Category Archives: Biblical Theology

07/06/2026

On Knowing Jesus through the Old Testament: A Book Review

By Phillip Powers

Wright, Christopher J. H. Knowing God through the Old Testament. Second Edition. Grand Rapids: Intervarsity Press, 2014.

Who was Jesus? How should he be understood? It has become almost a truism among historical Jesus scholars that Jesus must be understood within the context of Second Temple Judaism. He was a man of his own time, and this means that his teachings, actions, and self-understanding must be interpreted against the backdrop of first-century Jewish beliefs and expectations. More specifically, Jesus’s understanding of his own identity and mission was profoundly shaped by Israel’s Scriptures, what Christians know as the Old Testament. Although this observation may seem obvious, its importance is frequently overlooked. There remains a widespread tendency in modern discussions to disconnect Jesus from his Old Testament background, resulting in a portrait of Jesus that is neither historically satisfying nor theologically coherent. In Knowing Jesus through the Old Testament, Christopher J. H. Wright seeks to correct this tendency by situating the person and work of Jesus firmly within the unfolding story of Israel’s Scriptures. First published in 1992 and now available in a revised second edition as of 2014, Wright’s work has become something of a modern classic in biblical theology. Therefore, it is the thesis of this review that Knowing Jesus through the Old Testament succeeds admirably in demonstrating that Jesus’s identity and mission can only be fully understood against the backdrop of Israel’s Scriptures, even if some aspects of Wright’s approach invite further discussion.

Wright’s essential thesis is that Jesus’s understanding of himself and his mission was profoundly shaped by his study of and reflection upon the Old Testament Scriptures. In other words, Jesus repeatedly presents himself as the fulfillment of Israel’s story in ways that demonstrate his unique identity as the Christ, the Son of the living God. Wright develops this thesis by examining the major themes of the Old Testament that converge in the person and work of Jesus. He begins with Israel’s story itself, arguing that Jesus consciously understood his life and ministry as the climax of God’s covenant dealings with his people. From there, Wright explores Jesus’s identity as Israel’s Messiah and Davidic King, showing how the hopes and expectations of the Old Testament find their fulfillment in him. He then turns to the mission of Jesus, demonstrating that Christ’s proclamation of the Kingdom of God, his suffering, death, and resurrection, and his calling of disciples all stand firmly within the trajectory established by Israel’s Scriptures. Throughout the book, Wright carefully weaves together themes such as covenant, kingdom, redemption, mission, and fulfillment in order to show that the Old Testament is not merely a collection of predictions about Jesus but the very theological framework through which Jesus understood his own identity and vocation. The result is a compelling portrait of Jesus that is both historically grounded in first-century Judaism and deeply rooted in the unfolding story of God’s redemptive purposes revealed throughout the Old Testament.

The greatest strength of Wright’s work lies in its thoroughly canonical and biblical-theological approach to the person of Jesus. Rather than treating the Old Testament as a collection of isolated messianic proof texts, Wright demonstrates that Jesus understood himself within the unfolding story of Israel. The significance of Jesus’s identity and mission, therefore, cannot be grasped apart from the covenant, kingdom, promises, and expectations established throughout the Old Testament. This approach not only reflects the way Jesus himself repeatedly interpreted his ministry, but it also provides readers with a richer and more coherent understanding of the unity of Scripture. Closely related to this is Wright’s remarkable ability to integrate historical context, theological reflection, and biblical theology into a single, compelling presentation. He consistently situates Jesus within the world of first-century Judaism while never losing sight of the larger redemptive story that stretches from Genesis to Revelation. As a result, the reader comes away with a portrait of Jesus that is historically grounded without becoming reductionistic and theologically profound without becoming overly speculative. Another significant strength is Wright’s emphasis upon the continuity between Israel, Jesus, and the church. Rather than presenting Christianity as a departure from the Old Testament, he shows that the mission of Jesus represents the fulfillment of God’s covenant purposes for Israel and, through Israel’s Messiah, extends those blessings to the nations. Finally, despite engaging substantial theological themes, Wright writes with exceptional clarity and accessibility. His prose is straightforward, his arguments are well organized, and his illustrations are both helpful and memorable. This makes for easy and enjoyable reading from beginning to end.

Of course, no book is without its limitations, and Knowing Jesus through the Old Testament is no exception. Perhaps the most noticeable weakness is that Wright’s broad biblical-theological synthesis occasionally comes at the expense of detailed exegetical interaction with individual texts. His purpose is clearly to present the larger contours of the Old Testament’s witness to Christ rather than to defend every interpretive conclusion in detail. Nevertheless, readers looking for sustained engagement with particular passages or with competing scholarly interpretations may occasionally find themselves wanting more. Closely related to this is the fact that some themes receive considerably more attention than others. Wright’s discussions of covenant, kingdom, and Israel’s story are among the strongest sections of the book, while other important Old Testament motifs could have been explored in greater depth. Likewise, although Wright consistently situates Jesus within the world of first-century Judaism, greater interaction with developments in Second Temple Judaism would have further strengthened certain aspects of his argument by demonstrating more explicitly how Jesus both fulfilled and challenged the expectations of his contemporaries. Finally, Wright occasionally moves rather quickly from Old Testament themes to their fulfillment in Christ, assuming typological connections that many readers will readily accept but that others may have wished to see defended more fully. Even so, these observations do little to diminish the overall value of the work. They reflect the inevitable limitations of a synthetic volume rather than any significant weakness in Wright’s central thesis.

In the final analysis, Knowing Jesus through the Old Testament is a compelling and important contribution to biblical theology. Wright reminds us that Jesus did not appear in history as the founder of a new religion or as a figure detached from Israel’s past. Rather, he came as the fulfillment of God’s covenant purposes, bringing Israel’s story to its divinely intended climax. By consistently situating Jesus within the theological world of the Old Testament, Wright demonstrates that the Scriptures of Israel are not merely the background to the New Testament but the indispensable foundation for understanding the identity, mission, and message of Jesus Christ. In an age when the Old Testament is too often neglected or treated as merely preparatory to the New Testament, Wright reminds readers that the story of Jesus cannot be separated from the story of Israel, for the latter finds its fulfillment in the former. For this reason, I would readily recommend this book to pastors, seminary students, Bible teachers, and thoughtful Christians who desire a richer understanding of the unity of Scripture and the centrality of Christ within God’s redemptive plan. Though readers may occasionally wish for more detailed exegetical interaction or greater engagement with certain scholarly discussions, these minor limitations do little to diminish the book’s overall contribution. If readers come away from this volume with a renewed appreciation that the Old Testament is essential for understanding the person and work of Jesus Christ, then Wright will have accomplished precisely what he set out to do. Few books succeed so well in helping readers know Jesus by first learning to read him through the Scriptures that he himself loved, studied, and fulfilled.

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06/29/2026

On the Meaning of “This Generation” in the Gospels

By Phillip Powers

When it comes to the eschatology of the historical Jesus, one of the most vexing questions concerns his repeated references to “this generation.” Few phrases have generated more debate in biblical studies. For example, what does Jesus mean when he says that the men of Nineveh and the queen of the South will rise up at the judgment and condemn “this generation”? (Matt. 12.39–45) Or when he declares that “all these things” will come upon “this generation,” who exactly is he talking about? (Matt. 23.36; 24.34) Discussions of these texts often focus on questions of chronology and fulfillment. We ask whether Jesus is referring to his contemporaries or to some future generation, and we speculate about when these events are supposed to occur. It is a question that has confounded even some of the greatest biblical scholars. In this post, I would like to revisit the issue, not because I am a great biblical scholar, but because I believe the discussion often overlooks an important biblical-theological dimension. I would suggest that “this generation” does indeed refer to Jesus’ contemporaries, but it functions as more than a simple chronological marker. Rather, Jesus employs the phrase to identify his contemporaries with the recurring biblical pattern of the rebellious generation that rejects God’s messengers and stands under covenant judgment.

Of course, at first glance, the meaning of “this generation” seems rather straightforward. Throughout the Gospels, the phrase consistently refers to those living during Jesus’s earthly ministry. For example, in Matthew 11:16, Jesus asks, “To what should I compare this generation? It’s like children sitting in the marketplaces who call out to other children.” Clearly, Jesus is reflecting upon the unbelief of his contemporaries and their rejection of both John the Baptist and himself. Or again, in Matthew 23:36, when Jesus declares, “Truly I tell you, all these things will come on this generation,” he is speaking directly to the religious leaders who stand before him. Texts such as these make it difficult to sustain interpretations that remove the phrase entirely from its first-century context. Jesus is not speaking primarily about a distant future generation but about the people of his own day. The crowds, the scribes, the Pharisees, and the religious leaders who heard his teaching constitute the immediate referent of the phrase. In other words, “this generation” is first and foremost a historical designation. Yet, as we shall see, it functions as more than a mere chronological marker. The phrase carries a theological significance that reaches beyond the simple identification of a particular group of people living at a particular moment in history.

This becomes even more apparent when we observe that Jesus rarely speaks of “this generation” in a neutral sense. Rather, he repeatedly describes it as an “evil and adulterous generation” (Matt. 12:39; 16:4) or as an “unbelieving generation” (Mark 9:19). These are not merely chronological descriptions; they are moral and theological evaluations. Jesus is not simply identifying the people who happen to be alive during his ministry. He is characterizing them according to their response to God’s revelation. Their defining feature is not that they belong to a particular moment in history, but that they have rejected the message of God’s prophets, resisted the ministry of John the Baptist, and refused to recognize the Messiah standing in their midst. In this sense, “this generation” functions as more than a temporal designation. It becomes a moral and covenantal category that describes a particular posture of unbelief and rebellion toward God. Indeed, the repeated use of terms such as “evil,” “adulterous,” and “unbelieving” suggests that Jesus is intentionally placing his contemporaries within a much larger biblical pattern. The question, then, is not simply who “this generation” is, but what kind of generation it is. And it is precisely here that the Old Testament background becomes crucial, for the language Jesus employs has deep roots in the Scriptures’ recurring depiction of “the generation of the wicked.”

The Old Testament repeatedly speaks of the “wicked generation,” and this theme stretches all the way back to the book of Deuteronomy. This is especially evident in Deuteronomy 32, where Moses describes Israel as a “crooked and perverse generation” (Deut. 32:5) and later speaks of them as a generation marked by faithlessness and rebellion (Deut. 32:20). This language is taken up again in the Psalms. For example, Psalm 78:8 describes the wilderness generation as “a stubborn and rebellious generation, a generation whose heart was not loyal and whose spirit was not faithful to God.” What is striking is that these texts are not merely concerned with identifying a particular group of people who happened to live at the same time. Rather, they are describing a recurring pattern of covenant rebellion. The wilderness generation rejected God’s Word, resisted God’s appointed leaders, refused to trust his promises, and consequently experienced his judgment. As a result, the wilderness generation became a paradigm for later generations of Israelites who repeated the same sins. Thus, in the Old Testament, the concept of a “generation” often carries theological significance beyond mere chronology. It becomes a covenantal category describing those who persist in unbelief and opposition to God’s purposes. This Old Testament background provides the conceptual framework for understanding Jesus’s repeated references to “this generation” in the Gospels.

