Author Archives: Phillip Powers

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For to me, living is Christ and dying is gain. ~Philippians 1:21

On the Preaching of John the Baptist and Jesus

Have you ever wondered why all four Gospels begin the story of Jesus’s public ministry with the ministry of John the Baptist? Could it possibly be because John came preaching, “Repent, because the kingdom of heaven has come near!” (Matt. 3.2), and Jesus began his own ministry by preaching, “Repent, because the kingdom of heaven has come near!” (Matt. 4.17)? They begin their preaching with virtually the same message. What, then, is the relationship between the preaching and ministry of John the Baptist and that of Jesus? Sometimes John is treated as little more than a necessary but largely preparatory prelude to the more important ministry of Jesus, almost as though his primary purpose were simply to baptize Jesus and then disappear from the story. But the Gospels reveal remarkable continuity between the preaching of these two figures. Jesus’s preaching stands in fundamental continuity with John the Baptist’s proclamation of the approaching kingdom, repentance, salvation, and judgment; yet it also develops John’s message by announcing that the kingdom has become present in Jesus’s own ministry while its final judgment remains future. The transition from John to Jesus, therefore, is not a transition from one eschatological message to another, but from the announcement of what God is about to do to the inauguration of that promise in Jesus himself. To understand this development, however, we must first consider what John was actually announcing.

Of course, John the Baptist’s preaching is fundamentally eschatological. He appears in the wilderness announcing, “Repent, because the kingdom of heaven has come near!” (Matt. 3.2). The nearness of God’s kingdom means that Israel has reached a decisive moment in the history of salvation, and repentance is the necessary response to what God is about to do. Indeed, John warns his hearers not to presume upon their covenantal identity: “Don’t presume to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father’” (Matt. 3.9). Instead, they must “produce fruit consistent with repentance” because “the ax is already at the root of the trees” (3.8, 10). John’s proclamation therefore contains both salvation and judgment. On the one hand, he announces the coming of one more powerful than himself who “will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire” (3.11). On the other hand, this Coming One already has “his winnowing shovel” in his hand and will separate the wheat from the chaff, burning the latter “with fire that never goes out” (3.12). John therefore stands at the threshold of Israel’s eschatological expectation, announcing that God’s promised intervention is no longer located in some distant future—it has drawn near. His call to repentance, promise of the Spirit, and warning of judgment all derive their urgency from this conviction. Most importantly, however, John does not present himself as the one who will accomplish these things. His entire proclamation points beyond himself toward the Coming One through whom God’s promised salvation and judgment will arrive.

The preaching of Jesus stands in basic continuity with the contours of John’s message. As noted above, Jesus also comes proclaiming the nearness of the kingdom and the need for repentance. In Matthew 4.17, Jesus declares, “Repent, because the kingdom of heaven has come near!” repeating verbatim the proclamation of John (Matt. 3.2). Similarly, Mark summarizes Jesus’s preaching: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near. Repent and believe the good news!” (Mark 1.15). The point is that Jesus retains John’s basic eschatological framework: kingdom, repentance, salvation, judgment, restoration, and accountability before God. He does not correct John by suggesting that his expectation of judgment was mistaken or that Israel’s eschatological hopes were misguided. On the contrary, Jesus repeatedly warns of a coming judgment, whether in his teaching concerning Gehenna (Matt. 10.28), the separation of the righteous and wicked (Matt. 13.40–43), or the future judgment of the Son of Man (Matt. 25.31–46). We must therefore resist the simplistic dichotomy that John preached judgment while Jesus preached grace. Both proclaim salvation and judgment as dimensions of God’s coming kingdom. The fundamental difference between their preaching must be located somewhere else. The question is not whether Jesus abandoned John’s eschatological message, but what happened to that message once the One whom John announced actually arrived.

In Matthew 11.2–3, John sends messengers to Jesus to ask him, “Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?” We are not told exactly what prompted John’s question, but the apparent disconnect between his preaching and Jesus’s actual ministry was likely part of the equation. John had proclaimed the nearness of the kingdom alongside warnings of impending judgment, yet the ministry of Jesus did not seem to indicate that such judgment had arrived. This is why Jesus’s answer to John’s question is so significant. Rather than simply answering yes, Jesus points to the fruit of his ministry: “The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, those with leprosy are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor are told the good news” (Matt. 11.5). These signs reflect the expectations of eschatological restoration found throughout the Book of Isaiah (especially Isa. 35:5–6; 61:1–2). The healings, exorcisms, forgiveness, restoration, and proclamation of good news therefore demonstrate that Israel’s promised salvation has begun. John announced what God was about to do; Jesus points to what God is now doing through him. Here we encounter the essential development from John’s preaching to that of Jesus: John announces the Coming One; Jesus announces and embodies the arrival of the kingdom because he is the Coming One. The transition from John to Jesus is therefore the transition from eschatological expectation to eschatological fulfillment. The promised blessings of the kingdom have begun to enter the present through the ministry of Jesus. But if the blessings have arrived, what has happened to the judgment John so urgently announced?

