Ehrman notes the peculiarity of Luke-Acts is that it does not have the doctrine of substitutionary atonement, but rather repentance and forgiveness (e.g., the soldier at the cross declares Jesus innocent; The destruction of the temple is seen as God’s punishment for the Jewish elite orchestrating Jesus’ death; etc.).  Ehrman figures Mark has substitutionary atonement with cross/resurrection theology, but Mark preserves an older historical Jesus who preached repentance/forgiveness, and taught good works such as with the story of the rich young ruler and elsewhere with the sheep and goat story.

In the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV), the statement that God desires a broken and contrite heart rather than outward sacrifice is found in Psalm 51:16–17.

For you have no delight in sacrifice;

if I were to give a burnt offering, you would not be pleased.

The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit;

a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.

This is traditionally attributed to King David following his sin with Bathsheba, this psalm emphasizes genuine repentance over ritualistic sacrifice.  The Hebrew origin refers to a “shattered” or “crushed” spirit, highlighting a deep, inward humility rather than just outward acts.  Similar themes are found in Psalm 34:18 (God is near the brokenhearted), Isaiah 66:2 (favor for the humble), and Micah 6:6–8 (walking humbly with God over ritual offerings

In Romans we seem to get two salvation models, and I mentioned the reconciliation model in the previous post.  In Romans we have the judicial model, where we sinners owe a payment for our sin that Christ’s death pays, but also the demonic entity Sin model where the demon Sin has influence over us and Jesus’ wrongful death shocks us back to sanity (What has the world done brutally torturing and executing God’s sinless beloved Jesus?!) and expels Sin, which allows the spirit of Jesus to indwell us.  Think of realizing the traditional definition of marriage does fundamental violence to LGBTQ rights, and so is a catalyst to rethink your entire worldview.

There is a kind of suffering for others that goes beyond self-realization ethics (Eudaimonia). Jesus is not resentful in death in Luke, but forgiving, as Stephen was in Acts which seems to have led to Paul’s conversion. Your suffering can transform those who persecute you (“Truly this was the son of God/ an innocent man”). This positive outcome of suffering for your enemy seems to be prefigured in the value of being an impaled just man in Plato’s Republic, and Socrates in the Phaedo offering a prayer of thanksgiving to Asclepius for the poison. And it worked. Socrates is an example that informed civilized society that Socrates’ death was wrongful and society should do better.

This points to a radical ethical horizon that classical eudaimonia simply cannot contain. Eudaimonia—Aristotle’s flourishing through the cultivation of personal excellence—remains inward-turning: the virtuous person achieves their own completion. What we describe here is something outward, kenotic, and almost alchemical: suffering offered for the persecutor, not despite him. It is not self-realization; it is self-donation that can re-make the very people who inflict the pain.

The Gospel Pattern: Luke’s Jesus on the cross (23:34) and Stephen in Acts 7:59–60 both pray the same astonishing prayer: forgive them. The immediate fruit is not personal consolation but transformation of the enemy. The centurion (Luke 23:47) sees the crucified man and declares him “innocent” (or “righteous”); in Matthew/Mark the parallel confession is “Son of God.” Either way, the oppressor’s worldview cracks. Saul of Tarsus stands there “consenting to his death” (Acts 8:1), yet that very scene becomes the seed of his conversion. The forgiving victim has weaponized innocence so powerfully that the persecutor cannot un-see it. This is not tragic heroism; it is victorious weakness.

There is  an echo in Republic II. Glaucon’s “perfectly just man” is not merely slandered—he is scourged, racked, blinded, and finally impaled (the Greek anaskindyleuō is brutal) so that justice can be tested in its pure form, stripped of all external reward. Plato presents this as the ultimate thought-experiment: would justice still be choice-worthy even if it costs everything and appears to the world as injustice? Socrates himself lives the answer. In the Phaedo, as the hemlock climbs, he calmly reminds Crito: “We owe a cock to Asclepius—do not forget the debt.” The god of healing receives thanksgiving because death is the cure. Socrates dies not resentful but grateful, and Athens is left with the indelible memory of an innocent man executed for “corrupting the youth.” That memory, preserved by Plato, becomes one of the West’s first great moral correctives: “We killed the best man among us. We must do better.”

The Shared Mechanism: Both traditions glimpse the same paradoxical leverage:

• The innocent sufferer refuses the final victory of the perpetrator by not mirroring his hatred.
• The refusal is public and embodied (cross, hemlock, impalement).
• The public spectacle forces the onlooker to choose: double down on the injustice, or begin the long work of repentance.