The point of all this is that when Jesus speaks of “this generation,” he is making precisely this kind of moral and covenantal judgment. This is why he can declare, “that this generation may be held responsible for the blood of all the prophets shed since the foundation of the world—from the blood of Abel to the blood of Zechariah” (Luke 11:\.50–51; cf. Matt. 23.35–36). Clearly, Jesus is not suggesting that his contemporaries were personally present when Abel was murdered or when Zechariah was killed. Rather, they stand in continuity with those earlier generations because they are committing the very same acts of covenant rebellion. Indeed, in Matthew’s account, Jesus tells the religious leaders, “You are sons of those who murdered the prophets” (Matt. 23.31). They are not merely descended from their fathers biologically; they are following in their fathers’ footsteps spiritually. Just as earlier generations rejected God’s messengers, so now Jesus’s contemporaries reject John the Baptist, oppose Jesus himself, and will soon persecute his apostles. When Jesus reads Israel’s Scriptures, he sees a recurring pattern of covenant infidelity that reaches from the wilderness generation through the prophets and culminates in his own day. His contemporaries therefore represent not simply another generation in Israel’s history but the climactic manifestation of the rebellious generation. It is for this reason that they stand under the same covenantal judgment that had fallen upon those who came before them.

Of course, it is precisely this covenantal judgment that Jesus predicts in the Olivet Discourse (Matt. 24; Mark 13; Luke 21), where he declares, “Truly I tell you, this generation will certainly not pass away until all these things take place” (Matt. 24:34). If the preceding discussion is correct, then this statement should not be understood merely as a chronological marker but as the culmination of the biblical pattern we have already traced. Because Jesus’ contemporaries embody the recurring motif of the rebellious generation, the coming judgment upon Jerusalem is neither arbitrary nor unexpected. Rather, it follows the well-established pattern of covenant history. Just as the wilderness generation experienced God’s judgment for its unbelief, just as the northern kingdom was judged for its covenant unfaithfulness, and just as Judah ultimately fell under divine judgment for rejecting God’s prophets, so also Jesus announces that “this generation” will experience covenant judgment in the destruction of Jerusalem. The judgment falls upon a specific historical generation living in the first century, yet that generation simultaneously represents the climax of a much larger biblical pattern. Jesus’ words, therefore, are historically specific while at the same time theologically rich. They announce the judgment of his contemporaries precisely because they have become the latest—and greatest—manifestation of the generation that continually rejects God’s revelation and resists his redemptive purposes.

Understanding “this generation” in this way also helps us see why the phrase remains relevant today. The issue is not merely one of chronology but of response to God’s revelation. Throughout the Scriptures, the “generation of the wicked” is characterized by unbelief, the rejection of God’s Word, resistance to his appointed messengers, and ultimately opposition to his redemptive purposes. Jesus identifies his contemporaries with that pattern because they rejected the Messiah standing before them. Yet the pattern itself did not end with the destruction of Jerusalem. It continues to reappear wherever men and women harden their hearts against God’s Word and refuse his gracious call to repentance. In this sense, every generation must ask whether it will follow the path of covenant faithfulness or repeat the rebellion of those who came before. More than that, Scripture teaches that history is moving toward a final day of judgment when Christ will return to judge the living and the dead. Just as the generation of Jesus’s day experienced a historical judgment in the destruction of Jerusalem, so also the final generation will stand before God’s ultimate judgment at the return of Christ. The warning of “this generation,” therefore, is not confined to the first century. It continues to summon every generation to repent, believe the gospel, and receive the King whom God has sent.

In the final analysis, then, “this generation” should not be understood as merely a chronological expression nor as a reference to some distant future generation. It refers first and foremost to Jesus’ contemporaries, the men and women who heard his preaching, witnessed his miracles, and ultimately rejected him as Israel’s Messiah. Yet Jesus deliberately frames them within the larger biblical category of the rebellious generation that recurs throughout the Old Testament. Like the wilderness generation before them, they resisted God’s Word, rejected his appointed messenger, and consequently stood under covenant judgment. The destruction of Jerusalem, therefore, was not an arbitrary historical tragedy but the covenantal consequence of a pattern of rebellion that had reached its climax in the rejection of God’s Son. At the same time, the warning extends beyond the first century. Every generation must decide how it will respond to God’s revelation in Christ, for history is moving toward that final day when the righteous Judge will return. The question is not simply whether we understand who “this generation” was, but whether we will hear God’s Word, repent, and believe while there is still time.

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06/08/2026

On the Gospel of the Kingdom and the Gospel of Jesus Christ

By Phillip Powers

When Jesus stepped onto the scene in Galilee following the arrest of John the Baptist, he began preaching, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near. Repent and believe the good news!” (Mark 1.15). His message focused on the arrival of the kingdom of God, the fulfillment of Israel’s prophetic hopes, and the call to repentance in light of God’s decisive action in history. Throughout the book of Acts and his epistles, however, the Apostle Paul repeatedly preached the gospel of Jesus Christ. His message emphasized the death and resurrection of Jesus, justification by faith, the forgiveness of sins, and the hope of resurrection. At first glance, these emphases can appear quite different. Jesus seems to proclaim the kingdom, while Paul proclaims Christ. Indeed, some scholars have argued that Paul transformed the original message of Jesus into something fundamentally different, shifting the focus from the kingdom of God to the person of Jesus himself. But are these really two different gospels? Must we choose between the message of Jesus and the message of Paul? It is my contention that the apparent tension disappears when both are understood within the broader framework of biblical eschatology. Far from proclaiming competing messages, Jesus and Paul announce the same good news from different vantage points within the unfolding drama of God’s redemptive plan.

Scholars of the historical Jesus are virtually unanimous in recognizing that the kingdom of God stood at the very center of Jesus’s preaching ministry. For example, in Matthew 4.23, we read, “Now Jesus began to go all over Galilee, teaching in their synagogues, preaching the good news of the kingdom, and healing every disease and sickness among the people.” Or again, in Matthew 24.14, Jesus declares that “this good news of the kingdom will be proclaimed in all the world as a testimony to all nations, and then the end will come.” For Jesus, the kingdom is nothing less than the reign of God breaking into history to accomplish his redemptive purposes. It is the fulfillment of Old Testament prophetic hopes such as those found in Isaiah and Daniel. Isaiah envisioned a time when God would restore his people, forgive their sins, defeat their enemies, and bring salvation to the nations. Daniel likewise anticipated the coming of the Son of Man, to whom would be given an everlasting kingdom that would never pass away. These hopes converge in the preaching of Jesus. The kingdom involves the liberation and vindication of God’s people, the defeat of evil, the forgiveness of sins, and the establishment of God’s righteous rule over all creation. In other words, Jesus did not merely announce a message of individual personal salvation; he announced the arrival of God’s long-promised reign and the fulfillment of Israel’s eschatological hope.

However, it is important to remember that Jesus never separates the kingdom from himself. He is the one true and rightful king, God’s anointed Messiah, and wherever the king is, there the kingdom stands. This is why Jesus could say to the Pharisees, when they asked him about the coming of the kingdom, “For you see, the kingdom of God is in your midst” (Luke 17.21). The kingdom was in their midst because the King himself stood among them. In other words, the kingdom is inseparable from the identity and mission of Jesus. This reality is evident throughout the Gospels. In the Son of Man sayings, Jesus identifies himself as the one who will receive dominion and an everlasting kingdom in fulfillment of Daniel 7. Likewise, in the kingdom parables, the growth and consummation of the kingdom are tied directly to his own ministry and mission. The same connection appears in the triumphal entry, where Jesus deliberately presents himself as Israel’s promised king, and again at the Last Supper, where he speaks of the coming kingdom in the context of his impending death. Far from being an unfortunate interruption of the kingdom program, the cross stands at its very center. Jesus understood that God’s reign would be established through his suffering, resurrection, and exaltation. The kingdom does not arrive apart from the King; it comes precisely through the saving work of the King himself.

This is precisely where the Apostle Paul enters into the discussion. Throughout his missionary ministry and epistles, Paul repeatedly proclaimed the good news of Christ’s saving work. In 1 Corinthians 15, he summarizes the gospel in its most basic form: Christ died for our sins, Christ was buried, Christ was raised on the third day, and Christ appeared to many witnesses (1 Cor. 15.1–8). At first glance, this emphasis on the death and resurrection of Jesus may appear quite different from Jesus’s proclamation of the kingdom of God. However, such a conclusion overlooks the fundamentally royal character of Paul’s gospel. Paul is not merely interested in what Christ accomplished; he is equally concerned with who Christ is. Again and again, he identifies Jesus as the promised Son of David, the Messiah, and the exalted Lord. For example, in Romans 1, Paul describes the gospel as being “concerning his Son, Jesus Christ our Lord, who was a descendant of David according to the flesh and was appointed to be the powerful Son of God according to the Spirit of holiness by the resurrection of the dead” (Rom. 1.3–4). Notice the royal language. Jesus is the Davidic king promised in the Old Testament, and his resurrection is the moment of his public vindication and enthronement. The point, then, is that Paul’s gospel is not less concerned with the kingdom than Jesus’s gospel. Rather, Paul focuses on the King through whom God’s kingdom has been established and through whom its blessings are now extended to the nations.

But the question remains: why the difference in emphasis? Why do Jesus and Paul sound so different in their proclamation of the gospel? The answer is that they stand at different points within the unfolding drama of redemptive history. The earthly ministry of Jesus occurs before the cross, before the resurrection, and before the ascension. He ministered primarily among Jews in Galilee and Judea, and therefore proclaimed a message that resonated deeply with Israel’s scriptural hopes and expectations. His preaching announced that the kingdom of God was at hand and that the promises spoken by the prophets were beginning to find their fulfillment. In other words, Jesus proclaimed what God was about to accomplish through his own person and work. Paul, by contrast, preached after these events had already occurred. He knew the crucified and risen Christ not merely as a future hope, but as a historical reality. Having encountered the exalted Lord on the road to Damascus, Paul devoted his ministry to explaining the significance of Christ’s death, resurrection, and exaltation for both Jews and Gentiles. Thus, Jesus announces the arrival of the kingdom, while Paul explains how that kingdom was established through the saving work of its King. The difference, then, is not one of substance but of historical perspective. Jesus proclaims the fulfillment that is coming; Paul proclaims the fulfillment that has come.