John had proclaimed that the ax was at the root, that the winnowing fork was in the Coming One’s hand, and that the chaff would be burned with unquenchable fire. Yet Jesus heals, forgives, restores, eats with sinners, and proclaims good news. What is important to remember, however, is that John was not wrong: judgment is coming. Rather, the ministry of Jesus brings greater clarity to the temporal structure of John’s eschatology. The kingdom has arrived in the earthly ministry of Jesus, but final judgment has not. This distinction is illustrated particularly well in Jesus’s sermon at Nazareth in Luke 4. There Jesus reads from Isaiah 61:1–2 and then proclaims, “Today as you listen, this Scripture has been fulfilled” (Luke 4:21). Interestingly, however, Jesus’s reading stops with “the year of the LORD’s favor” and does not include the following phrase, “the day of our God’s vengeance.” We should probably not build too much upon this omission alone, but it fits the larger pattern of Jesus’s ministry remarkably well. The promised blessings of Israel’s restoration are being inaugurated in the present, while final judgment remains future. This does not mean that Jesus abandons John’s expectation of judgment. As noted above, Jesus repeatedly warns of a coming judgment and associates its consummation with the future coming of the Son of Man in glory. Judgment has not disappeared from God’s eschatological program; Jesus has revealed that the kingdom’s saving blessings enter history before its final judgment arrives.

The point is that John’s basic expectations were correct. The Coming One would bring salvation, the Spirit, restoration, and judgment. But the earthly ministry of Jesus reveals that these realities do not all arrive simultaneously in their consummated form. The preaching and ministry of Jesus operate according to what is often described as the “already and not yet,” or inaugurated eschatology. This simply means that in the earthly ministry of Jesus, the kingdom of God was already present even though its final consummation remained future. For example, Jesus declares, “If I drive out demons by the Spirit of God, then the kingdom of God has come upon you” (Matt. 12:28). His ministry of healing, exorcism, forgiveness, and restoration therefore demonstrates that God’s saving reign had already broken into history. Yet Jesus continues to speak of realities that remain future: the resurrection of the dead, the return of the Son of Man, final judgment, and the consummation of God’s kingdom. The kingdom is therefore genuinely present without yet being present in its fullness. Salvation has been inaugurated, while final judgment and consummation remain future. This is not a rejection of John’s preaching but its clarification and fulfillment. The Coming One has arrived, just as John announced, but Jesus reveals something John did not fully articulate: his first advent inaugurates the promised salvation of the kingdom before his return brings that kingdom to its consummation in final judgment.

In the final analysis, the preaching of Jesus neither abandons nor merely repeats the preaching of John the Baptist. Both proclaim the nearness of God’s kingdom, call Israel to repentance, announce the arrival of eschatological salvation, and warn of coming judgment. This is why Matthew can summarize their preaching with precisely the same words: “Repent, because the kingdom of heaven has come near!” (Matt. 3:2; 4:17). Yet those words take on a new significance when spoken by Jesus. John stands at the threshold of fulfillment, announcing that the kingdom is near and pointing forward to the Coming One who will bring it. Jesus is that Coming One, and through his preaching, healings, exorcisms, forgiveness, and restoration, the saving power of the kingdom begins to enter the present. The transition from John to Jesus is therefore the transition from eschatological expectation to eschatological fulfillment—not yet fulfillment in all its fullness, but fulfillment genuinely inaugurated in history. John announces that God’s kingdom has drawn near; Jesus announces and demonstrates that in him its saving power has begun to arrive. Salvation has entered the present, while final judgment remains ahead, awaiting the return of the King who first came proclaiming good news.


On Thinking Theologically (Weekend Vlog)


On the Pericope Adulterae (John 7.53-8.11)

It is a familiar scene. The Jewish religious leaders bring a woman who has been caught in adultery before Jesus, seeking to trap him with the requirements of the Mosaic Law. Yet rather than immediately condemning her, Jesus responds, “The one without sin among you should be the first to throw a stone at her” (John 8.7). With their scheme exposed, the accusers depart one by one until only Jesus and the woman remain. He then tells her, “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and from now on do not sin anymore” (8.11). It is a beautiful picture of the compassion and grace of Jesus toward a guilty sinner. There is only one problem: a footnote in virtually every modern English translation informs us that “the earliest manuscripts do not include John 7.53–8.11.” Whether through brackets, footnotes, or some other notation, all modern translations alert readers that there is considerable doubt about whether this beloved story originally belonged to the Gospel of John. What, then, should Christians who believe in the inspiration and inerrancy of Scripture do with this passage? How should we think about a story about Jesus that may be historically ancient but was probably not written by John? In what follows, I would like to consider these questions by arguing that although the manuscript, internal, and patristic evidence strongly suggests that the Pericope Adulterae was not originally part of the Gospel of John, its textual status need not threaten Christian confidence in Scripture. Rather, the passage provides an important opportunity to distinguish between the possible historical authenticity of an ancient tradition about Jesus and the canonical authority of the inspired text.