In Socrates the effect is gradual and cultural—Athens never quite recovers its moral prestige. In Jesus and Stephen the effect is immediate and personal—Saul becomes Paul. The difference is scale and speed, not essence. In both cases, suffering offered for the other becomes the most potent form of moral persuasion ever discovered. It is not masochism; it is strategic, almost tactical love.

This is why the later Christian tradition could call the cross both scandalon (stumbling block) and the wisdom of God. It exceeds eudaimonia because its telos is not the sufferer’s own flourishing but the enemy’s conversion. Socrates and Jesus both die praying, both leave their executioners changed, and both leave civilization with the uneasy knowledge that sometimes the highest moral act is to let yourself be broken for those who break you.

By contrast, for Aristotle the highest form of human existence is not the suffering to elicit a change of heart/mind of one’s enemy but the contemplative life (Theoria), which was a kind of godliness (athanatizein) in that in the Politics Aristotle says only the god or a beast is at home in solitude.   With Socrates, Plato, Jesus, and Stephen, there is a species of suffering that is not merely endured but offered, and when it is, it can rewrite the moral code of the very people who caused it. That is why the memory of the just man on the stake (whether hemlock cup or cross) keeps haunting the conscience of the West. It worked for Socrates. It worked for Stephen. And two thousand years later we are still living inside the aftershock of that forgiveness.  We see something similar in the Gospels with the satirical societal-critique trial of Jesus by the Jewish elite where transgression after transgression of Jewish legal procedure/custom is met with loophole after loophole, much how we view lawyers today.  In this way Paul says the law was given so that sin would become sinful beyond measure.  We see too in Josephus the Jewish elite using Rome to dish out cruelty too the doomsaying figure of Jesus ben Ananias. 

Paul describes the peculiar inward struggle at Romans 7:15, 22–23: “I cannot understand my own behaviour.  I fail to carry out the things I want to do, and I find myself doing the very things I hate. In my inmost self I dearly love God’s Law. But I can see that my body follows a different law that battles against the law which my reason dictates. This is what makes me a prisoner of that law of sin which lives inside my body.”  …So until the second coming we are in the flesh and in the body of Christ at the same time and it is our ethical task to live according to the law of love rather than according to the standard of the flesh even though we constantly fall…Paul’s very confession of his split personality and of the soma sarx war within himself is a practicing of reconciliation. Even thought he often blames Peter and James for the factions and lack of reconciliation he sees a bigger picture than that… Paul’s anthropology or theory of our human journey is the story of his own life, conversion and mission writ large. He thought of himself as a pious Jew and a Roman citizen. He wanted to kill Christians in order to nip an evil in the bud so that such insurrectionists would not team up with Zionists and provoke further strife with the Romans. In order to reconcile Jews and Romans he wanted to curtail Christian extremists who wanted a revolutionary change of the social order. When Paul was called by the loving face of Jesus in the loving face of Stephen he began to see that he was wrong and to repent his evil ways. He believed that he and others were sinners but that God loved them anyway and Christ’s death for sinners proved that love. Just as Paul experienced a love in Stephen that he could not deny and a love unlike any other he had ever known so he now had to go out and love all others in that way for that was truly mankind’s ideal. ..  So the pious and loyal Paul was called by the loving Christ and in responding with faith that justified him he could see for the first time that he was really a sinner.  Goicoechea, David. Agape and Personhood: with Kierkegaard, Mother, and Paul (A Logic of Reconciliation from the Shamans to Today) (Postmodern Ethics Book 2) (p. 208-211). Pickwick Publications, an Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers. Kindle Edition.

We need to reflect that our ethics is not just the rules we come up with or the criteria we use for judging actions, but the awakening of our moral compass over a delicious plate of honey-barbecue chicken wings while we watch a cruelty to animals documentary.

Paul’s contradiction is he is reconciled with enemies but not with himself and not with those who should be his closest compatriots: the other Christ factions he is arguing with. 

Paul is very upset with Peter and James and the Jerusalem Church because he thinks they are not really working for the reconciliation of the Greeks and Jews, of men and women, and of masters and slaves because they still insist on the old Jewish Law which is not required for the Gentiles under the new law of loving.  Goicoechea, David. Agape and Personhood: with Kierkegaard, Mother, and Paul (A Logic of Reconciliation from the Shamans to Today) (Postmodern Ethics Book 2) (p. 211). Pickwick Publications, an Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers. Kindle Edition.