Of course, Paul is fully aware of the reality and significance of the kingdom of God. In fact, kingdom language appears throughout both his preaching and his letters. For example, in Colossians 1.13, he writes that God “has rescued us from the domain of darkness and transferred us into the kingdom of the Son he loves.” Notice that for Paul the kingdom is not merely a future hope; it is a present reality into which believers have already been brought through their union with Christ. Likewise, when Paul arrives in Rome at the end of Acts, Luke tells us that “from dawn to dusk he expounded and testified about the kingdom of God” (Acts 28.23), and concludes the book by describing Paul as “proclaiming the kingdom of God and teaching about the Lord Jesus Christ” (Acts 28.31). Significantly, Luke treats these two subjects as complementary rather than contradictory. The same pattern appears in 1 Corinthians 15.24–28, where Paul describes the consummation of history as the moment when Christ delivers the kingdom to the Father so that God may be all in all. The point is that Paul never abandoned kingdom theology; rather, he interpreted the kingdom through the death, resurrection, exaltation, and future return of Jesus. For Paul, the kingdom remains central because the King remains central.

In the final analysis, then, we can say that Jesus announced the kingdom, while Paul explained how that kingdom was established through the person and work of Christ. Jesus proclaimed its arrival; Paul proclaimed its accomplishment. Yet beneath these differing emphases lies a profound theological unity. Both Jesus and Paul understood God’s saving work as the fulfillment of Israel’s long-awaited hopes. Both proclaimed the reign of God breaking into history to accomplish redemption. Both understood forgiveness of sins, salvation for the nations, and the resurrection of the dead as essential features of God’s eschatological plan. The difference is not that Jesus preached one gospel and Paul another, but that each proclaimed the same gospel from a different vantage point within the unfolding drama of redemption. Jesus announced that the kingdom had drawn near because the King had arrived. Paul proclaimed that the kingdom had been inaugurated because the King had died, risen, and been exalted to the right hand of God. Thus, the gospel of the kingdom and the gospel of Jesus Christ are not rival messages but complementary perspectives on the same redemptive reality. To separate the kingdom from the King is to misunderstand Jesus, and to separate the King from the kingdom is to misunderstand Paul. Both stand together in proclaiming the fulfillment of God’s promises in Christ.

Ultimately, this discussion reminds us of the profound unity of the New Testament witness. Too often, Jesus and Paul are set against one another, as though they were proclaiming different messages or pursuing different theological agendas. Yet the testimony of the New Testament is remarkably consistent. The God who promised to establish his reign through Israel’s Messiah has done exactly that in the person of Jesus Christ. The kingdom that Jesus announced is the same kingdom that Paul proclaimed, and the salvation that Paul explained is the same salvation that Jesus came to accomplish. Rather than forcing a choice between the message of Jesus and the message of Paul, we should allow each to illuminate the other. When we do, we discover a single gospel centered on a single Savior, through whom God is fulfilling his promises and reconciling the world to himself.

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05/11/2026

On Justification and the Roman Catholic Church

By Phillip Powers

Some time ago, I reviewed a debate between Allen S. Nelson IV, pastor of Providence Baptist Church, and Father Stephen Hart of Sacred Heart Church on the question of whether the Roman Catholic Church is a gospel-denying church. (See my review here.) This debate centered on the doctrine of justification and exposed the fundamental differences between Protestant and Roman Catholic understandings of how a person is made right before God. Of course, justification stands at the very center of the gospel itself; it is not merely a secondary disagreement between theological traditions. A distorted understanding of justification necessarily distorts the good news because it touches the question of how sinners are reconciled to God through Christ. And this is precisely the issue that the Apostle Paul takes up in the Epistle to the Galatians. In Galatians, Paul argues with remarkable force that justification is by faith apart from works of the law and warns that any alteration of the gospel strikes at the heart of Christian truth. In this post, then, I would like to consider how Paul’s argument in Galatians relates to the Roman Catholic understanding of justification, because if the message of Galatians is taken seriously, it forces us to ask whether justification can, in any sense, be grounded in works without compromising the gospel itself.

The situation addressed in the Epistle to the Galatians is relatively well known, but it is worth reviewing briefly for the sake of clarity. Sometime after Paul’s first missionary journey, it appears that a group of Jewish Christians came into the churches of Galatia and began teaching that Gentile believers needed to be circumcised and adopt the Torah in order to be fully included among the people of God. (On the timeline of events in Galatia, see here.) These teachers are often described as “Judaizers,” though the issue at stake is frequently misunderstood. They were not simply advocating for moral effort or “legalism” in the modern sense of the term. Rather, they were challenging the basis upon which Gentiles could belong to the covenant community. Was faith in Christ sufficient, or did covenant membership require obedience to the Mosaic law as well? In other words, the issue was not whether obedience mattered in the Christian life. Paul himself repeatedly affirms the necessity of holiness and faithful living. The question, rather, was whether obedience to the law contributed in any sense to justification and covenant inclusion. And it is precisely at this point that Paul responds with extraordinary urgency, because for him the integrity of the gospel itself was at stake.

Against this backdrop, Paul’s central claim is that “no one is justified before God by the law, because the righteous will live by faith” (3.11). The question, of course, revolves around what Paul means by the term “justified.” However, the qualifying phrase “before God” is especially revealing. Paul is not speaking primarily about inward moral transformation or spiritual renewal, important as those realities are elsewhere in his theology. Rather, he is speaking about a person’s standing before the divine judge. Justification, then, is fundamentally forensic in nature. It is a legal declaration in which the believer is counted righteous before God on the basis of faith rather than works of the law. This is why Paul consistently contrasts justification with human obedience throughout Galatians. If righteousness could be obtained through the law, then there would be no need for Christ’s death (2.21). The issue is not whether good works follow genuine faith; Paul clearly believes that they do. The issue is whether those works contribute in any sense to the believer’s right standing before God. Paul’s answer is emphatic and uncompromising: sinners are justified by faith in Christ apart from the works of the law. Their acceptance before God rests not in their own obedience, but in the saving work of Christ received through faith.

However, the question must still be asked: what exactly does Paul mean by “works of the law”? In recent decades, the so-called “New Perspective on Paul,” especially in the work of James D. G. Dunn, has argued that these “works” refer primarily to Jewish socio-religious boundary markers such as circumcision, Sabbath observance, and food laws. On this reading, Paul’s concern is chiefly horizontal. The issue is how Jews and Gentiles can exist together within the same covenant community without the Torah functioning as a barrier between them. There is certainly truth in this observation, especially given the prominence of circumcision in Galatians itself. However, this understanding is ultimately too narrow because it does not fully account for Paul’s repeated emphasis on justification “before God.” Paul’s concern is not merely social fellowship, but a person’s standing before the divine judge. Therefore, “works of the law” cannot be reduced simply to ceremonial observances or ethnic boundary markers. Rather, the phrase must encompass any attempt to establish righteousness before God through obedience to the law. This is precisely why Paul contrasts law and promise, works and faith, curse and blessing. For Paul, the law cannot justify because fallen humanity cannot keep it perfectly. Faith, by contrast, receives what God promises in Christ rather than attempting to achieve righteousness through human obedience.

This is made clear by the way that Paul builds his argument in Galatians, namely on a series of theological contrasts that structure his understanding of the gospel itself. Central to his reasoning is the example of Abraham. Long before the giving of the law, Abraham “believed God, and it was credited to him for righteousness” (3.6). This point is crucial because it demonstrates that justification by faith precedes the Mosaic covenant altogether. The promise given to Abraham was received through faith, not through obedience to the law. The law, therefore, cannot function as the basis of justification because it was never the foundation of God’s covenant promises to begin with. Rather, Paul argues that the law was temporary, added “because of transgressions” until the coming of Christ (3.19). This is why Paul consistently contrasts promise and law, Spirit and flesh, faith and works throughout the letter. These are not complementary paths to justification, but fundamentally different principles. The law demands obedience and pronounces a curse upon those who fail to keep it perfectly, whereas faith receives the promise of God fulfilled in Christ. This is why Paul reacts so strongly to the Galatian error. The law does not complete what faith begins—it belongs to a different order altogether. To return to the law as the ground of justification is not spiritual maturity; it is, in Paul’s view, a departure from the very logic of the gospel itself.

This is perhaps why Paul speaks with such force in the opening of the Epistle to the Galatians. In 1:9, he writes, “As we have said before, I now say again: If anyone is preaching to you a gospel contrary to what you received, a curse be on him!” For Paul, this is not rhetorical exaggeration or emotional overstatement; it is covenantal seriousness. The gospel is not infinitely flexible or open to revision. It is the announcement of what God has accomplished in Christ for the salvation of sinners, and therefore to alter the basis of justification is to alter the gospel itself. This is precisely why Paul reacts so strongly to the teaching of the Judaizers. In his view, adding obedience to the law as a condition of justification does not merely supplement the gospel—it fundamentally changes its character. The issue is not whether circumcision or obedience have value in themselves; the issue is whether they contribute to a person’s right standing before God. Once works are introduced as part of the ground of justification, faith in Christ alone is no longer sufficient. And for Paul, that is not a small theological mistake, but a corruption of the gospel itself.

At this point, it is worth bringing Paul’s argument into conversation with the Roman Catholic understanding of justification, especially as articulated at the Council of Trent. To be clear, the Roman Catholic position is not identical to the error confronted in Galatia. The Judaizers were specifically requiring circumcision and Torah observance for covenant inclusion, whereas Roman Catholic theology affirms the necessity of grace and the centrality of Christ’s work. Nevertheless, there are important structural similarities that raise serious theological concerns. According to Trent, justification is not merely the forgiveness of sins, but also “the sanctification and renewal of the inward man” (Session 6, Chapter 7). Likewise, Trent teaches that the justified “through the observance of the commandments of God and of the Church, faith cooperating with good works, increase in that justice received through the grace of Christ” (Session 6, Chapter 10). In other words, justification in Roman Catholic theology includes transformative righteousness and can increase through obedience. But this is precisely where the tension with Galatians emerges. Paul consistently treats justification as a forensic declaration received through faith apart from works of the law. The question, then, is unavoidable: if justification is maintained or increased through works, even grace-enabled works, does this not reintroduce the very dynamic Paul rejects? Put differently, does the Roman Catholic system preserve the sufficiency of faith in Christ alone, or does it ultimately ground final justification, at least in part, in human obedience? At the very least, Trent’s understanding of justification is horribly confused and differs significantly from Paul’s argument in Galatians.