Of course, our English Bibles are based upon a manuscript tradition that stretches back nearly two thousand years. Although we no longer possess the autographs—the original documents actually written by the New Testament authors—we have thousands of Greek manuscripts and manuscript fragments dating from the second century through the invention of the printing press in the fifteenth century. Through the process known as textual criticism, scholars compare these manuscripts with one another, alongside evidence from ancient translations, lectionaries, and quotations preserved in the church fathers in an effort to determine the earliest recoverable form of the text and, ultimately, reconstruct the original words of the inspired authors. (On the process of textual criticism, see my post here.) Importantly, however, textual criticism is not simply a matter of counting manuscripts. The evidence must be weighed according to such factors as age, provenance, textual relationships, and the character of the individual readings. A thousand late manuscripts containing a particular reading do not necessarily outweigh a handful of significantly earlier witnesses. This brings us to the problem of the Pericope Adulterae: the earliest and strongest manuscript evidence does not include the story at John 7.53–8.11. For this reason, most modern translations bracket the passage, place it in a footnote, or otherwise alert readers that its originality to the Gospel of John is seriously disputed.

The earliest extant Greek manuscript to include the story is Codex Bezae (D), a fifth-century diglot containing the text in both Greek and Latin. This is significant because the early textual reception of the passage appears to have been particularly strong in the Western church, where Latin increasingly became the primary ecclesiastical language. Moreover, although the story eventually appears in the majority of manuscripts from the medieval period, there is considerable discrepancy over where it should be located. It can be found in its familiar location after John 7.52, but in other manuscripts it appears after John 7.36, 7.44, or 21.25, while another textual tradition places it after Luke 21.38. In other words, this looks like a story looking for a home, so to speak. The early patristic evidence is similarly complicated. The Greek Fathers generally do not comment upon the passage, while in the West it appears in writers such as Ambrose of Milan, Augustine, and Jerome, all from the fourth century. Significantly, these Western witnesses themselves reflect awareness that the passage was absent from some manuscripts. Jerome nevertheless included it in the Latin Vulgate, after which the story became increasingly established within the Western textual and ecclesiastical tradition. However, the late appearance of the passage in extant Greek manuscripts, its unstable location within the manuscript tradition, and its uneven early reception provide substantial external evidence for concluding that it was probably not part of the original text of John’s Gospel.

There are still other reasons for doubting the story’s originality to the Gospel of John. For one, the passage contains some fourteen words that appear nowhere else in the Fourth Gospel—almost one distinctive word per verse. For example, John 8:3 is the only place in the Gospel where we encounter “the scribes” as a distinct group. John has several other ways of referring to Israel’s religious leaders, but he never refers to the scribes in this manner outside the Pericope Adulterae. Significantly, several of these words that are otherwise absent from John are quite common in the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), giving the story a linguistic character somewhat different from its surrounding Johannine context. This may also help explain why one manuscript tradition eventually placed the story after Luke 21:38. In addition to this linguistic evidence, the story appears to interrupt the natural flow of John’s narrative. At the end of chapter 7, Jesus is teaching in the temple precincts during the festival, culminating in his proclamation concerning “streams of living water.” Then, in John 8:12, Jesus continues his public teaching with the declaration, “I am the light of the world.” The Pericope Adulterae, however, interrupts this sequence with the statement that “each one went to his own house, but Jesus went to the Mount of Olives” (7:53–8:1). Read without the disputed passage, the narrative moves quite naturally from 7:52 to 8:12. When this internal evidence is considered alongside the external evidence discussed above, the cumulative case against the Pericope Adulterae being original to the Gospel of John appears very strong.

However, the textual question is quite separate from the historical question. It is entirely possible that this is an authentic story about Jesus that was passed down orally and only later written down and incorporated into the manuscript tradition. After all, the characterization of Jesus and the religious leaders is consistent with what we see elsewhere in the Gospel traditions, and the themes and principles of the story are consistent with what we know of Jesus’s teaching from the rest of the New Testament. In his A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament, Bruce Metzger concludes that “the story has all the earmarks of historical veracity.” In other words, even though the story may be textually secondary, this does not mean that it is historically late or fictitious. It is entirely possible that the Pericope Adulterae preserves an authentic tradition about the historical Jesus that circulated independently before eventually finding its way into copies of the Gospels. Nevertheless, we must carefully distinguish between saying, “Jesus may actually have done this,” and saying, “John wrote this under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit.” Historical authenticity does not by itself establish canonical authority. The early church undoubtedly preserved many true memories and traditions concerning Jesus that were never included in the canonical Gospels; indeed, John himself acknowledges that Jesus did “many other things” that were not written in his Gospel (John 21:25). The question of canonicity, therefore, is not merely whether an event actually happened, but whether the account of that event belongs to the text given through the inspired biblical authors. And that distinction has important implications for how Christians should read, teach, and preach the Pericope Adulterae.