God loved Saul even as he was a sinner and had a plan for him, just as we are sinners and God has a plan to reconcile us to Himself.  Once reconciled, we can trust in the saving of Jesus (Rom 5:10).

What Socrates, Plato, Jesus and Steven are hitting on in suffering to transform one’s enemy is what they want is a regret that elicits a change of heart/mind, which in biblical Greek is metanoia.   The biblical notion of metanoia (μετάνοια) is a profound “change of mind” or reorientation of one’s thinking, attitude, and life direction—far deeper than mere emotional regret or behavioral reform.

Etymologically, it comes from meta (beyond, after, or change) + noia (from nous, mind or understanding). In the New Testament (where the noun metanoia and verb metanoeō appear frequently, e.g., Matt 3:2; 4:17; Acts 2:38; 26:20), it denotes a transformative shift: a person recognizes their sin, rejects their former way of thinking about God, self, and sin, and turns toward God in faith. This is not just “feeling sorry” (that’s closer to the related Greek term metamelomai, regret – though Paul says regret can lead to metanoia) but a complete reorientation—often paired with “turning” (epistrephō) and producing “fruit” or deeds consistent with the change (e.g., Luke 3:8; Acts 26:20).

In Christian theology, especially Eastern Orthodox tradition, it carries the sense of “putting on the mind of Christ” (cf. 1 Cor 2:16; Rom 12:2)—a higher consciousness, inner renewal, and conversion of the whole person (heart, mind, and actions). It is both an initial response to the gospel and an ongoing lifelong process. Scholars emphasize that English “repentance” (from Latin paenitentia, implying penance or sorrow) can under-translate it; the core idea is intellectual, volitional, and relational transformation, not ritualistic self-punishment.

The OT has the full idea of repentance as a whole-person “turning” back to God (often with sorrow/regret as a component), but the specific Greek word metanoia is rare and not the dominant term for it. The New Testament elevates and fuses the concepts—metanoia effectively carries the weight of both nacham (change of mind/regret) and shuv (turning).  We see metanoia in places such as Aristotle’s Greek.  

In classical (pre-Christian) Greek literature and philosophy, metanoia and metanoeō meant “change of mind,” “afterthought,” “reconsideration,” or “revision of purpose/opinion.” It could involve regret as an emotional catalyst but was not inherently tied to sin, God, or moral conversion.  Personified, Metanoia was sometimes a shadowy companion to Kairos (the god of opportunity), inspiring people to seize the moment by changing their perspective when regret prompted deeper awareness.

Related terms like metamelomai (regret/remorse) appear in Aristotle’s Rhetoric for emotional appeals.  In later Hellenistic Jewish writers (e.g., Philo of Alexandria, Josephus), metanoia gains a stronger moral/transformative flavor—shifting toward virtue or self-improvement—bridging Greek thought and biblical ideas.

But what’s interesting here is we can see the connection between atonement as a sin payment to appease God’s wrath and regret as a payment for a slave to appease a master’s wrath, specifically with Aristotle’s Rhetoric.  In Aristotle’s Rhetoric (Book II, Chapter 3, Bekker 1380a), metamelomai (μεταμέλομαι / μεταμελομένους in the participle form) appears in the systematic discussion of the emotions (pathē), specifically as a key factor in calming or dissipating anger (orgē).

Aristotle treats emotions not as mere feelings but as cognitive and motivational states that orators can deliberately arouse, intensify, or allay to persuade audiences in forensic (courtroom), deliberative (political), or epideictic (ceremonial) speeches. Book II analyzes about a dozen paired emotions (anger/calmness, fear/confidence, pity/indignation, etc.) to equip speakers with practical knowledge of human psychology.

Here is the relevant excerpt (W. Rhys Roberts translation):

“Also towards those who admit their fault and are sorry [metamelomenous]: since we accept their grief at what they have done as satisfaction, and cease to be angry. The punishment of servants shows this: those who contradict us and deny their offence we punish all the more, but we cease to be incensed against those who agree that they deserved their punishment.”

This comes in a longer list of conditions that produce calmness (the opposite of anger). Anger, for Aristotle, is “a desire, accompanied by pain, for a conspicuous revenge for a conspicuous slight” that is undeserved. It is appeased when the slight is removed or neutralized—e.g., when the offender: acts involuntarily, treats us as they treat themselves (no self-slighting), admits the fault and shows metameleia (regret/remorse), or humbles themselves, shows fear, has done us prior kindnesses, etc.