Now, in the interest of completeness, it is equally important to consider how the message of the Epistle to the Galatians might speak to those of us on the Protestant side of the aisle as well. As I noted in my original review, Protestants often have a tendency to underemphasize the importance—indeed, even the necessity—of good works in the Christian life. In some circles, the gospel is reduced to little more than a kind of “get out of hell free” card: simply believe in Jesus and secure your eternal destiny. But this reductionistic understanding of salvation severely minimizes the transforming power of grace and the necessity of Spirit-empowered obedience. Paul himself never makes this mistake. While he fiercely rejects works as the basis of justification, he equally insists that genuine faith necessarily produces obedience. This is why he can say in Galatians 5.6 that “what matters is faith working through love.” For Paul, obedience is not opposed to faith; rather, obedience is the fruit of true faith. The problem, then, is not works in themselves, but works placed in the wrong category. Works cannot justify the sinner before God, but they are the inevitable result of union with Christ and the indwelling work of the Spirit. Grace does not merely forgive; it transforms.

In theological categories, this process is known as sanctification, that is, the lifelong work of growing in conformity to the character of Christ through the power of the Holy Spirit. In the language of the Epistle to the Galatians, this is described as “walking by the Spirit” and cultivating the “fruit of the Spirit,” namely “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control” (5.22–23). The point is that while sanctification is logically distinct from justification, it is not altogether separate from it. The faith that justifies is never barren or inactive. We are justified by faith alone, but the person who is truly justified by faith will necessarily grow in holiness and produce the good works of Christlike character. This is why Paul can reject works as the basis of justification while simultaneously insisting upon obedience as the necessary fruit of life in the Spirit. Indeed, this is essentially the same point made by the Epistle of James in its discussion of faith and works, a point Paul himself would affirm wholeheartedly. Works do not secure our standing before God; rather, they demonstrate that our faith is living and genuine. Grace not only pardons the sinner, it transforms him.

What emerges from Galatians, then, is a clear theological order that must not be confused or reversed. First comes faith, and through faith comes justification, that once-for-all declaration in which the sinner is counted righteous before God on the basis of Christ alone. Then comes the gift of the Spirit, through whom the believer is progressively transformed into the image of Christ. Finally, obedience follows as the fruit of this new life in the Spirit. In other words, the imperatives of the Christian life flow out of the indicatives of the gospel. We obey because we have been accepted in Christ, not in order to be accepted by him. This is precisely why Paul can simultaneously reject justification by works while insisting upon the necessity of holiness. The Christian life is not opposed to obedience; it is grounded in grace-enabled obedience that flows from faith. But the order matters immensely. To place works before justification, or to make obedience part of the ground of our acceptance before God, is to reverse Paul’s entire theological structure and, in doing so, distort the very nature of the gospel itself.

In conclusion, then, we must affirm that the question of justification as it relates to faith and works is a foundational question when it comes to the clarity of the gospel itself. As Paul warns in the Epistle to the Galatians, to distort the gospel is to come under the curse of God. And while I do not think that the Roman Catholic Church falls under this curse in a simplistic or one-to-one sense, I do believe that the formulations of the Council of Trent are deeply confused on the question of justification and, in important ways, structurally parallel the very concerns Paul raises in Galatians. At the same time, Protestants must also resist the temptation to reduce the gospel to mere intellectual assent divorced from holiness and obedience. Paul rejects both legalism and moral indifference. The gospel he proclaims is one in which sinners are justified by faith alone and then transformed by the power of the Spirit into lives of joyful obedience. Faithful theology, then, requires more than loyalty to tradition or theological systems. It requires that we let Paul define the gospel on his own terms—and then have the courage to examine our systems in light of that definition.

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05/04/2026

On Messianic Sonship in the Gospel of John

By Phillip Powers

In my previous post, I argued that in the New Testament the title “Son of God” should be understood primarily as royal and messianic before it is understood in fully developed theological terms. However, because of its clear emphasis on the divinity of Jesus, many assume that the Gospel of John moves away from this historical and messianic framework. In this post, I want to suggest that John does not abandon these categories; on the contrary, he deepens them in order to reveal what it truly means for Jesus to be the Messiah. Or to put it another way, John presents Jesus in continuity with Jewish messianic expectations, while also showing that this messianic sonship entails a uniquely intimate and divine relationship with the Father that exceeds what was previously anticipated. The question, then, is not whether John’s understanding of Jesus is messianic, but what kind of messianism he presents.

In his purpose statement, John writes that “these are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God.” Here again, the grammatical construction is significant. The term “Christ” (or “Messiah”) stands in apposition to the phrase “Son of God,” meaning that the two expressions are placed side by side, with one defining or clarifying the other. In this context, to confess Jesus as the Messiah is to confess him as the Son of God. This same connection appears at the beginning of the Gospel of John. In John 1:49, Nathanael declares, “You are the Son of God; you are the King of Israel.” The parallelism in these lines again equates divine sonship with messianic kingship, but more importantly, these two statements function as bookends to the Gospel, framing John’s presentation of Jesus from beginning to end. The point, then, is that John does not abandon the messianic meaning of “Son of God.” Rather, he affirms it at the structural level of his narrative. To believe in Jesus as the Messiah is to believe in him as the Son, and this understanding stands in direct continuity with the Synoptic presentation explored in the previous post.

This same connection appears at the midpoint of the Gospel of John. In the account of Lazarus in John 11, after Jesus declares that he is “the resurrection and the life,” he turns to Martha and asks, “Do you believe this?” She responds, “Yes, Lord; I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, who is coming into the world.” This confession is loaded with Christological significance. Not only does it once again place “Messiah” and “Son of God” in apposition, reinforcing the connection we have already seen, but it also adds a further layer by describing Jesus as “the one who is coming into the world.” This language resonates with broader biblical expectations of a coming deliverer—one who is sent by God and arrives to accomplish his purposes. It echoes themes associated with the coming figure of Daniel 7 and the one who comes in the name of the Lord in Psalm 118. Taken together with John 1:49 and 20:31, this confession strengthens the pattern: to be the Son of God is to be the Messiah, the King of Israel, the one sent into the world. In other words, John clearly preserves and reinforces the traditional messianic categories that were already in circulation.

Of course, conceptions of the Messiah in the literature of Second Temple Judaism were far from uniform. Expectations were diverse and often overlapping rather than monolithic. Some traditions emphasized a royal figure in continuity with the promises to David, drawing on texts like 2 Samuel 7 and Psalm 2, where the Messiah is understood as the anointed king who would rule on God’s behalf. Others envisioned a more prophetic figure, in keeping with the promise of a prophet like Moses in Deuteronomy 18, one who would speak God’s word with unique authority. Still others anticipated a more exalted or even heavenly figure, shaped by texts like Daniel 7, where the “Son of Man” is portrayed as receiving dominion and glory from God himself. The point is not that these expectations were clearly defined or neatly separated, but that Jewish messianism already contained a range of categories capable of accommodating a figure of significant authority and even transcendent status. This is important for reading the Gospel of John. When John presents Jesus in elevated terms, he is not abandoning messianic categories or importing something foreign into the tradition. Rather, he is drawing on a rich and developing matrix of expectation already present within Second Temple Judaism and showing how these strands converge in the person of Jesus.

Now, as I argued in my previous post, in the Synoptic Gospels the idea of sonship is primarily representative. As the Messiah, Jesus stands as God’s appointed ruler on earth, the true king who embodies and fulfills the role that Israel and her kings failed to carry out. But in the Gospel of John, the concept of sonship is taken further. The relationship between the Father and the Son is not merely one of representation, but of participation. That is, the Son does not simply act on God’s behalf; he acts in a way that is inseparably bound up with the Father’s own activity. This is made clear in passages like John 5:19, where Jesus says, “Truly I tell you, the Son is not able to do anything on his own, but only what he sees the Father doing. For whatever the Father does, the Son likewise does these things.” The claim here is remarkable. It is not merely that the Son imitates the Father, but that his actions are perfectly coordinated with and reflective of the Father’s own work. The same idea appears in John 10:30: “I and the Father are one.” In other words, the Son does not merely represent the Father as his agent; he shares in his work in a unique and unparalleled way. This is not a departure from messianic sonship, but a deepening of it—one that begins to press beyond simple representation into a more profound unity between the Father and the Son.

At this point, it is helpful to introduce a category that has received significant attention in recent scholarship, namely the Jewish concept of agency. In the ancient Jewish world, an agent functioned as a representative of the one who sent him. The basic idea was that “the one sent is as the sender,” meaning that the agent could speak and act with the authority of the one who commissioned him. This framework helps explain much of the language in the Gospel of John, especially the repeated emphasis that Jesus is the one “sent” by the Father. He speaks the Father’s words, performs the Father’s works, and carries out the Father’s will. In this sense, Jesus clearly fits within recognizable Jewish categories of agency. And yet, as the Gospel unfolds, it becomes evident that his sonship cannot be fully contained within that framework. Jesus does not merely speak for God; he speaks as one who uniquely knows the Father. He does not simply carry out God’s works; he does what the Father himself does. The point, then, is that while the category of agency is helpful, it is ultimately insufficient. The Son does not merely act on God’s behalf—he acts with God’s authority in a way that is inseparably bound up with the Father himself. In other words, John presents a form of agency that is intensified to the point of revealing something more about the identity of the Son.

According to John, this is precisely why opposition to Jesus intensifies. In John 5:18, we read, “This is why the Jews began trying all the more to kill him: not only was he breaking the Sabbath, but he was even calling God his own Father, making himself equal to God.” This observation is significant because it shows that the implications of Jesus’s claims are drawn from within the narrative itself. John does not import the idea of divine sonship from some external philosophical framework; rather, it emerges organically from the way Jesus speaks about his relationship to the Father. What is particularly striking is that Jesus does not correct this interpretation. Instead, in the verses that follow, he deepens it. He speaks of doing whatever the Father does, of giving life as the Father gives life, and of exercising judgment as the Father does. In other words, the claim to sonship entails participation in divine prerogatives that belong to God alone. The response of his opponents, then, is not a misunderstanding but a recognition of the implications of his words. They perceive that Jesus is not merely claiming to be God’s representative, but is placing himself in a unique relationship of shared authority with God. The point, then, is that in John’s Gospel, messianic sonship presses beyond representation into a form of equality that raises unavoidable questions about the identity of the Son.

And this is why Jesus is uniquely able to reveal the Father. In John 1:18 we read, “No one has ever seen God. The one and only Son, who is himself God and is at the Father’s side—he has revealed him.” There is a well-known textual question here as to whether the verse should read “the only begotten God” or “the only begotten Son.” While the evidence favors the reading “the only begotten God”, what is most striking is that both readings point in the same direction: John is describing a relationship between the Father and the Son that is without parallel. The Son stands in the closest possible relation to the Father—“at his side”—and precisely for that reason he is able to make him known. This is not simply the language of a prophet who speaks on God’s behalf; it is the language of one who knows God from within that relationship. Jesus makes this point explicit in John 14. When Philip asks, “Lord, show us the Father,” Jesus responds, “The one who has seen me has seen the Father.” In other words, the Son does not merely communicate information about God—he reveals him. The Son is uniquely qualified to make the Father known because his identity is inseparably bound up with the Father himself.