Our doctrines of inspiration and inerrancy are specifically tied to the autographic text, that is to say, the documents that the biblical authors actually wrote are the locus of biblical authority. This is the text that we preach; this is the text that holds authority for our theology and doctrine. Therefore, if the Pericope Adulterae was not part of that original text, then we should not base any doctrinal claims upon it or preach it as though we know it possesses canonical authority. We can certainly discuss it as a potentially authentic tradition about the historical Jesus; we can also demonstrate how its principles and themes are consistent with what canonical Scripture teaches elsewhere. But we should be careful about preaching it as Holy Scripture. After all, consistency with Scripture does not make something Scripture. Many statements found in the writings of the early church fathers are thoroughly consistent with biblical teaching, but we do not therefore regard them as divinely inspired or canonically authoritative. The same distinction should guide our treatment of the Pericope Adulterae. Nothing essential to Christian doctrine is lost by recognizing its uncertain textual status: the grace and compassion of Jesus toward sinners, the universal reality of human sinfulness, the necessity of repentance, and the call to holiness are all abundantly taught in undisputed passages of the New Testament. We therefore lose nothing by allowing the textual evidence to determine the passage’s canonical status rather than our affection for the story. Indeed, a high view of Scripture requires us not merely to defend the Bible we have received, but to seek as carefully as possible the text that the inspired authors actually wrote.

In the final analysis, the textual questions surrounding the Pericope Adulterae should not weaken our confidence in Scripture. If anything, they demonstrate why the discipline of textual criticism is so important. Modern translations do not place brackets or footnotes around John 7.53–8.11 because translators have decided to remove an inconvenient passage from the Bible; they do so because they are attempting to be transparent about the manuscript evidence and recover as faithfully as possible the text that John actually wrote. The remarkable number of surviving New Testament manuscripts allows scholars to identify places where later additions, omissions, or other textual variations entered the tradition and to evaluate them openly. The Pericope Adulterae may preserve an ancient and even authentic memory of Jesus, and its beautiful portrayal of his grace toward sinners explains why Christians have cherished it for centuries. Yet our confidence in Scripture must rest not upon our attachment to a particular story, but upon the God who inspired his Word and has providentially preserved it through the manuscript tradition. Christians committed to the inspiration and inerrancy of Scripture should therefore have nothing to fear from textual criticism. Our desire should simply be to know, preserve, proclaim, and obey as faithfully as possible the words God actually inspired his servants to write.

See also:
On the Ending(s) of the Gospel of Mark


On Thinking Theologically (Weekend Vlog)


On the New Testament Use of the Old Testament

One of the most fascinating areas of biblical scholarship concerns the New Testament’s use of the Old Testament. Anyone who has spent much time reading the New Testament has eventually encountered an Old Testament quotation whose interpretive logic does not seem immediately obvious. We turn back to the original passage, read it within its context, and find ourselves asking, “How did the New Testament author get that from this Old Testament passage?” Some quotations and allusions seem relatively straightforward, while others, such as Matthew’s appeal to Hosea 11:1, initially appear somewhat disconnected from their original contexts. This raises an important hermeneutical question: If Scripture is inspired and authorial intent matters, are the apostles sometimes interpreting Scripture in ways that disregard what the Old Testament authors actually meant? Two possible answers present themselves. On the one hand, we might conclude that the apostles were not constrained by original meaning and therefore neither should we be. On the other hand, we might insist that every New Testament application must have been completely explicit within the conscious intention of the Old Testament author. Yet neither extreme adequately explains the phenomenon, because both fail to reckon with the way Scripture develops across redemptive history. Therefore, it is the thesis of this post that the New Testament authors do not abandon the original meaning of the Old Testament when they interpret it in light of Christ; rather, they read individual texts within their historical contexts and within the larger, progressively unfolding story of redemption that reaches its culmination in Christ.

Of course, before considering how the apostles read the Old Testament Christologically, we must first affirm that the original meaning of the Old Testament text actually matters. This is a fundamental principle of faithful biblical hermeneutics. The biblical authors used particular words within particular literary contexts, during particular historical circumstances, and for particular audiences. Therefore, interpretation must begin by asking what the inspired human author intended to communicate. This being the case, whatever Christological interpretation might subsequently emerge cannot be built upon the abandonment of authorial intent. However, it is also true that a text’s original meaning does not necessarily exhaust its canonical significance. An Old Testament author can communicate something real and intelligible within his own historical setting while his words simultaneously occupy a place within a larger story whose full significance unfolds over time. This is possible because the biblical authors do not write in isolation; each writes at a particular point within the progressively unfolding history of God’s redemptive purposes. Later revelation can therefore develop the implications of earlier revelation without contradicting what the earlier author actually meant. Or, to put it somewhat differently, the original meaning of a text establishes the necessary foundation for its canonical development, but it does not necessarily exhaust the significance that text possesses within the completed story of Scripture.

