHWH, and verbally wielding them as a power totem to raise the dead. Pagan sources echo the same and admit Jesus’s miracles, but they venture to account for them with their own spin. Perhaps, some suggest, Jesus was a kind of lesser pagan deity; or maybe, some submit, he learned the dark arts in Egypt. Celsus, a vicious second-century critic of Jesus, subscribes to the latter idea and even employs the same word found in Luke 5:26 to claim that Jesus performed paradoxa by magic. It seems that in the ancient world, Jesus’s miracles were so indisputable that both Jewish and pagan critics couldn’t deny they had occurred and instead sought all manner of explanations, however unlikely such explanations might be. Early Christians wisely replied by asking how it could be honestly maintained that Jesus’s deeds were malevolent sorcery when he preached repentance from sin, pursuing truth, and loving one’s enemies? Josephus and the ‘Paradoxa’ of Jesus But here is where new evidence for Jesus’s miracles arises. It turns out that once we’ve understood paradoxa for what they are, a compelling confirmation of Jesus’s miracles comes to light from a first-century Jewish chronicler. I speak of course of the famous historian Flavius Josephus. In the ancient world, Jesus’s miracles were so indisputable that both Jewish and pagan critics couldn’t deny they had occurred. Born in AD 37 to an eminent family, Josephus descended from high priests and kings. He received an aristocratic upbringing in Jerusalem, where he became a priest, a Pharisee, and an army general. He was astoundingly well connected: He knew two or three high priests, the leader of the Sanhedrin, and Herod Agrippa II (the last king of the Jews). As I argue in my book, Josephus even knew some of the men who attended Jesus’s trial. It so happens that Josephus also wrote about Jesus in a passage much debated by scholars. In it he claims that Jesus wrought paradoxa (Antiquities 18.63). Past scholars have rendered this term positively as in “miraculous deeds,” or “wonderful things,” or other synonymous phrasing. Such a positive understanding has been one reason that many scholars questioned the passage’s authenticity: Why would Josephus, a first-century Jewish historian, write so glowingly about Jesus? On these grounds, they conclude a later Christian scribe must have tampered with Josephus’s text to cast Jesus in a better light. But in view of the above, we see now that paradoxa aren’t obviously positive deeds; they’re instead ambiguous, potentially even negative. This, for example, is how Josephus used the term elsewhere, when he described the supernatural works of Pharaoh’s magicians in their duel with Moses. There, he wrote that the magicians conjured a paradoxon, the singular form of paradoxa. Josephus then had Moses claim that the magicians’ power wasn’t divine but only human wizardry. Josephus’s words about Pharaoh’s magicians unmistakably parallel his words about Jesus. He hence seemed to wonder whether Jesus was a magician using forbidden or illegitimate powers. Certainty of Jesus’s Miracles The implications are clear: Josephus fully acknowledged Jesus’s miraculous deeds, as other ancient non-Christians did. And this comes from a man raised in first-century Jerusalem, a man who knew those involved in Jesus’s trial, a man who went on to become one of the finest historians the ancient world ever produced. He was also perfectly ready to deny the miraculous—he laughed at the idea of certain wizards casting spells on him when he served as a general, and he unmasked false prophets and charlatans when writing his books of history—but in the case of Jesus, he didn’t claim his miracles were false, or exaggerations, or the stuff of legends. While Josephus wasn’t sure of the source for Jesus’s supernatural deeds, he was sure they happened. And we can be sure they happened too. While Josephus wasn’t sure of the source for Jesus’s supernatural deeds, he was sure they happened. Yet this conclusion that Jesus worked miracles should spur us on to a more important realization. The crucial point of Jesus’s supernatural deeds isn’t that he did them but that they testified to his divine commission, just as we saw when Jesus healed the paralyzed man and then forgave his sins. Jesus’s miracles were signs validating his more vital gospel message—they authenticated the good news of Jesus that all should repent of their sins and receive forgiveness by trusting in him. Although Jesus’s miraculous deeds were great and awesome, they were only waymarks guiding us along the pathway of mercy on which all the forgiven walk with the Lord. Thus, Jesus healed the paralyzed man in body, and then the man walked before Jesus. But the greater miracle was that Jesus also forgave that man in spirit, and now the man walks with Jesus forever. Jesus will do the same greater miracle for you. Will you walk with him?