As in the Synoptic Gospels, the identity of Jesus as the Son reaches its fullest expression in his death, but in the Gospel of John this moment is framed in a striking way. The crucifixion is not merely suffering; it is glorification. In John 12:32, Jesus says, “As for me, if I am lifted up from the earth I will draw all people to myself.” The language of being “lifted up” carries a deliberate double meaning. On the one hand, it refers to the physical lifting up of Jesus on the cross. On the other, it points to exaltation, to being lifted up in glory. For John, these are not separate events but one and the same reality viewed from different angles. This is confirmed in John 13:31, where, immediately after predicting his betrayal, Jesus declares, “Now the Son of Man is glorified, and God is glorified in him.” In other words, the cross is not a contradiction of Jesus’s identity as the Son—it is its revelation. The glory of his sonship is displayed precisely in his obedience, his self-giving, and his willingness to suffer. The Son is most fully revealed not in avoiding the cross, but in embracing it.

And the resurrection brings this trajectory to its proper conclusion. After seeing the risen Jesus and placing his hands in his wounds, Thomas responds with the climactic confession, “My Lord and my God!” (John 20.28). This is not merely an emotional outburst; it is the narrative’s decisive answer to the question that has been building throughout the Gospel of John: Who is this Jesus who claims to be the Son of God? Thomas’s confession brings together the strands that John has been developing from the beginning. The one who is the Messiah, the Son of God, is also rightly confessed as Lord and God. In this moment, the identity of Jesus is not revised but fully recognized. The resurrection does not introduce something new; it confirms and unveils what has been true all along. As such, the arc of the Gospel reaches its climax in the full acknowledgment of Jesus’s identity, echoing the claims of the opening prologue. The Son who was sent into the world is revealed to be none other than God himself, now seen, known, and confessed in the risen Christ.

So, to bring all of this together, we can now see the full trajectory of the title “Son of God” across the canon. In the Old Testament, sonship is grounded in covenant and kingship. Israel is called God’s son, and the Davidic king is identified as God’s son, functioning as his appointed ruler and representative. In the Synoptic Gospels, this category is sharpened and focused in the person of Jesus, who is confessed as the Messiah, the Son of God—the one who fulfills the role that Israel and her kings failed to carry out. But in the Gospel of John, this messianic sonship is not abandoned; it is brought to its fullest expression. John shows that the Messiah is the Son in a deeper sense than previously expected. The Son does not merely represent God’s rule; he participates in the Father’s work, shares in his authority, and uniquely reveals his identity. In other words, John does not move beyond messianism into something else entirely. Rather, he reveals what messianism was ultimately pointing toward all along. The royal Son of the Old Testament and the messianic Son of the Synoptics find their fullest meaning in the one who is not only God’s appointed king, but the Son who stands in a unique and unparalleled relationship with the Father.

What all of this means, then, is that the confession that Jesus is the Son of God is not merely a doctrinal statement to be affirmed, but a reality to be believed and lived. In the Gospel of John, belief in the Son is consistently tied to life. To believe in him is to receive life, to enter into a relationship with the Father, and to know God as he truly is. This is because the Son is the one who uniquely reveals the Father. He is not simply a messenger who brings information about God; he is the one in whom God is made known. And so to come to the Son is to come to the Father. At the same time, this confession is grounded in the unfolding story of Scripture. The title “Son of God” begins in the Old Testament as a royal and covenantal designation, is sharpened in the Synoptic Gospels as a messianic identity, and is brought to its fullest expression in John, where the Son is revealed in a uniquely intimate and participatory relationship with the Father. To confess Jesus as the Son of God, then, is not only to affirm his role as Messiah, but to recognize him as the one who stands at the very center of God’s redemptive purposes, the one who makes the Father known, and the one in whom we find life.

For further study:
Reynolds, Benjamin E., and Gabriele Boccaccini, eds. Reading the Gospel of John’s Christology as Jewish Messianism: Royal, Prophetic, and Divine Messiahs. Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity. Leiden: Brill, 2018.

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04/27/2026

On Son of God as a Messianic Title

By Phillip Powers

When Christians confess that Jesus is the Son of God, we are usually affirming something of his divinity. In other words, the title “Son of God” is typically understood in doctrinal terms as an affirmation that Jesus is the second person of the Trinity come incarnate. This understanding reaches back to the formulation of the First Council of Nicaea in AD 325. In that creed, we confess that Jesus is “the only begotten Son of God, born of the Father before all ages, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father.” These are beautiful words that faithfully express the truth of Christ’s divinity. However, they also risk skipping the story. In Scripture, the term “Son of God” first emerges as a royal, messianic title before it is developed into a fuller theological claim about his divine identity. Its meaning is shaped by covenant, kingship, and expectation, and only later expanded in light of who Jesus truly is.

The idea of sonship appears early in the Old Testament. As early as Exodus 4.22, God declares that “Israel is my firstborn son,” identifying the nation as his covenant people, set apart to represent him among the nations. Later, in the Davidic covenant, God speaks of the king in similar terms: “I will be his father, and he will be my son” (2 Sam. 7.14). Here, sonship is tied directly to kingship and divine appointment. The king stands as God’s representative, ruling on his behalf and under his authority. This same idea is expressed in Psalm 2, where, in the context of royal coronation, the king declares, “He said to me, ‘You are my Son; today I have begotten you.'” The language is not biological or metaphysical, but covenantal and functional. It marks the king as the one chosen and installed by God to exercise his rule. The point, then, is that in these texts divine sonship refers to representative, covenantal identity. It speaks of relational authority, divine election, and royal vocation rather than transcendent metaphysical realities. To be called ‘Son of God’ in this context is to be appointed as God’s king, entrusted with the responsibility of embodying his rule among his people.

The problem, however, is that these “sons of God” consistently fail to live up to the height of their calling. As God’s son, Israel was called to be a kingdom of priests, a light to the nations, and a visible reflection of God’s character in the world. Yet instead of faithfulness, they fell into sin and idolatry, broke the terms of the covenant, and were ultimately sent into exile under its curses. The same pattern emerges in the Davidic line. The kings of Israel and Judah, who were called to mediate God’s rule over his people, likewise failed through disobedience and compromise. This tension is reflected within the Psalms themselves. In Psalm 2, the authority of the Lord’s anointed king is met with resistance as the nations rage against him. In Psalm 89, the psalmist recalls God’s covenant promises to David, only to lament that those promises appear to stand in contradiction to present reality. The result is that the category of “son of God” begins to carry forward-looking weight. It no longer simply describes a present reality; it generates expectation. There emerges a longing for a faithful son, a greater son, who will succeed where Israel and her kings have failed, a hope captured in texts like Isaiah 9.6–7, where the promised son will finally bear the government in righteousness and peace. In other words, the Scriptures create space for a future Son who will succeed where others failed.

This hope for a greater Son of God becomes more clearly defined in the Second Temple period. Of course, these texts are not inspired Scripture, but they do provide important insight into the expectations and categories that were alive at the time of Jesus. What we see is a growing anticipation of deliverance increasingly framed in royal and messianic terms. While these expectations are diverse, there remains a significant continuity with Old Testament categories, especially the idea of the “Son of God.” For example, among the Dead Sea Scrolls, texts like 4Q174 (the Florilegium) link the Davidic covenant and the language of sonship in 2 Samuel 7.14 with the expectation of a coming royal Messiah. Likewise, 4Q246 explicitly uses the titles “Son of God” and “Son of the Most High” in reference to a future ruler. Another text, 1QSa (often cited as 1Q28a), appears to echo Psalm 2.7 with language of divine begetting applied to the Messiah. These examples could be multiplied, but the point is clear: in the Second Temple period, the concept of divine sonship is not abandoned or redefined, but carried forward and intensified. It remains closely tied to the Davidic king, even as it takes on heightened expectation in anticipation of the one who will finally fulfill that role. Or to put it another way, the term “Son of God” was already a loaded, expectation-filled term before Jesus appeared.

In the Synoptic Gospels, “Son of God” language appears at key moments in the life and ministry of Jesus. Most notably, at his baptism and again at his transfiguration, a voice from heaven declares, “This is my beloved Son,” marking him out as the one uniquely appointed and affirmed by God. The demons, too, recognize Jesus as the Son of God, a recognition that underscores his authority and signals his messianic identity, even when others fail to perceive it clearly. This comes into sharper focus at Caesarea Philippi. When Jesus asks his disciples, “Who do you say that I am?”, Peter responds, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” The grammar of this confession is particularly significant. The predicate nominative “Messiah” and the phrase “Son of the living God” stand in apposition, meaning that the second expression defines and clarifies the first. In other words, to confess Jesus as the Messiah is to confess him as the Son of God. In this context, divine sonship is directly tied to his mission, obedience, and kingship. At the same time, Jesus redefines contemporary messianic expectations. He rejects the political and nationalistic ambitions often associated with the Messiah and instead frames his identity around suffering, obedience, and ultimately his death. The point, then, is that throughout the Synoptic Gospels, the title “Son of God” functions primarily as a messianic designation, identifying who Jesus is and what he has come to do.

Even at his crucifixion, the language of sonship is front and center. The religious leaders mock him, saying, “If you are the Son of God, come down from the cross” (Matt. 27.40), and again, “He is the King of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him” (Matt. 27.42). The parallelism in these statements is striking. “Son of God” and “King of Israel” function as equivalent titles, reinforcing the connection between divine sonship and messianic kingship. And yet, this is the tension: the one who claims to be the Son of God appears to be defeated. He does not come down from the cross; he remains and suffers. But this apparent contradiction is precisely the point. Jesus does not abandon his identity as the Son; he fulfills it through obedience and suffering. His sonship is not negated at the cross; it is revealed there. The resurrection then serves as the divine vindication of his claims. As Paul writes in Romans 1.4, he was “appointed Son of God in power… by the resurrection from the dead.” That is, the resurrection publicly confirms what was already true of him, now revealed in power. The cross is not the denial of his kingship, but the path to it. As even the Roman centurion confesses at his death, “Truly this man was the Son of God.”

The early apostolic witness continues this same pattern by interpreting Jesus’s sonship in light of his resurrection and exaltation. In the book of Acts, the apostles repeatedly draw from the Psalms to explain what God has accomplished in Christ. For example, in Acts 13, Paul cites Psalm 2.7—“You are my Son; today I have begotten you”—and applies it to the resurrection of Jesus. In this context, the language of “begetting” is not about origin, but about installation. The resurrection marks the public declaration and vindication of Jesus as the Son of God, the one who now reigns in power. Similarly, Psalm 110 is used throughout the New Testament to describe Christ’s exaltation to the right hand of God, a position of authority, kingship, and rule over all things. The point is that the apostles read the Psalms as speaking directly to the identity and mission of Jesus, particularly as they relate to his enthronement. His sonship is not merely a title attached to his earthly ministry; it is confirmed and displayed in his exaltation. In other words, Jesus is revealed to be the Son of God in power as the risen and reigning king, fulfilling the royal and covenantal expectations embedded in the Psalter. (On Christ as the fulfillment of the Psalms, see here.)