The reason this distinction is so important is that the Bible is not merely a collection of independent books; it tells one progressively unfolding redemptive story, i.e. creation, fall, redemption, and consummation. This is the metanarrative of Scripture. Throughout that narrative, several important themes and patterns rise to the surface—seed, covenant, exodus, sacrifice, temple, Davidic kingship, servant, restoration, kingdom, and new creation. These themes do not remain static but develop and become increasingly clear as God’s purposes unfold across redemptive history. The promise of the seed develops into the expectation of a coming Messiah; the Davidic covenant generates hope for an everlasting king; exile gives rise to the expectation of restoration; and the prophetic hope ultimately looks toward the renewal of creation itself. The New Testament authors inherit all of this as part of their own theological and canonical heritage. Therefore, although every Old Testament passage possesses an immediate historical-literary context, it also occupies a position within an unfolding redemptive-historical context. We call this progressive revelation, or the idea that God’s revelation of himself and of his plan to redeem humanity becomes increasingly clear as the story progresses. Later revelation clarifies and develops earlier revelation without contradicting it. Consequently, later biblical writers can recognize relationships, patterns, and implications that become clearer as God’s plan unfolds. In other words, the coming of Christ does not change the Old Testament’s story; it reveals where that story was ultimately going. And this is precisely how Jesus himself teaches his disciples to understand Israel’s Scriptures.

In Luke 24.44, Jesus tells his disciples that “everything written about me in the Law of Moses, the Prophets, and the Psalms must be fulfilled” (cf. Luke 24.26–27). In other words, Jesus teaches his disciples to interpret the Old Testament in light of his suffering, resurrection, and the proclamation of repentance to the nations. This does not necessarily mean that every individual passage of the Old Testament is a direct prediction concerning Jesus. Rather, the persons, promises, patterns, institutions, offices, expectations, and trajectories that develop throughout Israel’s Scriptures ultimately find their fulfillment in him. The hope for a Davidic king is fulfilled in Christ. The prophetic expectation of the servant of the Lord reaches its culmination in Christ. The Old Testament sacrificial system anticipates the sacrifice of Christ. The hope for Israel’s restoration reaches its fulfillment in and through Christ. Indeed, Jesus himself says, “Don’t think that I came to abolish the Law or the Prophets. I did not come to abolish but to fulfill” (Matt. 5:17). Fulfillment, therefore, is much broader than the correspondence between a direct prediction and a subsequent event; it encompasses the bringing of God’s entire redemptive purpose to its intended goal. The point is that Christ is not artificially inserted into Israel’s Scriptures; he stands at the culmination of the redemptive story those Scriptures themselves tell.

This is why the assumption that every New Testament quotation works in exactly the same way is problematic. The New Testament certainly employs the Old Testament through direct prediction and fulfillment, but it also utilizes typology, analogy, and broader biblical-theological patterns, often communicating these relationships through explicit quotation or more subtle allusion. For example, in Matthew 2:6, Matthew appeals to Micah 5:2 by way of direct prediction, but only a few verses later, in Matthew 2:15, he appeals to Hosea 11:1 by way of typology. Hosea speaks historically about Israel’s exodus from Egypt; Matthew recognizes that Israel’s sonship establishes a pattern that is recapitulated by Jesus, the true Son. (For more on this particular text, see my post “On Hosea, Matthew, and Authorial Intent,” here.) The same phenomenon occurs throughout the New Testament. Adam is a type of Christ; the Passover anticipates the atoning work of Christ; Davidic kingship reaches its fulfillment in Christ; and the tabernacle and temple anticipate God’s presence with his people ultimately realized in Christ. In each case, the relationship between the Old and New Testaments is real, but it does not operate according to precisely the same hermeneutical mechanism. In other words, fulfillment is a broader category than mere prediction. The New Testament does not require every Old Testament passage applied to Christ to have originally functioned as a direct messianic prophecy. Rather, Christ fulfills the persons, events, institutions, promises, and patterns that together constitute the unfolding story of redemption.

The New Testament authors can recognize a fuller significance in Old Testament passages without assigning them arbitrary meanings. Their readings are constrained by the original historical-literary context, the broader canonical context, the unfolding history of redemption, and ultimately the fulfillment of God’s purposes in Christ. They do not simply disregard the original meaning of a text and assign it an entirely new Christian meaning; neither are they limited to saying only what was already completely explicit within the conscious understanding of the Old Testament author. Rather, God’s intention as the divine author can encompass the developing significance of a text without contradicting what the human author actually communicated. The intentions of the divine and human authors must therefore be understood as complementary rather than competing. (On the question of inspiration and authorial intent, see my post here.) Whatever “fuller sense” we recognize in an Old Testament text must remain grounded in the inspired meaning communicated through the human author and develop organically from the place that text occupies within the unfolding story of redemption. This is because later revelation develops and clarifies earlier revelation; it does not overturn it. The New Testament’s Christological interpretation of the Old Testament is therefore not an alternative to grammatical-historical interpretation, but the canonical culmination of it.

So, when we encounter an Old Testament quotation in the New Testament and find ourselves asking, “How did the New Testament author get that from this Old Testament passage?” the answer is not that the apostles interpreted Scripture arbitrarily or disregarded its original historical and literary context. Neither is it that every Old Testament passage they employ was originally intended as a direct prediction of Jesus. Rather, the apostles read Israel’s Scriptures within their historical and literary contexts, while also recognizing their place within the broader canonical context and the unfolding story of redemption that has reached its culmination in Christ. Their example, therefore, does not give us permission to engage in imaginative interpretations disconnected from authorial intent. If anything, it requires us to read the Old Testament more carefully, tracing the promises, patterns, institutions, and theological trajectories that develop throughout the biblical story. The New Testament authors do not teach us to read Christ into the Old Testament where he does not belong. They teach us to read the Old Testament as Christian Scripture, recognizing that the same God who spoke through Israel’s Scriptures has brought the redemptive purposes revealed in those Scriptures to their divinely intended fulfillment in his Son. Original meaning and Christological fulfillment are not competitors; properly understood, the former provides the foundation upon which the latter is built.


