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Ask God to give you a heart of compassion toward those in physical and spiritual need.

In Romans 6, Paul reminds believers in Rome of their union with Christ: “If we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his” (v. 5). What does Paul mean? How does he understand being united with Christ to practically affect the Christian life? To many of us, the apostle’s words seem mysterious and obscure. So it’s not surprising the question of this union has been taken up in theological discussion. Michael Gorman believes “union with Christ” points the way to more faithful and “cruciform” Christian living. Ben Blackwell says “cruciformity” entails a form of mutual indwelling he calls “Christosis.” Still others, following Tuomo Mannermaa, have made overtures to the Eastern Orthodox Church’s doctrine of “theosis.” How do we evaluate these views before the Scriptures? According to Paul, what does “union with Christ” entail? 1. Union with Christ presupposes his incarnation. When Paul says we’ve been united to Christ, he presupposes the incarnation. This union is predicated on God sending his Son “in the likeness of sinful flesh and for sin” (Rom. 8:3). It’s immediately clear our union isn’t based on our seeking Christ but on his seeking and becoming united with us. As Paul announces elsewhere, “[Christ] loved me and gave himself for me” (Gal. 2:20). 2. Union with Christ entails our death and resurrection with him. Paul makes clear in Romans 6 that we were done away with—and made anew—in Christ’s cross and resurrection. In him, our sin and guilt were overcome. Christ’s union with us has effected our union with him without reserve and remainder. We don’t attain union—or deeper union—with Christ through inward meditation or moral endeavor. Luther attempted this route and discovered that such attempts to flee from “the world” are in reality radical love of this world and of self. When his attempts were shattered, Luther met Christ and, as Bonhoeffer observes, the call to discipleship. Christ’s original call to the disciples ended in failure on their part—but not on Christ’s part. His call to come and follow him remained effective, despite Peter’s denying him (John 21:15–19). By the power of Christ’s cross and resurrection, they could have said with Paul, “I live, yet not I, but Christ lives in me” (Gal. 2:20, author’s translation). They were united to Christ by his love and power, not by their own. 3. Union with Christ isn’t merely an inward, mysterious experience. Christ’s self-giving love and power are communicated by an external word: first the word of his original call to follow and then the apostolic proclamation of his death and resurrection. Here the Lutheran understanding of baptism and the Lord’s Supper (to which I hold) offers something for us to reflect on: Does my union with Christ depend in part on my reaching up to him for a spiritual good he offers? Or is it purely the result of his self-giving word to me? Does sharing in Christ’s benefits take place apart from sharing in the crucified and risen Lord himself? We see this communication of Christ in word in Romans 6, where Paul signals that union with Christ is elementary to Christian faith. To be baptized into Christ is to be baptized into his death and share here and now in the new life of the age to come through Christ’s resurrection (vv. 3–4). In this chapter, Paul understands our baptism as the communication of the gospel—and thus Christ himself—by means of the water in the baptismal act. This “once for all” element of baptism has its counterpart in the Lord’s Supper. In Christ’s words of institution, he gives himself and his saving death without reserve to those who partake in his body and blood through the Supper (1 Cor. 10:16; 11:17–34). 4. Though our faith varies, union with Christ is complete. This paradox of being united with Christ without reserve from the beginning of faith and yet receiving Christ again and again finds parallels in Paul’s instruction. On the one hand, Paul reminds the Galatian believers, “As many of you as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ” (Gal. 3:27). On the other hand, he exhorts the Roman Christians, “Put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh” (Rom. 13:14). The variable in Christian living is faith that grasps the gospel word as it’s proclaimed, present in baptism, and present in the Lord’s Supper. To be sure, faith itself is worked by the word of the gospel (Gal. 3:1–5; Rom. 10:14–17). Yet in another profound paradox, the word calls for our response: our grasping and laying hold of what Christ gives. The weakness or strength with which we grasp Christ in his word of promise to us determines the course of our Christian lives. We’re weak, but Christ is strong and wills to display his strength in our weakness. So we require constant reminders of his prior and complete communication of himself to us in his cross and resurrection through the reading and proclamation of the Scripture, through baptism, and through the Supper. 