Bringing all of this together, the title “Son of God” in Scripture carries a rich and layered meaning that is rooted in covenant, kingship, and ultimately fulfillment in Christ. It is a title that begins with Israel as God’s son, is focused and intensified in the Davidic king, and then expands into a forward-looking expectation for a faithful Son who will succeed where all others have failed. In Jesus, that expectation is finally realized. He is the true Son who embodies what Israel was called to be, the true King who fulfills the promises made to David, and the obedient Son who accomplishes the will of the Father. His sonship is not defined by abstract speculation, but by his mission—his life of perfect obedience, his suffering on the cross, his resurrection from the dead, and his exaltation to the right hand of God. To confess Jesus as the Son of God, then, is to confess him as the promised Messiah, the one in whom God’s purposes for his people and his world are brought to completion. And yet, as full and glorious as this picture is, the story does not end here. The New Testament, particularly in the Gospel of John, will press even further, showing that Jesus’s sonship is not only messianic, but also reveals something deeper about his identity. But that is a discussion for another time.

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04/20/2026

On Christ as the Fulfillment of the Psalms

By Phillip Powers

One of the richest books in the Old Testament, in my opinion, is the Book of Psalms. It is a collection filled with the prayers and songs of Israel throughout her history, and it holds immense value for the devotional life of the church today. When we read the Psalms, we are drawn into the devotional, emotional, and personal experience of faith in ways that touch every part of our lives. And this is good and right. But the Psalms are not only expressions of faith, whether Israel’s or our own. They are also filled with expectations that reach beyond themselves. The Book of Psalms gives voice to Israel’s experience, to her covenant relationship with God, and to the life of faith more broadly, but it also creates categories that are not fully resolved within Israel’s history. In other words, the Psalms cry out for fulfillment, and it is my thesis that that fulfillment is ultimately found in and through the person and work of Jesus Christ.

In terms of the Old Testament canon, the Book of Psalms consists of prayers and songs that reflect the people, events, and experiences of Israel’s history. They provide a kind of covenantal reflection and royal theology that flows directly out of that historical context. However, the Psalms consistently reach beyond their immediate setting to realities that are eschatological in nature and central to God’s redemptive purposes. For example, in Psalm 22, we encounter the figure of the righteous sufferer—one who endures deep emotional and physical suffering through no fault of his own. While the superscript attributes the psalm to David, the experience described surpasses anything we can clearly identify in his life. Similarly, Psalms 2 and 110 present a vision of Israel’s ideal king: one who is anointed by God, victorious over his enemies, and who reigns with perfect righteousness and justice. Yet no king in Israel’s history, David included, fully embodies this portrait. Likewise, Psalm 1 sets forth a picture of perfect obedience that distinguishes the righteous from the wicked—an ideal never fully realized in Israel or in our own experience. The point is that the realities these psalms describe extend far beyond any one historical figure. They are not exhausted by the past; they point forward. This is why we can say that they cry out for fulfillment.

What I am saying is that the Psalms present us with a kind of tension; they describe ideals that are a far cry from the lived experience of the faithful, both then and now. The righteous sufferer suffers, but he is ultimately vindicated. The ideal king reigns, yet the nations still rage against his authority. The faithful worshiper trusts in God’s covenant promises, but the world remains broken and filled with sin. In other words, these themes are not fully resolved within the Psalter itself; they point beyond its pages and look forward to the decisive intervention of God. Or to put it differently, the Psalms do not simply describe reality as it is; they long for its restoration. There is a deep and persistent yearning throughout the Psalms for God to act on behalf of his people, to fulfill his promises, to judge the wicked, and to vindicate the righteous. This has been the cry of God’s people from the time of the fall until today. We know that something is wrong with the world as it is, and we long for the day when God will set things right and restore creation to what it was always meant to be. This is the heart of the Psalms.

Of course, it is clear in the Gospels that Jesus knew the Psalms well; no doubt he had read, heard, and memorized many of them throughout his life. But Jesus does not merely quote from the Psalms; he inhabits the realities that they describe. For example, when he is hanging on the cross, he cries out in quotation of Psalm 22.1, even as he bears the weight of his work in making atonement for sin. (On the cry of dereliction, see here.) This is not simply a cry of anguish, but an identification with the righteous sufferer whose vindication is anticipated in that psalm. Or again, in his debates with the religious leaders, he quotes Psalm 110.1 in reference to the identity of the Messiah (Matt. 22.41–46). But this is not merely an abstract theological question; it cuts to the very heart of Jesus’s identity as David’s Lord and the one who shares in the authority of God himself. Likewise, after telling the parable of the vineyard owner, Jesus quotes Psalm 118.22–23 about the stone the builders rejected, applying it directly to his own rejection by the religious leaders (Matt. 21.42–46). Many commentators suggest that these quotations function in a way similar to the Jewish practice of remez, where a single verse evokes the broader context of the entire psalm. The point is that Jesus read the Psalms as speaking about himself and his mission. He is not merely borrowing their language; he is revealing their fulfillment, embodying in his own life, death, and resurrection the realities toward which they ultimately point.

This is most clearly seen in the accounts of Jesus’s passion. I have already mentioned his quotation of Psalm 22, but he also alludes to Psalm 31.5, “Into your hands I entrust my spirit.” In addition to this, the Gospel writers present Jesus as inhabiting the experience of the righteous sufferer described in Psalm 69—one who is mocked, rejected, and consumed with zeal for the house of God. Even in the details of his crucifixion, we see the Psalms shaping the narrative, as John notes that not one of his bones was broken, in keeping with Psalm 34.20. These are not random correspondences; they are theological claims. The cross is the place where the unresolved tensions of the Psalms converge. The suffering of the righteous one, the apparent triumph of the wicked, and the trust of the faithful all meet in this moment. And yet, even here, lament is not the final word. In the midst of suffering, there is trust; in the midst of humiliation, there is the promise of vindication. In other words, what the Psalms anticipated, the cross of Jesus embodies. The cries of the Psalter are not silenced at Calvary; they are fulfilled there, as Jesus bears the full weight of suffering while entrusting himself completely to the Father.

And these kinds of connections between the person and work of Jesus and the Psalms are not unique to the Gospels; they are found throughout the New Testament. The apostles consistently interpret the Psalms in light of Christ. For example, in Acts 2, Peter quotes Psalm 16 in defense of Jesus’s resurrection, arguing that David’s words, “You will not abandon my soul to Hades or allow your Holy One to see decay,” cannot ultimately refer to David himself, since his tomb remained among them. Rather, the psalm finds its true fulfillment in the resurrection of Jesus. Likewise, in Acts 4, when the early church faces opposition, they quote Psalm 2 to interpret the raging of the nations against Jesus as the outworking of God’s sovereign plan. And again, in Acts 4:11, Peter cites Psalm 118.22 about the stone the builders rejected and applies it directly to Christ, a move he likely learned from Jesus himself. The author of Hebrews goes even further, repeatedly drawing from the Psalms to establish the superiority of the Son over angels, priests, and kings (e.g., Psalms 2, 8, and 110 among others). These examples could be multiplied, but the point is clear: the New Testament does not treat the Psalms merely as background; it treats them as prophetic and forward-looking. This fulfillment is not always a matter of direct prediction, but often of pattern and typology. The apostles read the Psalms as finding their true meaning in Christ, a hermeneutic grounded in Jesus’s own words that “everything written about me in the Law of Moses, the Prophets, and the Psalms must be fulfilled” (Luke 24:44).

In other words, Christ is the true singer of the Psalms. He is the true righteous one of Psalm 1; he is the true king of Psalm 2. He is the true suffering servant of Psalm 22, and on and on we could go through all 150 psalms. What the Psalter describes in part and in shadow, Christ embodies in fullness and in reality. He fulfills the Psalms both perfectly, in himself, and representatively, for us. That is to say, he is not only the one who perfectly lives out the life of trust, obedience, and righteousness described in the Psalms, but he is also the one who does so on behalf of his people. He stands in our place as the faithful worshiper, the obedient son, and the righteous sufferer who entrusts himself fully to the Father. This means that the Psalms ultimately belong to Christ before they belong to us. We do not begin with our own experience and read ourselves into the Psalms; rather, we begin with Christ and understand the Psalms through him. Only then, as those united to him by faith, do we find our place within their words.

This means that we must read the Psalms as Christians. Yes, we should still read them devotionally; yes, we should still make them our own in the discipline of prayer as we pray through the Scriptures. But we pray them as those who are united to Christ by faith; we pray them in him and through him. This means that our laments are joined to his laments; our cries of suffering are not isolated expressions, but echoes of the righteous sufferer who has gone before us. Likewise, our hope for vindication and deliverance is not grounded in uncertain circumstances, but in the sure reality of his resurrection. When we pray the Psalms, we are not merely expressing our own emotions; we are participating in the life of Christ himself. He gives shape to our prayers, depth to our suffering, and certainty to our hope. This is why we do not outgrow the Psalms; rather, we grow into them. We learn to read them more deeply in, with, and through Christ, finding that what once seemed distant or unresolved now finds clarity and fulfillment in him.

So, yes, the Psalms cry out for fulfillment, and Christ is the answer to their call. They give voice to the longings, tensions, and expectations of God’s people—longings for justice, for deliverance, for a righteous king, for the vindication of the faithful. Yet these cries are not left unresolved. They are not left hanging in the pages of the Old Testament. Rather, they find their resolution in Jesus. In his life, death, resurrection, and exaltation, the realities anticipated in the Psalms come to their fullness. The righteous sufferer is vindicated, the true king is enthroned, and the faithful worshiper is perfected. What the Psalms express in hope, Christ accomplishes in reality. To read the Psalms rightly, then, is not only to hear the voice of Israel, but to hear the voice of Christ—and to see that what they longed for, he has fulfilled.

For further study:
Ash, Christopher. The Psalms: A Christ-Centered Commentary. Four Volumes. Wheaton, IL: Crossway, 2024.

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03/30/2026

On the Unfinished Finished Work of Christ

By Phillip Powers

In light of this being the week of our Lord’s passion, it is interesting to note that one of the last things that he said before he gave up his Spirit on the cross was, “It is finished.” (τετέλεσται, John 19.30). With this powerful word, Jesus declared that his work on the cross in making full atonement for sin was completed, and “bowing his head, he gave up his spirit.” It must have been a powerful scene, and no more pregnant words have perhaps ever been spoken. However, the problem is that even though Christ finished his work, sin still seems to run rampant in this world. If it is finished, why, we might ask, is the world still broken, still full of pain and suffering and sin and death? Because of this, we might be tempted to suggest that his work is unfinished. Many Christians struggle to hold together what has already been accomplished and what still remains. However, what we must realize is that Christ’s work is finished; it is fully accomplished in its foundation, but not yet fully realized in its effects. In this post, I would like to consider this tension by offering just a few thoughts on what Christ accomplished in his first coming and what waits to be realized at his second coming.