On Thinking Theologically (Weekend Vlog)


On Theology and History in the Gospel of John

When it comes to the study of the historical Jesus, there has long been a noticeable bias against the Gospel of John. While the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) are generally regarded as the primary sources for reconstructing the life and ministry of Jesus, the Fourth Gospel has often been treated with considerably greater suspicion because of its overt theological concerns. The assumption seems to be that because John is more explicitly theological, he must therefore be less historically reliable. Indeed, this tendency has led some scholars to call for a so-called “Fourth Quest” for the historical Jesus that takes the historical value of John more seriously. Nevertheless, the assumption that a more theological Gospel must necessarily be a less historical Gospel deserves to be challenged. Such an assumption depends upon a questionable distinction between historical reporting and theological interpretation. The simple fact of the matter is that all historical writing involves selection, organization, and interpretation according to the understanding and purposes of its author, and the Gospels are no different. In the Gospels, theology frequently consists of history interpreted in light of its ultimate significance, but interpreted history is still history. In this post, therefore, I will argue that John’s theological presentation of Jesus does not undermine the historical character of his Gospel; rather, John’s theology represents his interpretation of historical events whose significance he seeks to explain. But before making that case, we must first consider why theological interpretation should be regarded as historical distortion in the first place.

Let me be clear from the outset: there simply is no such thing as completely “neutral” history. No historian simply reproduces the past in a purely objective or uninterpreted manner. Every writer of history selects events, arranges material, emphasizes particular details, interprets their significance, and writes for particular purposes, and the author of the Fourth Gospel is no different. In John 20:30–31, he writes, “Jesus performed many other signs in the presence of his disciples that are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name.” John openly acknowledges that Jesus performed many other signs, but that he has deliberately selected certain signs in order to demonstrate that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God. (On Messianic Sonship in the Fourth Gospel, see my post here.) In other words, John tells his readers both what happened and why he has chosen to record it. His theological purpose could hardly be more explicit, but theological selection does not equal historical fabrication. Indeed, John presents the events he selects as signs actually performed by Jesus “in the presence of his disciples.” The events are historical; their selection and presentation are theological. Or, to put it somewhat differently, selectivity is not the enemy of historicity; it is an unavoidable feature of historical writing.

More importantly, John’s theology is grounded in historical claims. Throughout his narrative, Jesus attends identifiable Jewish festivals, travels between Galilee and Jerusalem, visits particular locations, and interacts with identifiable people. In other words, John presents the life and ministry of Jesus as events occurring within the concrete realities of first-century history. This historical grounding is essential because, as John declares at the beginning of his Gospel, “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14). The eternal Logos entered into human history, meaning that John’s theology is fundamentally incarnational. It reflects the historical reality of the Word made flesh and therefore cannot be reduced to a collection of timeless spiritual ideals. Indeed, John explicitly grounds his narrative in eyewitness testimony: “He who saw this has testified so that you also may believe. His testimony is true, and he knows he is telling the truth” (John 19:35; cf. 21:24). John thus presents his theology as arising from testimony concerning things that actually happened. The point of all this is that John’s theological claims depend upon his historical claims; the two cannot simply be separated. If the Word did not actually become flesh, if Jesus did not die upon the cross, and if he did not rise again, then John’s entire theology collapses. Far from diminishing the importance of history, therefore, John’s theology depends upon it.

What I am suggesting, then, is that theological interpretation does not necessarily mean historical invention. Of course, John interprets the actions and words of Jesus, but interpretation is inherent to historical writing. He does not merely give us a transcript of Jesus’s life; rather, he seeks to explain what Jesus’s actions mean. For example, when Jesus feeds the five thousand, John presents him as the Bread of Life. When Jesus heals the blind man, he reveals himself as the Light of the World. When he raises Lazarus from the dead, Jesus declares that he is the Resurrection and the Life. When Jesus washes the disciples’ feet, the event reveals the nature of Christlike service and love. Even the crucifixion is paradoxically presented as the glorification and exaltation of the Son. In each of these instances, John takes events from the life and ministry of Jesus and unfolds their deeper theological significance. John does not merely ask, “What happened?” He also asks, “What did what happened mean?” The simple fact of the matter is that two people can describe the same historical event, with one explaining its significance much more deeply than the other, without the more interpretive account thereby becoming historically false. Interpretation and invention are simply not the same thing. John’s theological interpretation of the life of Jesus therefore need not be understood as the creation of a theological Jesus; rather, it represents his attempt to explain the true significance of the historical Jesus whom he presents to his readers.

