Tag Archives: Biblical Theology

05/11/2026

On Justification and the Roman Catholic Church

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.

Leave a comment | tags: Biblical Theology, Catholic=Protestant Dialogue, Christlikeness, Clarity of the Gospel, Council of Trent, Faith Alone, Faith and Works, Faith Seeking Understanding, Fruit of the Spirit, Galatians, Gospel, Grace, Holiness, Justification, Justification by Faith, New Perspective on Paul, Obedience, Pauline Theology, Phillip Powers, Protestant Theology, Reformation Theology, Roman Catholic Church, Roman Catholicism, Salvation by Faith, Sanctification, Soteriology, Works of the Law | posted in Bible Exposition, Biblical Studies, Biblical Theology, Church History, Systematic Theology

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.

Leave a comment | tags: Biblical Theology, Christology, Crucifixion, Crucifixion/Resurrection, Divine Sonship, Eternal Life, Faith and Belief, Faith Seeking Understanding, God the Son, Gospel of John, Identity of Jesus, Incarnation, Jesus as Messiah, Jewish Messianism, Johannine Christology, Messianic Expectations, Messianic Sonship, Only Begotten Son, Phillip Powers, Resurrection, Second Temple Judaism, Son of God, Theology of John, Trinity | posted in Biblical Studies, Biblical Theology, Gospels Studies, Historical Jesus

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.

1 Comment | tags: Biblical Theology, Christology, Covenant, Davidi Covenant, Dead Sea Scrolls, Faith Seeking Understanding, Gospel of Luke, Gospel of Mark, Jesus Christ, Kingship, Messianic Title, Old Testament, Phillip Powers, Psalm 2, Second Temple Judaism, Son of God, Synoptic Gospels, The Gospel of Matthew | posted in Biblical Theology, Gospels Studies, Historical Jesus

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.

1 Comment | tags: Biblical Theology, Book of Psalms, Christ-Centered Hermeneutics, Christ-Centered Theology, Christian Living, Christology, Devotions, Faith Seeking Understanding, Fulfillment, Hermeneutics, Hope, Jesus and the Psalms, Messianic Prophecy, New Testament, New Testament Use of the Old Testament, Old Testament, Phillip Powers, Prayer, Praying the Psalms, Psalms, Suffering, Typology | posted in Biblical Theology, Hermeneutics

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.

1 Comment | tags: Already and Not Yet, Biblical Theology, Christ-Centered Theology, Christian Hope, Christological Eschatology, Christology, Church Unity, Discipleship, End Times, Eschatology, Faith and Theology, Final Judgment, Inaugurated Eschatology, Kingdom of God, New Creation, New Testament Theology, Phillip Powers, Resurrection, Second Coming, Systematic Theology, Theological Method, Theology of Jesus | posted in Biblical Theology, Practical Theology, Systematic Theology

03/16/2026

On the Narrative Logic of John 21

By Phillip Powers

The twentieth chapter of John’s Gospel is full of climactic moments. Not only does it record the resurrection of Jesus and his interaction with Mary in the garden, but it also tells the story of Jesus’s appearance to his disciples in the upper room (On the Johannine Pentecost) and the climactic confession of Thomas a week later. The chapter ends with a clear purpose statement when John writes, “Jesus performed many other signs in the presence of his disciples that are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name.” (20.30-31) To many, these verses sound like an appropriate conclusion to John’s Gospel; for this reason, many scholars (and some readers) treat John 21 as a kind of appendix or addendum or afterthought. Although there is no manuscript evidence to support this claim, it is often argued that if chapter 20 brings the Gospel to its climactic conclusion, then why would John write chapter 21? It seems unnecessary. From a narrative perspective, John 21 is not an awkward appendix but the necessary completion of the Gospel’s story. It resolves tensions left intentionally open in chapter 20 and brings the Gospel’s themes — discipleship, love, witness, and mission — to their proper conclusion.

As I noted above, John 20 is the clear climax of John’s Gospel. Jesus is resurrected, the disciples are commissioned, and Thomas confesses Jesus as “My Lord and my God.” (20.28) This confession serves as a kind of bookend in the book that points the reader back to John’s opening where he affirms that Jesus is the Word that was with God and was God and was made flesh and dwelt among us. (1.1, 14) Following these climactic moments, it only makes sense that John’s purpose statement in verses 30-31 would bring the Gospel to its logical conclusion. This chapter proves that Jesus is the Christ of God, and that faith in Him as the resurrected one results in eternal life. The end. Or so one would think. Not only is there no manuscript evidence that John’s Gospel should end in chapter 20 (as there is with Mark’s ending, on which see here), but if John were to end his gospel with chapter 20, then there would be many narrative threads that would remain unresolved. What becomes of Peter after his denial? What becomes of the beloved disciple? What becomes of the disciples’ mission? Yes, chapter 20 concludes the narrative arc of Jesus’s identity, but chapter 21 goes on to explain what that revelation now means for the followers of Jesus.

John 21 returns the reader to the Sea of Tiberias, aka the Sea of Galilee. Narratively, this is a return to where it all began. Not only did Jesus begin his public ministry in Galilee, but he also called the first four disciples after a night of fishing on the Sea of Galilee. The scene intentionally echoes the earlier calling narrative familiar from Luke 5. After a night of fruitless labor, Jesus shows up and tells them to cast their nets on the other side of the boat. They haul in a catch that is nearly too large, and Jesus commissions them to discipleship and mission. Many interpret this scene as a regression for the disciples, a return to the life and vocation before Christ. However, in light of this parallel, this scene should be understood not as a regression, but as narrative symmetry. John intentionally returns his readers to the beginning to show that the resurrection does not erase vocation — it redefines it. Vocation that is engaged apart from radical dependence on the risen Christ is utterly futile, but when vocation is entered into from a position of dependence and obedience to the risen Christ, then it is abundantly fruitful. When we submit our vocation to the mission of Jesus, then we will reap abundant fruit and reward. Even so, the real center of John 21 is not fish, it is Peter.