In one sense, then, it is completely accurate to say that the work of Christ has been fully accomplished, and there are at least three aspects of his work that are completely finished. First, atonement has been accomplished. When Christ died on the cross, he made the full and final payment for our sin. In systematic theology, this is called penal substitutionary atonement. In other words, this means that Christ paid the penalty (penal) that we deserve (substitutionary) for our sin. (On the fact that this was Christ’s view of his death, see here.) He died the death that we deserve by dying in our place. But he did not stay dead; he rose again on the third day. This is the second aspect of Christ’s finished work, namely that victory over death has been secured. When Jesus walked out of the grave on the third day, he defeated death and disarmed Satan of his power. Death no longer has hold over those who are in Christ. We need not fear, we can have hope, even in the face of death. (On hope in the face of death, see here.) And lastly, by dying on the cross, Christ finished his work of establishing righteousness. In other words, his finished work on the cross is now the ground upon which God grants our justification, when we place our faith in Jesus. He lived a perfect life, he died an innocent death. And his righteousness is imputed to us by faith. We are made right, declared innocent, because of Christ’s finished work. This is the gospel. Nothing needs to be added to what Christ accomplished; his work is complete, sufficient, and final. It is not partial, not provisional. It is finished!

Moreover, his finished work on the cross inaugurated several important realities in which we now live. For one, the Kingdom of God has been inaugurated. Forty days after his resurrection, Jesus ascended into heaven to be seated at the right hand of the Father, and he is now reigning with all authority on earth as it is in heaven. (Matt. 28.18) He is not waiting to become King; he is already reigning as King. And he does this by his Spirit. This is the second reality in which we now live, namely that Christ has sent his Spirit to indwell his people. The Spirit mediates Christ’s real presence in and among his people. He is the down payment, the seal, and the guarantee of our faith. And he is actively working in us to make us more like Jesus. And lastly, but certainly not leastly, new life has begun. When we place our faith in Christ, the Spirit regenerates us. He brings to life what was once spiritually dead, and we are born again. In this way we are new creatures in Christ. The old has passed away, and behold the new has come. (2 Cor. 5.17) New creation realities are already at work in us through the Spirit. In these ways, the future has already broken into the present through the risen Christ, and we live in these future realities even now.

And yet, in spite of all of this, several aspects of Christ’s work remain unfinished. Perhaps most clearly, sin still remains in the world. We have been saved from the penalty of sin, but we have not yet been saved from the presence of sin. Our world is saturated and polluted with sin at every turn. People are burdened down with sin and its consequences. Our relationships suffer, bodies are diseased, conflict and turmoil abound at every level of our society. Sin continues its reign of terror nearly unchecked. In addition to this, death still operates in this world. This world reeks with the stench of death; it fills our nostrils everywhere we turn. Our loved ones get sick and die. Accidents and tragedy take lives too soon. Christ has been raised, and death has been defeated. But death still reigns in our mortal bodies, and we ache and groan for that day when death will be no more. Thirdly, the created order groans under the weight of humanity’s sin. When our first parents fell, the creation itself was subjected to futility and decay. The idyllic paradise of Eden was lost to the corruption of sin. And lastly, justice and restoration are yet to be realized. Injustice abounds in our society. From all appearances, the weak get weaker and the strong get stronger. There is no real justice; there is no real peace. Wickedness and evil seem to grow day by day. What is wrong is celebrated as right, and what is right is condemned as wrong. The world is turned upside down, and we long for the day when justice will flow like rivers and when peace will rest upon the earth. And we cry out with the Scriptures, “How long, O Lord? How long?”

In theological parlance, this tension between the finished and the unfinished work of Christ is often referred to by the shorthand phrase “already/not yet”. It simply means that God’s plan of redemption for the world has already begun, has already been inaugurated, but has not yet been fully consummated. The work of Christ’s first coming is finished. He died on the cross, he rose again the third day, he sent his life-giving Spirit. But we are still waiting for the work of his second coming, namely the resurrection of the dead, the final judgment, and the new creation. This is the tension in which we now live, and in this tension, we must avoid two extremes. First, we must avoid living as if nothing has been finished. We must learn to rest in the finished work of Christ. We have been forgiven; we have been indwelled by His Spirit. We can have peace. On the other hand, however, we must not live as if everything is already complete. We do live under the burdens of sin and death; we do long for justice and peace. And we can have hope. The work of Christ is finished in its accomplishment, but it is unfinished in its application to the whole of creation. And so, we wait faithfully as Christ has instructed us.

And this is the point, namely that this tension is not ultimately about stages of fulfillment, though that is certainly the best framework for understanding it. Ultimately, this tension is about Christ. His work is unfinished because his story is not over. (On my argument for the centrality of Christ in our eschatological reflection, see here.) In other words, the same Jesus who said, “It is finished” is the same Jesus who is coming again to make all things new. The same Jesus who died on the cross is the same Jesus who is coming again in glory. Or to put it another way, the second coming of Jesus is not a different work; no, it is the completion of the same work that he began 2000 years ago. The second coming completes what the first coming began, because Christ himself is the fulfillment of all our hopes. Our hope is not just about what Christ has done and will do; it is about Christ himself. It is about his presence. In John 14.3, Jesus promised that he would come again and receive us unto himself, that where he is there we may be also. And so, the unfinished nature of Christ’s work is not a failure of the first coming, but the promise of the second. He is our blessed hope.

And so, yes, we live in the middle of this tension; we live in between the already and the not yet. We are already forgiven, but we are still struggling. We are already alive, yet we are still dying. We are already redeemed, yet we are still waiting. We are waiting to be set free from the presence and the corruption of sin once and for all. This is the lived reality of the Christian life—caught between what has been accomplished and what has not yet been revealed. And I suggest that we must embrace this tension with open arms, because it is only when we embrace this tension that we will be able to hope without denying the pain of our sufferings, that we can be confident without giving into naive triumphalism, and that we can have patience without being paralyzed by despair. If we collapse this tension in either direction, we lose something essential. Either we deny the reality of our present struggle, or we forget the certainty of our future hope. This is the ground that we must stand on, the already and the not yet. We do not live as those waiting for Christ to begin his work, but as those waiting for him to complete it.

When Jesus said, “It is finished.”, he surely meant it. Christ’s work is finished, and yet, it is not yet finished completely. It is finished in its foundation, but it is unfinished in its consummation. We are waiting for the full glory of Christ and his work to be finally revealed on earth. And even in acknowledging the unfinished aspects of Christ work, we must affirm that the work of the cross is not undone; it is unfolding. The resurrection is not isolated; it is expanding. And one day, we will all be raised to meet him in the air, and from that point on, we will always be with the Lord. This is our hope, namely that the Christ who finished his work on the cross is coming again to bring it to final completion. Even so, come quickly, Lord Jesus! Maranatha!

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03/23/2026

On Christological Eschatology

By Phillip Powers

If you have followed my blog for any amount of time or if you have perused through the topics and tags, then you have probably noticed that eschatology is a primary interest of mine, both academically and pastorally. However, this area of theological reflection often evokes a mixed bag of responses and reactions. Some are quick to debate the various questions and details related to timelines, rapture debates, and millennium questions, while others are prone to avoid the questions altogether. I would suggest that neither one of these responses to the doctrines of the last things is healthy. Moreover, when we are so focused on identifying our particular eschatological system, whether dispensational, premillennial, amillennial, or postmillennial, we run the risk of displacing Jesus from the center of the question. This is not to say that these systems are wrong per se, but it is to say that we are often in danger of missing the forest for the trees as it were. Our eschatology is only as sound as our Christology. Every question about the end ultimately reduces to the question: Who is Jesus, and what is he doing? In other words, our eschatological views must be inherently Christological before they are anything else.

Christological eschatology is the conviction that the person and work of Jesus Christ are not merely part of the end times—they are the interpretive center of all eschatology. Of course, this does not mean that it is unconcerned with the unfolding of future events like the final judgment or the general resurrection. Eschatological reflection will always entail some understanding of the events that are yet to unfold, as Scripture itself directs our attention to these realities. However, Christological eschatology asserts that these events derive their meaning and significance from Christ and his work. They are not self-interpreting realities, nor are they ultimate in themselves; rather, they are the outworking of what God has already accomplished in and through Jesus. In this way, Christological eschatology is not event-centered nor system-centered, but Christ-centered. It refuses to treat the end as a sequence to be mapped or a system to be mastered and instead understands it as the fulfillment of the redemptive work of Christ. It is simply the view that every eschatological question ultimately revolves around the person and work of Christ in bringing redemption to the world.

In many ways, viewing our eschatology as centered on the person and work of Christ is simply a way of embracing the interpretive horizon of the New Testament. The New Testament authors consistently orient their eschatological claims back to the person and work of Jesus. For example, in 1 Corinthians 15, when Paul is addressing the question of the resurrection, he grounds his argument in the fact that Christ has already been resurrected from the dead. He is the first fruits of our resurrection; because Christ has already been raised, we will be raised. (On the logic of the resurrection, see here.) Or again, when the Gospel authors talk about the nearness or the presence of the Kingdom, they speak of it in relation to the presence of Christ. Because Christ is King, his coming to earth marks the beginning of the Kingdom age. This is why we regularly speak of the already and the not yet. The Kingdom has already been inaugurated at Christ’s first coming, and it will be finally consummated at his second coming. In other words, the already/not yet framework is grounded in Jesus himself. Jesus is not just a participant in the end; he is the turning point of history. The end does not merely arrive with Jesus. In a real sense, it begins with him.

We miss this emphasis when we become too focused on other eschatological questions. Both at the popular and at the academic level, we are quick to obsess about timelines, to speculate about sequences, and to read Scripture backward through our preferred eschatological systems. Entire interpretive frameworks are often constructed around the ordering of events, the identification of signs, or the alignment of prophetic texts with contemporary developments. None of these questions are unimportant in themselves, but they can easily assume a controlling role that they were never meant to have. When this happens, the center of gravity in our eschatology subtly shifts. When eschatology becomes primarily about events, charts, and sequences, Christ becomes secondary. Jesus becomes just another piece in the system rather than the center of the system. He is treated as a necessary component within a larger structure, rather than the one in whom that structure finds its meaning and coherence. And when a system can be mapped without reference to the living Christ, then it has already gone off track. At that point, eschatology risks becoming an exercise in speculative reconstruction rather than a theological reflection on the redemptive work of Christ. The question is not whether we have constructed a coherent system, but whether our understanding of the end is actually centered on the person and work of Jesus.