In fact, John explicitly tells us that the disciples did not fully understand the actions and words of Jesus until after his resurrection and glorification. Reflecting upon Jesus’s entry into Jerusalem, John writes, “His disciples did not understand these things at first. However, when Jesus was glorified, then they remembered that these things had been written about him and that they had done these things to him” (John 12:16; cf. 2:22). Notice the progression. The disciples first experienced the historical events, later remembered what they had seen and heard, and then came to understand their deeper significance in light of Jesus’s resurrection and glorification. Moreover, Jesus himself promises that the Holy Spirit “will teach you all things and remind you of everything I have told you” (John 14:26). Thus, the resurrection and the coming of the Spirit did not require the disciples to invent a different Jesus; rather, they enabled them to understand more fully the Jesus they had already known. John’s Gospel therefore reflects both eyewitness memory and mature theological reflection upon that memory. His theological interpretation is retrospective, but retrospective interpretation need not entail historical fabrication. John’s mature Christology represents his retrospective understanding of Jesus, not necessarily a retrospective creation of Jesus. Indeed, by John’s own account, history came first and theological understanding followed as the disciples reflected upon what they had witnessed in light of the resurrection.

Of course, part of the confusion stems from the fact that the Fourth Gospel is noticeably different from the Synoptics (Matthew, Mark, and Luke). The Synoptics primarily focus on Jesus’s Galilean ministry, his parables, his proclamation of the kingdom of God, and his shorter sayings, while John gives considerably more attention to his ministry in Judea and Jerusalem, his identity and relationship with the Father, extended discourses, and signs. However, in my view, these differences are sometimes overplayed. There are significant points of continuity between the four Gospels, including but not limited to the ministry of John the Baptist, the calling of the disciples, the feeding of the five thousand, Jesus’s conflict with the religious authorities, his entry into Jerusalem, and the basic contours of the passion and resurrection narratives. Even where their emphases differ, they remain centered upon the same fundamental story of Jesus’s ministry, death, and resurrection. Moreover, we should hardly expect four different authors, writing for different audiences and emphasizing different theological concerns, to tell that story in precisely the same way. Difference in selection and emphasis does not necessarily amount to contradiction, any more than theological distinctiveness necessarily amounts to historical unreliability. John is not telling a different story; he is telling the same story from a distinct theological perspective. The Synoptics and John need not be flattened into identical accounts in order to be historically complementary.

In the final analysis, then, the relative marginalization of the Gospel of John in the study of the historical Jesus is unwarranted. John is both historical and theological. More to the point, John is theological because he believes that certain things actually happened. The Word became flesh. Jesus performed signs. Jesus died upon the cross. The tomb was empty. Jesus appeared alive. The disciples witnessed these events, and John’s theology represents his explanation of their significance. Of course, John writes with an explicitly theological purpose, namely that his readers “may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing [they] may have life in his name” (John 20:31). John does not conceal his purpose; he wants his readers to believe. But the faith he seeks to produce rests upon eyewitness testimony concerning the actions and teachings of Jesus. His theology therefore does not replace history but interprets it. The question is not whether John gives us history or theology. He gives us theological history: testimony concerning real events interpreted in light of the identity of the One who stood at their center. John’s theology does not require us to abandon the Jesus of history; it invites us to recognize who the Jesus of history truly was.

For further study, see also
On the Jesus of History and the Christ of Faith
On the Johannine Pentecost
On the Narrative Logic of John 21


On Thinking Theologically (Weekend Vlog)


On Religious Affections and Saving Faith

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in a Sunday school class, and we were discussing James 1.12, which says, “Blessed is the one who endures trials, because when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him.” This verse raises an important question about the relationship between our affections for God and saving faith. In other words, if we are justified by faith alone in Christ alone, then what role do our affections play in saving faith. On the one hand, we do not want to reduce saving faith to mere intellectual agreement, i.e. “I believe that Christianity is true.” On the other hand, we do not want to reduce faith to sheer emotional experience, i.e. “I know I am saved simply because I feel close to God.” The Scriptures reject both of these reductions. Instead, the Scriptures present saving faith as the wholehearted response of a person to God’s self-revelation in Christ—a response that engages the mind, the will, and the affections. However, before we consider the relationship between saving faith and the affections, we must first ask a more basic question: What is saving faith?

Throughout the history of the church, theologians have commonly described saving faith as consisting of three essential elements: notitia (knowledge), assensus (assent), and fiducia (trust). Together, these categories help explain what it means to believe in Christ for salvation. First, a person must possess notitia, that is, a basic knowledge of the gospel and the identity of Jesus Christ. Second, that knowledge must be accompanied by assensus, an acknowledgment that the gospel is true. Yet Scripture makes it clear that knowledge and assent alone are not enough. James reminds us, “You believe that God is one. Good! Even the demons believe—and they shudder” (James 2:19). The demons possess both knowledge of God and an orthodox understanding of who he is, yet they remain in rebellion because they lack fiducia—a wholehearted trust that rests in God alone for salvation. Saving faith, therefore, is more than simply knowing the truth or agreeing that it is true; it is entrusting oneself to God in Christ. This naturally raises another question: What does that trust actually look like, and what role do our affections play in its expression?