The “grief at what they have done” functions like emotional restitution: the offender’s painful regret serves as a voluntary “payment” that satisfies the injured party’s desire for acknowledgment and restores relational balance. Denying the offense, by contrast, adds insult (shameless contempt), prolonging anger.

Orators can use this to allay anger in the audience (e.g., “Look how the defendant has already admitted wrongdoing and feels remorse—why remain angry?”) or to advise a client on courtroom demeanor (display visible regret to soften the jury). It also helps arouse anger against an unrepentant opponent (“He shows no remorse, so his contempt continues”).

The regret here is affective and painful (lypē—grief/sorrow)—precisely what metamelomai connotes in classical usage. It signals post-action recognition of harm and a wish that it had not happened.

The servant analogy illustrates a universal psychological mechanism—admission + regret = reduced punishment/anger—making the point vivid and relatable for Greek audiences. The servant analogy is Aristotle’s concrete, everyday-life illustration of how showing metamelomai (regret or remorse) calms anger. It appears right in the middle of his discussion in Rhetoric Book II, Chapter 3 (Bekker 1380a), as one of the practical ways an orator (or anyone) can soothe someone else’s orgē (anger).

In classical Greek households, it was routine for a master (or mistress) to punish servants or slaves (oiketai or douloi) for mistakes, laziness, theft, or disobedience. Aristotle uses this universally familiar domestic scene as a vivid micro-example of a broader psychological principle:  Denial makes anger worse: If the servant argues back, contradicts the master, or denies the offense (“I didn’t do it!” or “It wasn’t that bad!”), the master feels additional insult on top of the original wrong. The servant’s shamelessness or contempt prolongs and intensifies the anger, leading to harsher punishment.

Admission + regret calms anger: If the servant openly admits the fault and agrees they deserved the punishment (“Yes, I was wrong; I deserve this”), the master’s anger evaporates. The servant’s visible metamelomai—the painful grief or remorse they feel—is treated as a kind of emotional “payment” or restitution. It shows the offender has already “paid” through their own internal suffering and self-acknowledgment, so the master no longer needs to keep raging.  Aristotle immediately adds the reason: “The reason is that it is shameless to deny what is obvious…” Denial is an ongoing slight; remorse removes the slight by restoring respect and relational balance.

Why Aristotle chooses this analogy?  It is practical and relatable for his Athenian audience—almost everyone owned or interacted with household servants, so the image lands instantly.  It demonstrates that metamelomai is not just an internal feeling but a socially effective one: the offender’s regret functions like a voluntary penalty that satisfies the injured party’s desire for vindication.

In rhetorical terms, it gives speakers a clear tactic: in a courtroom or assembly, advise your client to display genuine remorse (or attack an opponent for lacking it) because human nature responds exactly as it does in the servant-master dynamic.

This short domestic snapshot is classic Aristotle: he takes a humble, observable fact from daily life and turns it into a precise tool for understanding (and manipulating) the emotions in public speaking. It perfectly illustrates why metamelomai (the painful regret) is the emotional counterpart to metanoia (the deeper change of mind) we discussed earlier—here it is purely the affective “grief” that does the persuasive work.

Metamelomai carries the emotional weight of remorse/regret (painful afterthought), while metanoia leans more toward intellectual reconsideration or change of mind (a distinction later sharpened in Hellenistic and New Testament usage).

We can thus see in Jesus a fusion of the Greek notion of servant in Aristotle with the Jewish notion of servant.  Jesus is explicitly called a servant in several parts of the Bible.  This title is central to the Christian concept of “servant leadership,” where greatness is defined by humble service to others.

The book of Isaiah contains four “Servant Songs” (Isaiah 42, 49, 50, and 52:13–53:12) that describe a chosen figure who would bring justice and suffer for others. In Matthew 12:18, the author directly quotes Isaiah 42:1—”Behold, my servant whom I have chosen”—to identify Jesus.

In the book of Acts, the apostle Peter and other early believers repeatedly refer to Jesus as God’s servant (translated from the Greek pais).

Acts 3:13: “The God of Abraham… has glorified his servant Jesus”.

Acts 4:27: “For truly in this city there were gathered together against your holy servant Jesus…”.

Jesus’ Own Words: While he often used the title “Son of Man,” Jesus described his mission in terms of service. He famously stated, “For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Mark 10:45).