Now, there are several aspects of Christ’s person and work that ground our eschatological reflections. First, as I’ve already noted, Jesus is the Risen Lord. In other words, if eschatology begins with resurrection (and it does), then because Jesus has already been raised from the dead, the future has already broken into the present. We have been spiritually raised with Christ to walk in newness of life, and one day, we will be raised physically to walk hand in hand with him in glory. Second, and this has already been noted as well, but Jesus is the Reigning King. After his resurrection, he ascended into heaven to be seated at the right hand of the Father where he is currently reigning in glory. In this sense, the Kingdom is not merely a future reality; it is present now as he reigns over his people by his Spirit through his Word. He is coming again to reign on earth, but his present enthronement should shape our expectations. Third, Jesus is the Coming Judge. In other words, the final judgment is not some abstract threat. No, it is a personal reality that is tied to Christ authority. As the ancient creeds confess, he is coming to judge the living and the dead. The judge is the crucified and risen Christ. And finally, Jesus is the Center of Restoration. Or to put it another way, the new creation is not a system reset, it is the union that we now have with Christ being finally fulfilled on earth as it is in heaven. My point is that every eschatological hope—resurrection, judgment, kingdom, restoration—finds its coherence in the person of Jesus.

So, rather than asking “when is the rapture?” or “what is the millennium?”, we should be asking questions like, “What does Jesus’s resurrection mean for the future?”, “What does his kingship imply about the present?”, and “What does his return reveal about judgment and restoration?” These are not different questions so much as they are better-ordered questions. They move us away from speculative sequencing and toward theological reflection on the person and work of Christ. In other words, the question is not first what happens next, but what does Jesus’ work mean for what happens next? This shift in emphasis reorients the entire task of eschatology. It forces us to begin not with a timeline but with an event—the death and resurrection of Jesus—and to interpret the future in light of that reality. It reminds us that the resurrection is not merely a past miracle, but the decisive intrusion of the future into the present, the beginning of the end itself. Likewise, the present reign of Christ is not an abstract theological claim, but the governing reality that shapes how we understand the present age. And his return is not simply the final item on a prophetic chart, but the personal culmination of God’s redemptive purposes in the world. When we ask our eschatological questions in this way, Christ is no longer assumed in the background—he stands at the center.

This is not just some theological word game; this change has direct pastoral and theological payoff. Most importantly, it grounds our hopes for the future in a person and not in a system. This is our “blessed hope, the appearing of the glory of our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ.” (Titus 2.13) We don’t have to have all the details figured out down to a T, so to speak; we simply have to trust in the one who has promised to make all things new. More than this, though, it produces stability in the midst of disagreement. The disagreements among eschatological systems are myriad, but in theory, we can all agree that Christ stands at the center of the eschatological program. I would go as far as to say that we must agree on this, as a matter of Christian orthodoxy. Our common hope in Christ should unify believers across all our eschatological differences. Our eschatology should bring us together not drive us apart. And finally, this reorientation in our eschatological reflection centers us on questions of discipleship rather than speculation. By focusing on Christ and his work, we are better able to wait patiently and faithfully as he has commanded us, instead of worrying about the details. The point is that the doctrines of eschatology are not meant to produce anxiety about the future, but confidence in the One who holds it.

Ultimately, the end times are all about Jesus. This may sound cliché, but it is the biblical emphasis. The New Testament does not give space to unnecessary speculations about the end times or invite us to lose ourselves in the details of timelines and sequences. Rather, every eschatological vision must revolve around the person and work of Jesus Christ. He is the one who is coming back to make all things new. He is the one who is coming back to receive us unto himself, that where he is there we may be also. He is the one who is coming back to set us free from the presence of sin once and for all and to bring God’s redemptive purposes to their final fulfillment. And so, the end of all things is not a timeline to decode, but a person to behold—the crucified, risen, and reigning Christ.

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02/17/2026

On the Johannine Pentecost

By Phillip Powers

In John 20.19-23, Jesus appears in the upper room on the eve of his resurrection, and he breathes on the disciples saying, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” This is the so-called Johannine Pentecost, and at a glance, it would seem to contradict the very clear teaching of the book of Acts that the Spirit was given on the Day of Pentecost some 50 days after Jesus’s resurrection. If the events of that first Pentecost are understood as the climactic coming of the Spirit to indwell the followers of Christ, then Jesus’ giving of the Spirit in John 20.22 would seem to indicate that John (who was present at Pentecost) was hopelessly confused about the timeline. In the space the follows, I would like to suggest that John is not confused; rather, I think that John 20 presents Jesus’ giving of the Spirit as the breath of the new creation in fulfillment of Ezekiel’s restoration promises and in turn, it grounds the church’s corporate authority to forgive in the life of the risen Christ.

Of course, scholars and pastors have tried to resolve this tension in a variety of ways throughout the history of the church, and here I will identify just four. First, some suggest that the giving of the Spirit in John 20 is a kind of proleptic gift, a partial filling, that was meant to steel the disciples until the climactic coming of the Spirit 50 days later. Others suggest that John has theologized the giving of the Spirit by temporally relocating the event to the resurrection and directly connecting it with the risen Christ in light of his own “realized eschatology”. Still others suggest that John 20 functions as a kind of apostolic commission for the disciples which establishes their role as authoritative leaders in the early church. Finally, and this is my view, but the giving of the Spirit in John 20 should be understood as the inauguration of the age of the New Covenant/New Creation. This is not in contradiction to the Book of Acts and its descriptions of the Day of Pentecost. Rather, John has compressed these events theologically by linking the resurrection of Jesus with the concept of new creation, the giving of the Spirit, and the inauguration of eschatological life. He does this by alluding to the creation account in Genesis 1-2 and the New Covenant/Resurrection account in Ezekiel 36-37.

In John 20, the scene opens “On the first day of the week” (20.1), and this temporal note is repeated in our passage in 20.19, “when it was evening on the first day of the week.” This is a clear allusion to the first day of creation in Genesis 1. In other words, with the resurrection of Jesus comes a new first day, a new creation. This allusion is further confirmed by the fact that the scene takes place in a garden (19.31), and Mary mistakes the risen Christ for the “gardener” (20. 15). This is most likely a typological allusion to Christ as the second Adam. More significantly, we are told that Jesus “breathed on them.” The Greek word here (ἐνεφύσησεν ) is a verb that only occurs here in the New Testament. In the Greek translation of the Old Testament (LXX), in Genesis 2.7, we read that “The the Lord God formed the man out of the dust from the ground and breathed the breath of life into his nostrils, and the man became a living being.” In the same way (and with same word) that God breathed life into Adam, so also the risen Christ breathes life into his disciples. This is not just incidental language; the Evangelist has utilized this rare word intentionally, because he wants to connect the resurrection of Jesus with the new creation. When Jesus breathes the Holy Spirit on the disciples, they become participants in a new humanity.

However, there is another important Old Testament allusion that stands in the background of John 20, and that is the description of the New Covenant and the story of the Dry Bones in Ezekiel 36-37. In Ezekiel 36.26-27 (also 37.14), we read,

I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; I will remove your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. I will place my Spirit within you and cause you to follow my statutes and carefully observe my ordinances. 

And in Ezekiel 37.1-14, we read where Ezekiel is commanded to prophesy to the breath to “come from the four winds and breath (ἐμφύσησον) into these slain so that they may live.” In the same way that Ezekiel stood in the midst of the valley of dry bones and the dead came to life by the “breath/Spirit” of God, so also the risen Christ stands in the midst of his disciples who are “dead/paralyzed” in fear, and breathes into them the Spirit of life. Now, in the book of Ezekiel, these chapters drip with corporate overtones, particularly in regard to the restoration of the people of Israel. The dry bones coming to life is a symbol of national (and individual) resurrection and restoration, and the Johannine Pentecost symbolizes the eschatological restoration of the people of God, such that the 12 (or 11) disciples function as the nucleus of that people as a renewed Israel. The point is that John portrays the resurrection of Jesus as the moment when the promised Spirit of restoration becomes reality.

Now, it is important here that we stop and recall what John has already said back in John 7. 39, where we read, “Those who believed in Jesus were going to receive the Spirit, for the Spirit had not yet been given because Jesus had not yet been glorified.” This is the heart of John’s theology, namely that the glorification/exaltation of Christ comes in the crucifixion/resurrection of Jesus. We know this because, Jesus said in John 12:32, “As for me, if I am lifted up from the earth I will draw all people to myself.” He said this to indicate what kind of death he was about to die.” The verbal idea of being “lifted up” refers both to the kind of death he would die but also to the idea of exaltation. Point being that in John 20, Jesus has now been glorified and so the Spirit can now be given as a sign of eschatological life.

However, there is one more problem in this passage. In verse 23, we read where Jesus tells the disciples, “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” Of course, this language also occurs in the Gospel of Matthew, in Matthew 16:19 in Jesus words to Peter and then again in 18:18 in the context of the Community Discourse. Clearly, this is the language of commissioning and authority, but exactly what kind of authority is in view here is debated. Some (particularly in the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox traditions) understand these words to signify Apostolic/priestly authority to absolve sins. Others understand them to describe the authority of the church to announce the promise of forgiveness on the basis of the gospel. In my view, in the context of John 20, these words demonstrate that the Spirit-empowered community participates in the eschatological sorting of humanity. Forgiveness is determined by a person’s acceptance or rejection of the person and work of the Son (cf. John 3:18-21), but the church’s authority to forgive is part of its new-creation governance. In other words, just as the first humans were given dominion in the Garden of Eden (Genesis 1:28), so also the church as a new humanity is given Spirit-authorized responsibility as an agent of new-creation reconciliation. And John is clear that this authority is derivative, not autonomous; it flows from the risen Christ’s life and breath (i.e. Spirit).

In conclusion, then we must conclude that the Johannine Pentecost is not simply the relocation of the events of Acts 2; these are distinct narrative events serving distinct theological purposes. Whereas Acts emphasizes the public outpouring of the Spirit, the gift of tongues, and the church’s mission to the nations, John emphasizes the new creation, the restoration of the people of God, and ecclesial authority and identity. To put it more simply, John narrates the ontological beginning of the New Covenant age, and Luke narrates the Spirit-empowered expansion of the church’s mission. There is no contradiction; these are simply two theological angles on one redemptive reality. By tying his narrative to Genesis and Ezekiel, John gives us a theologically robust understanding of the significance of Christ’s resurrection. More importantly though, John 20.19-23 clearly demonstrates that the church exists because the risen Christ breathes his life into it. Its life is cruciform and Spirit-dependent, and its mission is one of reconciliation in the power of the new creation.

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