5. In union with Christ, the believer and Christ remain distinct. Paul says, “I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me” (Gal. 2:20). The passage shows us that the union of Christ and the believer isn’t a fusion but a communion in which both parties remain distinct yet share in all the other is. Luther makes use of the marital imagery of Ephesians 5:29–32 in precisely this way when explicating the “freedom of a Christian.” All our good lies outside us in Christ. We have Christ’s benefits only as we have Christ himself, “grasping” him by faith just as Christ has already laid hold of us and made us his own (Phil. 3:12). Consequently, if we’re to speak of “Christosis” or “theosis” as an aspect of salvation, we may not think of it as a gradual infusion with divine power. Our new identity lies outside us in Christ. Into all eternity, we remain the sinner redeemed by the Savior. If we’re to speak of “theosis,” we may speak of it only with Luther, who in a marginal note on Galatians speaks of our “fideification.” In faith, the creature remains distinct from the Creator, the sinner distinct from the Savior, though they’re joined in the marriage of faith. 6. Union with Christ doesn’t entail growth in virtue. In view of what I’ve just argued, it’s clear that union with Christ entails no natural process of growth in spiritual understanding or virtue. Our union has already been effected in Christ’s triumph over sin and death in his cross and resurrection. In a “wonderful exchange” (Luther’s phrasing), our sin and death have been overcome by Christ’s righteousness and life. Given this reality, we may well ask why sin remains in us, why each one of us must battle sin, and why we must pray “Forgive us our debts” (Matt. 6:12) daily for the whole of our earthly lives. Into all eternity, we remain the sinner redeemed by the Savior. Paul’s answer is simple. The old reality, the old human being subject to sin as a slave like Adam, remains with us through our entire earthly journey (Rom. 7:14). That’s Paul’s message not only in Romans 7 but in Romans 6 and 8 as well. We aren’t to allow sin to reign in our mortal bodies or serve sin with our members (6:12–­13). We’re to “put to death” the “deeds of the body,” namely our old person who’s under the power of sin (8:13). We live between the times. The battle is over and won in Christ, but the battle still takes place in us until our resurrection (6:5). This is the nature and form of the life of faith. The reality of faith marks the presence of the new creature, created by the word of the gospel, and this new creature, born of the word and faith, isn’t a ghost. It includes our bodily existence and obedience. This new person, who lives in faith, is constantly under assault from the world, the flesh, and the Devil. The “progress and joy” of Christian living comes on the path of the faith that’s present in Christ, with whom we travel by faith alone (Phil. 1:25). 7. In union with Christ, suffering is necessary but not chosen. From this perspective, we can assess the call to “cruciform living.” It’s clear from Paul’s letters he regards suffering as a necessary dimension of sharing in Christ. His word to the Philippians can’t be limited to their situation: “It has been granted to you that for the sake of Christ you should not only believe in him but also suffer for his sake” (Phil. 1:29). The same thought appears in reference to all believers in Romans 8:17. We are “fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him.” The sufferings of Christ are complete, yet the sufferings of Christ continue in those who belong to him. We’ve met this paradox already in relation to the new life. Throughout Paul’s letters, suffering with and for Christ has greater prominence than serving Christ and displaying his love. The latter arises from our abundance and strength used to help our neighbor. The former is passive. “Cruciformity” as it comes to us—and it comes to all Christians, albeit in varying measures—is passive. If it’s “suffering,” it’s not self-willed or self-chosen. It’s not a self-humiliation by which we delight in our own moral improvement. While it’s true Jesus calls us to “take up [our] cross daily and follow [him]” (Luke 9:23), it’s “our cross” we’re called to take up, the one God in Christ laid on us. Much of the discussion of “cruciformity” veers in the direction of moralism. The sufferings of Christ are complete yet the sufferings of Christ continue in those who belong to him. To conceive of “cruciformity” in terms of moral duty robs us of the comfort and joy of the cross. Christ has already borne for us what we bear. Our sufferings are merely the earthly extension of his sufferings, which are complete. We may then have confidence that whatever comes to us has come to Christ before. Not only has he gone before us but he’s also taken our sufferings on himself and overcome them already: “In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33; cf. Matt. 12:15–21). We mustn’t forget that while the cross is foolishness and weakness to the world, for those who believe it’s the wisdom and power of God (1 Cor. 1:18). If we make “cruciformity” a moral obligation, we risk losing what Johann Georg Hamann has called the “great pleasure” of the cross, which is perceptible to the eyes of faith alone. Peter and the apostles rejoiced that they’d been found worthy to suffer for Jesus’s name (Acts 5:41; cf. 1 Pet. 4:13–14). Love recognizes and laments the sufferings of others and offers all possible help, love, and concern. Yet even this love that shares in the sufferings of others—as the Philippians did with Paul, and as Paul calls the Corinthians to do—isn’t itself suffering or “cruciformity” in the proper, unchosen sense. We lose this proper sense only at the peril of losing all comfort and joy in Christ. We’re weak, but he’s strong (2 Cor. 13:4–5).