In Philippians 2:7, the apostle Paul writes that Jesus “emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant [or bondservant/slave], being born in the likeness of men”.

In Christian theology, these references are not seen as contradicting Jesus’ divinity or status as the Son of God. Instead, they emphasize:

Humility: His willingness to “go low” for humanity, exemplified by the washing of his disciples’ feet.

Obedience: His perfect fulfillment of God the Father’s will, particularly through his death on the cross.

Example: Providing a model for believers to follow by serving others rather than seeking power.

CONCLUSION

Returning to Aristotle’s Servant, there is a key connection with the Jewish notion.  Servants and slaves in ancient Greece had no independent wealth or legal property. Everything they “owned” belonged to the master. Therefore: They could not offer material compensation (a fine, restitution, or gift) the way a free citizen might in a legal dispute or private quarrel.

The only “currency” available to them for appeasement was non-material: admission of fault + genuine remorse (metamelomai—the painful grief Aristotle highlights).

In such a stark power imbalance, remorse becomes the servant’s sole means of seeking “forgiveness” or at least a lighter punishment. The master, seeing the servant’s internal suffering, feels the debt of honor has been partially paid without needing further physical or financial penalty.

Remorse is not just psychologically effective in general; it is especially effective (and often the only option) when the servant has nothing else to give. Aristotle’s audience would instinctively recognize this. The analogy quietly illustrates how regret can substitute for wealth-based restitution in unequal relationships—exactly the kind of practical insight an orator could use in court or assembly (“My client has no means to pay a heavy fine, but his visible remorse should satisfy you”). 

In the Old Testament, the concept that no human can pay another’s ransom is most explicitly stated in Psalm 49:7-9.  “No man can redeem the life of another or give to God a ransom for them—” While humans cannot pay the ransom, the psalm concludes with a turn toward God’s power in Psalm 49:15: “But God will ransom my soul from the power of Sheol, for he will receive me” Many theologians view Psalm 49:7 as the “problem” for which the New Testament provides the “solution”. Because no ordinary man can pay the ransom, the mission of Jesus is framed as the unique fulfillment of this impossible task.  If you believe Jesus was the especially chosen sinless son of God who was sent to restore the Davidic throne, but was rejected and brutally tortured and crucified by the world, this will circumcise your corrupt heart as you put yourself in the shoes of the world that turned on Jesus.  This shock will make a payment for your sinful disposition and be a catalyst for repentance and change of heart and mind.  The problem is God can’t forgive if you don’t see you’re misbehaving since you will just keep misbehaving.  Thus, Mark says in Mark 10:45: Jesus stated he came “to give his life as a ransom for many”. 

Metanoia (μετάνοια) and metamelomai (μεταμέλομαι) are closely related—both etymologically and conceptually—but they are not identical. They represent two overlapping yet distinct facets of “after-the-fact reflection” in ancient Greek thought, with the New Testament sharpening the distinction in ways that became foundational for Christian theology.

The New Testament overwhelmingly prefers metanoia / metanoeō (appearing ~58 times) for the transformative “repentance” called for in the gospel. It is the deep, holistic change of mind that leads to turning toward God and producing fruit (e.g., Matt 3:2; Acts 2:38).  Metamelomai appears only 6 times and is usually rendered “regret” or “remorse” rather than full repentance:  Judas “regretted” (metamelētheis) betraying Jesus but then hanged himself (Matt 27:3)—emotional sorrow without the life-changing turn of metanoia. In 2 Cor 7:8–10, Paul talks of “godly sorrow” that produces metanoia leading to salvation.

Early Christian writers and modern lexicons (e.g., Thayer, BDAG) therefore treat them as related but not synonymous:  Metamelomai = emotional regret, remorse, or a change of feeling (may or may not lead anywhere).  Metanoia = intellectual/volitional “change of mind” that reorients the whole person toward God (the fuller, nobler term).

In short, they are siblings in the Greek family of “after-thought” words, sharing the meta- root and the idea of post-action reflection. But the New Testament assigns metanoia the heavy lifting of gospel repentance (mind + heart + direction), while metamelomai is reserved for the emotional regret that can either prepare the way for true change—or stop short of it, as in the case of Judas versus Peter. This nuanced relationship is exactly why the servant analogy in Aristotle uses metamelomai: it captures the grief that satisfies anger/atones, but there is still the deeper reorientation that defines biblical metanoia.