A Killing Service
It’s one of those questions that keeps you up at night, isn't it? The room is dark, the house is quiet, and the thought lands with a thud in your soul, heavy and cold. Why does God kill people? You think of the Old Testament stories, the plagues, the floods, the sudden judgments that feel so far from the Jesus we know, the one who healed the sick and welcomed the children. The question echoes in that quiet space, accusing and confusing, making God feel distant, unsafe, even cruel. It’s a question that, left to fester, can poison the well of faith itself, leaving us with a caricature of a God we can't possibly love, only fear. And that fear, my friends, is a terrible place to live.
Jesus knew this question would haunt his followers, though perhaps in a form they never expected. He gathered them close, his voice steady in the thickening twilight of his final hours, and laid it bare for them. He didn't speak of divine plagues or ancient judgments. He spoke of something far more intimate, and far more chilling. He said, “They shall put you out of the synagogues: yea, the time cometh, that whosoever killeth you will think that he doeth God service.” He looked into their eyes and told them that the greatest threat wouldn't come from a distant, angry deity, but from the fervent, misguided hands of religious men. The killing they would face would be wrapped in piety, sanctioned by prayer, and justified as the very will of Heaven.
And right there, in that awful prophecy, Jesus gives us the key that unlocks the entire disturbing question. Why would they do this? Why would men who claim to love God murder his messengers? Jesus gives the devastatingly simple answer. “And these things will they do unto you, because they have not known the Father, nor me.” The problem isn't God's character; it's man's ignorance of it. Religious violence, spiritual abuse, the cold shoulder in the church pew, the gossip that murders a reputation—it all flows from the same poisoned spring: a fundamental misunderstanding of who God is. They build a god in their own image, a god who needs defending, who demands blood, who is insecure and angry, and then they offer him the terrible sacrifice of their brothers and sisters.
They shall put you out of the synagogues: yea, the time cometh, that whosoever killeth you will think that he doeth God service.— John 16:2, KJV
Unlearning Righteousness
We see this deadly impulse played out perfectly on a dusty Sabbath day in a cornfield. The disciples are hungry, so they do what any hungry person would do: they pluck some ears of corn, rub them in their hands, and eat. A simple act. A human moment. But the Pharisees, the religious watchdogs of their day, see a crime. They see a violation. Their entire system of righteousness was built on an intricate scaffolding of rules, a performance-based spirituality where your standing with God was measured by your meticulous observance of the law. When Jesus and his men walked through that field, they weren't just breaking a rule about Sabbath work; they were taking a sledgehammer to the very foundation of the Pharisees' identity, and that kind of threat always, always breeds violence.
This is the righteousness of men, a righteousness that must be defended with accusation and condemnation. But Jesus speaks of a completely different righteousness when he tells his disciples about the coming Comforter. He says the Spirit will reprove the world “Of righteousness, because I go to my Father, and ye see me no more.” Think about that. Our righteousness has nothing to do with what we do or don't do on a Sabbath. Our righteousness is a person, and His location. It is the fact that Jesus Christ, having paid for every sin, sits victorious at the right hand of the Father. His ascension is our acquittal. His position is our perfection. This is a righteousness that doesn't need to be defended with anger because it is already finished, secured, and sealed in heaven itself.
The Holy Spirit’s job, then, isn't to come down and beat us over the head with a long list of our failures. It's not to make us feel worthless. No, His great work of reproof is to simplify, to clarify, to cut through all our religious noise and point us to the one thing that matters. He reproves the world of a single sin: “Of sin, because they believe not on me.” He points to a single righteousness: Christ's return to the Father. And he declares a single judgment: the prince of this world, the great accuser, has already been judged and cast out. The Spirit's ministry is a ministry of profound relief, freeing us from the exhausting, life-killing business of trying to establish our own goodness.
Of sin, because they believe not on me;— John 16:9, KJV
The Comforter Has Come
So what does it look like to live in this new reality, where the Comforter has come and our righteousness is secure? It looks like a father biting his tongue when his prodigal son comes home smelling of cheap wine, choosing an embrace over a lecture because he knows grace, not condemnation, is what melts a hard heart. It looks like a woman in a small group choosing to pray for the person who slandered her, refusing to participate in the economy of religious violence that demands an eye for an eye. It means walking through the cornfields of our own complicated lives with a deep, settled freedom, knowing that our needs are met not by our rule-keeping, but by our relationship with the Lord of the Sabbath Himself, who is always for us.
The disciples' hearts were filled with sorrow when Jesus said he was leaving. I get that. We feel that same sorrow when God feels distant, when our prayers seem to hit the ceiling, when we think we've been left alone to figure this all out. But listen to the impossible beauty of Christ’s words: “Nevertheless I tell you the truth; It is expedient for you that I go away.” It is better for you. It is to your advantage. Why? Because His physical departure made way for His spiritual indwelling. The Comforter wasn't just coming to walk beside them, but to live inside them. You don't have to strain to hear His voice from heaven; you only need to quiet your own heart and listen to the Spirit who has made His home in you. Stop trying to fix yourself. Just rest.
Walking in this grace day by day is a practice of remembering. Jesus told them these hard things beforehand for a reason: “that when the time shall come, ye may remember that I told you of them.” He was stocking their spiritual pantry for the famine to come. And it's the same for us. We must fill our minds and hearts with His words now, before the trial, before the accusation, before the temptation to revert to rule-keeping rears its head. This walk is not about achieving a state of sinless perfection. It’s about the constant, humble, and joyful act of returning to the truth that we are not what we do; we are who He says we are—the righteous children of God, not because we are good, but because He is.
Nevertheless I tell you the truth; It is expedient for you that I go away: for if I go not away, the Comforter will not come unto you; but if I depart, I will send him unto you.— John 16:7, KJV
Knowing the Father
We can finally put the agonizing question to rest. The God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ is not the author of death, but the giver of life. He is not the one who inspires men to kill in his name. That terrible impulse, as Jesus made so painfully clear, comes from a place of profound spiritual blindness, from hearts that have never truly known the Father's love or the Son's grace. The solid ground beneath our feet is this: God's true service is not about eliminating His enemies, but about loving them. His will is not the sterile observance of Sabbath rules, but the messy, beautiful work of healing withered hands and feeding hungry souls. This is the unshakeable truth revealed in the face of Jesus Christ.
So be on guard, my friends. The spirit of the Pharisee is subtle, and it is patient. It will creep back into our churches, into our families, and even into our own hearts if we are not vigilant. It is any thought that tells you your worth is tied to your performance. It is any voice that urges you to condemn another to feel better about yourself. It is any system that values its traditions more than the people it was meant to serve. Do not return to those chains. Do not pick up the stones of judgment. That is the old way, the way of death, a service our Father has never once asked of you.
And these things will they do unto you, because they have not known the Father, nor me.— John 16:3, KJV
The real question was never why God kills people. The Gospel flips the question on its head. The real mystery is why the God of life would allow Himself to be killed by the very people He came to save. He endured the ultimate act of religious violence on a Roman cross to absorb it, to exhaust it, and to end its power over us forever. He chose to be the victim of our misguided service so that we could be free. So let the Comforter lead you out of the cold synagogue of judgment and into the warm, open fields of His unending grace, where you are free to eat, to live, and to rest in the finished work of Jesus.