When I take my children to the library, they gravitate toward the junk-food version of children’s literature (the sort of thing that British educator Charlotte Mason called “twaddle”). I don’t mind reading a few Paw Patrol board books, but I try to fill our take-home bag with books of greater substance. I look for Caldecott winners. I rely on great book lists and websites like Read-Aloud Revival to find classic picture books my children will love and that I won’t mind reading over and over again. I’m never sorry when I put a little effort into checking out books of enduring value. However, it’s not so easy to find classic Christian books to read to my kids. Perhaps it’s because we look to story Bibles as our primary discipleship reading. Perhaps it’s because fiction is hard to write from a Christian perspective—it easily becomes too didactic. It’s also possible that for much of the 20th century, children’s books were expensive to produce, and publishers didn’t realize how much Christian parents like to buy books. For the past year, I’ve been on a quest to identify classic Christian children’s picture books. To be included on my list, a book must meet these three criteria: 1. Be faithful: The book must include some element of the Christian faith or story, whether explicitly or allegorically. I’ve included books by Catholic and Jewish authors if they consistently reflect evangelical theological convictions. 2. Be enduring: I only considered books still in print that were published before the year 2000. There have been scores of wonderful books from Christian publishers in the past 24 years, but only time will tell which ones are classics. 3. Be a picture book: There are many excellent Christian chapter books, but for this exercise, I excluded books that are mainly text with the occasional picture. I also excluded children’s Bibles, which I consider a different genre. I’ll admit these criteria narrow the field, and my list is short (I’d love to know which books I’ve missed!). Based on the first two decades, I have great hope that the 21st century will produce a much longer list of classic Christian picture books. Noah’s Ark by Peter Spier (Doubleday, 1977) I pored over this book as a child. Its richly detailed, earthy illustrations bring to life the immensity of the task God gave to Noah. Have you ever pondered how you bring two tigers into an ark full of their prey? Have you thought about how much food one would need for an ark full of animals? Have you considered that, though only two rabbits went into the ark, quite a few may have come out? Peter Spier’s illustrations earned him a well-deserved Caldecott Medal. They’re the best commentary on the flood story I’ve found. You Are Special by Max Lucado, illustrated by Sergio Martinez (Crossway, 1997) This book’s title sounds like it could be just another promotion of expressive individualism, but it’s actually a powerful story about learning to find our identities in the love of our Maker, not in what others think of us. Punchinello is a little wooden creature, and he and his fellow Wemmicks spend their days making judgments about each other. They stick stars on Wemmicks who are beautiful and talented, and they put dots on Wemmicks who don’t measure up. But then Punchinello meets the wood carver. To his surprise, he finds that when he begins to care more about what his maker thinks and less about other Wemmicks, the dots and stars start to fall away. Dangerous Journey: The Story of Pilgrim’s Progress by Oliver Hunkin (Eerdmans, 1985) This abridged version of John Bunyan’s allegory uses his original words accompanied by compelling—and at times gruesome—illustrations. The pictures may be too scary for some children, but the memorable images bring Christian’s perils to life and are the book’s great strength. The Tale of Three Trees by Angela Elwell Hunt, illustrated by Tim Jonke (David C. Cook, 1989) This book is a folk tale. While I’m usually leery of books that interact with biblical narratives in a fictional way, this one is clearly meant to be allegorical. Three trees talk about their aspirations for greatness—one wants to hold treasure, one wants to be a strong ship, and one wants to be the tallest tree in the world. None of them literally fulfills its aspiration, but each plays a key role in Jesus’s life. There’s enough tension in the story that it doesn’t feel preachy to children, even as it teaches us the need to redirect our aspirations from our own glory to Jesus’s. Psalm 23 illustrated by Tim Ladwig (Eerdmans, 1997) The text of this book is simply the 23rd psalm, but the gorgeous pictures tell the story of two children living their day in inner-city America. It illustrates how these familiar words of Scripture are relevant and true today. Although different dangers lurk in our valleys and shadows, our Good Shepherd is still faithful to guide us in paths of righteousness. Prayer for a Child by Rachel Field, illustrated by Elizabeth Orton Jones (Macmillan, 1944) Rachel Field wrote this prayer for her daughter, and the illustrations Elizabeth Orton Jones drew to accompany them earned the 1945 Caldecott Medal. The book is clearly a product of its era, but the inclusion of a prayer for children “far and near” (with a depiction of many different races) was bold when it was published. This prayer isn’t theologically advanced, but it’s just right for small concrete thinkers learning how to pray.