The point, then, is that saving faith is never merely cognitive. As Paul writes in Romans 10:9, “If you confess with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.” In Scripture, the heart is far more than the seat of our emotions. It represents the very center of our personhood—the source of our thinking, willing, loving, and desiring. This is why, when Jesus is asked about the greatest commandment, he cites the Shema: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind” (Matt. 22:37). Saving faith, therefore, is not merely the acceptance of certain propositions about Christ; it is the wholehearted entrusting of ourselves to him. Such faith redirects the deepest loves and loyalties of the heart toward the One who gave himself for us. At this point, however, an important distinction must be made. The affections are not the same thing as our passing emotions. Emotions often fluctuate with our circumstances, but the affections are the settled inclinations, desires, and loves of the soul. Consequently, when we trust in Christ for salvation, we do more than experience a passing feeling—we come to treasure him as the supreme object of our love and devotion.

Perhaps no theologian has reflected more deeply on this subject than Jonathan Edwards in his classic work Religious Affections. Writing during the First Great Awakening of the 1730s and 1740s, Edwards ministered in a period marked by extraordinary religious enthusiasm. As revival spread throughout the American colonies, many professed faith in Christ and displayed intense emotional experiences. Yet these developments raised an important question: How can we distinguish genuine saving faith from merely temporary or emotional religious excitement? It was this question that prompted Edwards to write Religious Affections. His central argument is that true religion “in great part consists in holy affections” because regeneration does more than inform the mind—it transforms the heart. Saving faith not only convinces us that Christ is worthy of our trust; it also reorients our deepest loves toward him. Edwards was therefore not measuring the authenticity of faith by the intensity of a person’s emotions. Rather, he sought to identify the enduring dispositions of the heart that inevitably accompany the new birth. In doing so, he helped clarify an important biblical truth: genuine saving faith transforms not only what we believe but also what we love.

The transformation of our affections begins with the regenerating work of God. Scripture does not describe salvation as the mere addition of new information to an otherwise unchanged heart. Rather, God promises, “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you” (Ezek. 36:26). This is the new birth of which Jesus speaks in John 3 and the new creation Paul describes in 2 Corinthians 5:17. Regeneration changes the deepest orientation of the person, enabling us to see Christ as beautiful, trust him as sufficient, and love him as Lord. These new affections arise because, through faith, we are united to Christ by the Holy Spirit and begin to share in the life of the One to whom we belong. However, they do not earn our justification, nor do they become an additional ground of acceptance before God. We are justified by faith alone on the basis of Christ alone. Yet the faith through which we are justified is never left barren or unchanged. It becomes fruitful in sanctification because the Spirit who grants faith also renews the heart from which faith arises. The order, therefore, must be preserved: God regenerates, the sinner believes, God justifies, and the justified believer begins to grow in holiness. Our love for God, delight in Christ, and desire for obedience are not the merit of our salvation; they are the evidence that God has made us new.

This is the important distinction: our affections for Christ are evidence of our salvation and therefore contribute to our assurance, but they are never the ground of it. The foundation of our assurance rests entirely upon the finished work of Christ and the promises of God confirmed by the indwelling Holy Spirit. At the same time, the Spirit who assures us of our adoption also transforms our hearts, producing new desires and holy affections that testify to his ongoing work within us. Many believers ask the wrong questions when examining themselves. They wonder, “Do I feel enough?” or “Do I know enough?” Yet Scripture directs our attention elsewhere. The better question is, “Has Christ begun changing what I love?” Am I growing in my hatred of sin and my love for Christ? Do I desire to read and meditate upon God’s Word? Do I increasingly delight in holiness and long to obey him? Do I love God’s people and desire fellowship with them? None of these things earns God’s favor, but together they provide evidence that he has given us a new heart. The Christian’s assurance, therefore, rests on Christ alone, while the transformed affections of the heart bear witness that his saving work is truly taking root within us.

Saving faith, then, is far richer than either mere intellectual agreement or passing emotional experience. It knows the truth of the gospel, believes that truth to be certain, entrusts itself wholly to Christ, and, through the regenerating work of the Holy Spirit, comes to love the One in whom it has believed. In other words, saving faith engages the whole person—mind, will, and affections—in response to God’s gracious self-revelation in Jesus Christ. This is why the Christian life is not marked by perfect emotions or flawless devotion but by a heart that is being steadily transformed by the grace of God. None of us possesses perfect affections in this life. Our love for Christ is often weak, inconsistent, and mixed with the remnants of sin. Yet the Spirit who gave us a new heart does not abandon his work. Day by day, he continues to redirect our loves, deepen our trust, and conform us to the image of Christ. The mark of genuine saving faith, therefore, is not the perfection of our love but the presence of a new love—a heart that increasingly treasures Christ above all else. These affections do not save us, nor do they merit God’s favor. Rather, they testify that the One who does save us has already begun his transforming work within us. May we therefore fix our eyes on Christ, for as we behold his glory in the Scriptures, our faith is strengthened, our assurance deepened, and our hearts are increasingly taught to love the One who first loved us.


On Thinking Theologically (Weekend Vlog)


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