If you’re familiar with Romans 7, you probably know the passage either for the abject misery and debilitating condition of “the wretched man” (v. 24) or for the debate over that individual’s identity. Just who is this person who is “of the flesh” (v. 14), whose flesh doesn’t contain what’s good (v. 18), and whose body is both a war zone and a death zone (vv. 23–24)? Some say it’s Paul the apostle. Others say it’s Paul the Pharisee (or someone else in bondage to sin and the law). Too often overlooked in the heat of the debate is the apostle Paul’s pastoral purpose that lies behind the lament. John Newton is of particular help in remedying that neglect. He shows us how it’s in our sorrow that God gives us his comfort and joy, and in our disability that he provides his all-sufficient strength. Letter to a Troubled Friend Newton is best known as the converted slave trader who wrote the hymn “Amazing Grace” in 1772. But he was also a loving pastor who wrote many letters full of wise and sensitive pastoral counsel. A letter addressed to Mrs. Wilberforce, from July 1764, gives a window into how John Newton understood and applied Romans 7: Lastly, it is by the experience of these evils within ourselves, and by feeling our utter insufficiency, either to perform duty, or to withstand our enemies, that the Lord takes occasion to show us the suitableness, the sufficiency, the freeness, the unchangeableness of his power and grace. This is the inference St. Paul draws from his complaint, Rom. vii. 25, and he learnt it upon a trying occasion from the Lord’s own mouth, 2 Cor. xii. 8, 9. Let us, then, dear madam, be thankful and cheerful, and, while we take shame to ourselves, let us glorify God, by giving Jesus the honour due to his name. Though we are poor, He is rich; though we are weak, He is strong; though we have nothing, He possesses all things. Newton’s Incisive Interpretation Newton understands Romans 7 to be the apostle Paul’s confession—applicable to all Christian believers—of his “utter insufficiency” to live dutifully or to withstand his enemies. He sees this insufficiency as total. We are “poor” and “weak,” and we “have nothing.” It’s in our sorrow that God gives us his comfort and joy, and in our disability that he provides his all-sufficient strength. That’s interesting, since observing the grim extent of the speaker’s condition leads many interpreters to conclude that the “I” of Romans 7 can’t possibly be Paul the apostle. But Newton draws a parallel between what Paul confesses in Romans 7 and what he learned in 2 Corinthians 12. In the latter passage, Paul pleads three times for God to remove a painful thorn from his flesh, but God chooses to keep it there to prevent Paul from becoming conceited (vv. 7–8). Instead, the Lord assures Paul with these words: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (v. 9). God doesn’t equip and empower Paul by removing Paul’s weakness but by perfecting his own divine strength in Paul’s weakness. Or as Paul summarizes, “When I am weak, then I am strong” (v. 10). According to Newton, Paul presents the same dynamic in Romans 7. Paul’s total inability is the context within which the Lord makes the sufficiency of his power and grace known to Paul and other believers like Mrs. Wilberforce. Paul confesses an innate inability, an incapacity to please God. But though in himself he’s unable to do good, in Christ he experiences “the suitableness, the sufficiency, the freeness . . . of [God’s] power and grace” (for which he gives thanks in verse 25). As Newton puts it to Mrs. Wilberforce, “Though we are poor, He is rich; though we are weak, He is strong; though we have nothing, He possesses all things.” Newton’s Pastoral Application It’s clear that Newton is writing because Mrs. Wilberforce is troubled by her sin. But he says that though our grief for sin “cannot be too great,” it “may be under a wrong direction.” The wrong direction he warns against is turning in on ourselves. Instead, as Newton instructs, our spiritual poverty is the very occasion and context in which we experience the Lord’s grace and power. And that’s cause for being “thankful and cheerful” and giving honour and praise to Jesus. In a different letter, writing to Lord Dartmouth, Newton speaks of the believer experiencing “a law in his members warring against the law in his mind,” a clear allusion to Romans 7. But by such painful self-knowledge, he is “weaned more from self, and taught more highly to prize and more absolutely to rely on him, who is appointed to us of God, Wisdom, Righteousness, Sanctification, and Redemption.” That’s how Newton sees the weak-but-strong, unable-but-enabled dynamic working in practice. Incapable and helpless in ourselves, we learn more and more to distrust ourselves and to rely on Christ, who provides all we need. Knowing how helpless and incapable we are in ourselves takes us out of ourselves and into Christ, and thus leads to joy. Knowing how helpless and incapable we are in ourselves takes us out of ourselves and into Christ, and thus leads to joy. Therefore, the wise pastor Newton doesn’t tell the distressed believer that God has made her able and strong to resist sin’s power. He tells her that if she relies on Jesus, his strength and his grace will be sufficient. God doesn’t put us in possession of a new spiritual power. He puts us in the loving possession of Jesus (Rom. 7:4), on whose power and grace we continually rely by faith. Do you see the difference? Can you see how feeling within ourselves our incapacity both feeds humility and fuels faith? “We should be better pleased, perhaps”—as Newton puts it in a later letter to Lord Dartmouth—“to be set up with a stock or sufficiency at once, such an inherent portion of wisdom and power, as we might depend upon.” Instead, “His own glory is most displayed, and our safety best secured, by keeping us quite poor and empty in ourselves, and supplying us from one minute to another, according to our need.” Just as the sun’s crepuscular rays pierce through dark clouds and delight us with their glory and grace, so God’s grace in Christ only becomes sweeter the darker our hearts appear.

the racket continues

Read the original post "Sweet Potato Muffins" on A Modern Homestead. These Sweet Potato Muffins are a breakfast you can feel good about serving on a regular basis! Naturally sweetened, packed with fresh sweet potatoes, cinnamon, and a bit of dark chocolate, your whole family will love this recipe! Make it with einkorn flour or any all-purpose wheat. I love having easy breakfast options in the... Read More The post "Sweet Potato Muffins" appeared first on A Modern Homestead.