A richly painted and pillared throne room from the 7th century has been excavated at the Moche architectural complex of Pañamarca in northwestern Peru. The imagery on the wall paintings and on the painted throne indicates the hall was used by a high-status female leader associated with the moon goddess. Pañamarca was the southernmost monumental city of the Moche culture, built beginning in around 550 A.D. on a hilltop in the lower Nepeña Valley. The main monumental structure is a stepped platform made of adobe bricks. There are two large adobe platforms lower on the hill, an adobe walled plaza and several other structures of adobe and masonry. The city is famed for its vividly-colored wall paintings, the first of which was discovered in 1958. The Archaeological Landscapes of Pañamarca project, a multidisciplinary collaboration between Peruvian and US researchers, has been investigating the site since 2018. The 2022 season uncovered a pair of murals depicting two-faced figures wearing headdresses and holding feather fans. The two-faced figures are the only ones of their kind ever found in Moche art. The throne room of a queen with wall paintings depicting her is also a unique find unknown on the Moche archaeological record. Dubbed the Hall of the Moche Imaginary, the walls and pillars of the space depict scenes of a female ruler: a woman on a throne speaking to a bird man, a crowned woman raising her goblet, a crowned woman wielding a scepter and a serpent rattle leading a procession of men carrying textiles. Other paintings found in the hall include a figure with a human body but spider legs carrying a goblet and a whole workshop of women spinning and weaving. The interior of the throne features another depiction of the female ruler, this time a crowned woman with a rattle shaped like the crescent moon. Scholars will debate whether the woman painted on the walls of the throne room is human or mythical (a priestess, goddess, or queen). But the physical evidence of the throne, including the erosion to its back support and the recovery of greenstone beads, fine threads, and even human hair, make clear that it was occupied by a real living person—and the evidence all points to a seventh-century woman leader of Pañamarca. Another major find of this season’s excavation was a new monumental structure on the plaza with yet another previously-unknown iconographic motif: snakes entwined in a pair human legs. The Hall of the Braided Serpents (Sala de las Serpientes Trenzadas) was also built with wide square pillars. Many of these pillars were arrayed with paintings of intertwining serpents with human legs—a motif not seen elsewhere in Moche art. Other surfaces were decorated with images of warriors, anthropomorphized weapons, and a large monster chasing a man. The Hall of the Braided Serpents underwent multiple renewal events that included copious material offerings—most notably textiles—burning events, the careful capping of floors, and the whitewashing of previously decorated walls. “Perched above the plaza, this hall offered a prominent position—almost like box seats at a theater or stadium—from which to observe the goings-on down below, while it also provided private spaces for its privileged occupants,” explains archaeologist Michele L. Koons of the Denver Museum of Nature & Science. As with all the murals at Pañamarca, these will be covered for their protection and not opened to the public. The first murals found in the 1950s began to deteriorate as soon as they were exposed to air, and are now irreparably damaged. At the end of every dig season, the exposed remains are covered with roofs and windbreaks to ensure the preservation of the painted surfaces and adobe brick. Everything they find is documented with watercolors, scans and digital renderings and shared with the world on the Pañamarca Digital website.