Of course, all four Gospels record Peter’s three denials of Jesus on the night of Jesus’s arrest, but John is the only one who records Peter’s restoration. (Luke hints at the idea when Jesus tells him that after returning, he will encourage his brothers.) John deliberately connects the scene in John 21 back to the denial scene by noting that Jesus prepared a “charcoal fire” and the threefold repetition of the question “Peter, do you love me?” matching Peter’s three denials. Some tend to make a big deal out of the various words that are used for love in Peter’s answers, but this is overplayed. Not only were the words basically synonymous in the first century, but the idea that Peter’s love did not rise to some divine standard is wholly alien to the logic of the text. This is a threefold public restoration that corresponds to Peter’s threefold public failure. Moreover, it reveals the pastoral tenderness of Jesus. Jesus does not scold Peter; he does not call him out over his failures. He doesn’t berate or condemn him. He graciously restores Peter to ecclesial service. “Feed my lambs. Shepherd my sheep. Feed my sheep.” This commission is not merely personal therapy for Peter; it is an ecclesial necessity. John cannot end his Gospel with Peter in unresolved failure. The shepherd of the disciple group must be restored if the flock is to endure. But Peter is not the only disciple in view here either.

After his restoration, Peter noticed the disciple whom Jesus loved and he asks Jesus, “Lord, what about him?”, and Jesus responds, “What is that to you? As for you, follow me.” (21.20-22) Jesus’s point is that he has different callings for each of his followers, and that following Christ is more important than comparing callings. Peter’s calling was to shepherding and martyrdom; the beloved disciple’s calling was to abiding ministry and public/written testimony. As he writes in 21.24, “This is the disciple who testifies to these things and who wrote them down. We know that his testimony is true.” Not only is this important for establishing the credibility and reliability of John’s Gospel, but it is also a fundamental component of John’s understanding of what it means to be a disciple of Jesus. To put it another way, John 21 grounds the authority of the Gospel in eyewitness testimony while clarifying that discipleship does not look identical for all. We all serve the risen Christ, but we all serve him in different and varied ways. These verses are not just random narrative details added on to the end of the story; they are essential for completing John’s theology of discipleship.

In other words, for John, discipleship is a life that is characterized by following Jesus, loving Jesus, abiding in Jesus, and witnessing to the truth about Jesus. When we confess Christ (chapter 20), he commissions us to a life of embodied mission (chapter 21). If we truly believe that Jesus is the risen Christ (and he is), then we will follow him in whatever calling he has placed on our lives. Put differently, discipleship is the vocation of following Jesus. The risen Christ is not merely to be believed in — he is to be followed. If we say we love Christ, we will commit ourselves to and give ourselves for the care of his people. Moreover, John hints at the fact that discipleship can involve suffering. In 21.18, Jesus tells Peter, “when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands and someone else will tie you and carry you where you don’t want to go.”, and John explains that “He said this to indicate by what kind of death Peter would glorify God.” (21.19) This is part of the vocation of discipleship, too. We must be willing to follow Jesus wherever he leads; this is the kind of discipleship that Jesus is calling us all too.

However, returning to my thesis, without John 21, Peter’s denial remains unresolved, the beloved disciple’s authority is unexplained, and the future of the community of Jesus followers is unclear. In terms of John’s narrative, John ends his gospel not with spectacle but with discipleship as vocation. Chapter 20 concludes the revelation of Jesus’s identity, and chapter 21 concludes the formation of Jesus’s community. Or to put it another way, John 20 answers the question “Who is Jesus?”, and John 21 answers the question “What now?” Without this pastoral and ecclesial resolution, John’s Gospel would be incomplete. John does not end his Gospel in private mystical belief. He ends it with shepherding, witness, martyrdom, and mission. And he leaves the end of the story open when he writes, “And there are also many other things that Jesus did, which, if every one of them were written down, I suppose not even the world itself could contain the books that would be written.” In other words, the story is ongoing, and all the things that the risen Jesus will do have not yet been completed even two thousand years later. John 21 is not a loose epilogue. It brings the Gospel to its proper end — not merely with a confession of Christ, but with the commissioning of those who will testify to him. The risen Lord restores the fallen, distinguishes callings, anchors testimony, and sends his followers into a future shaped by love and sacrifice. That is not an afterthought. That is narrative completion. And it poses the question to the reader, “Will you follow Jesus?”

Leave a comment | tags: Apostolic Witness, Beloved Disciple, Biblical Theology, Discipleship, Eyewitness Testimony, Gospel of John, Historical Jesus, Johannine Community, Johannine Theology, John 20, John 21, Mission of the Church, Narrative Theology, New Testament Studies, Peter in the Gospels, Peter's Denials, Phillip Powers, Restoration of Peter, Resurrection Appearances, Sea of Galilee, Shepherding Ministry | posted in Bible Exposition, Gospels Studies

03/02/2026

On Whispers of Revolution: A Book Review

By Phillip Powers

Bird, Michael F. Bird. Whispers of Revolution: Jesus and the Coming of God as King. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2025.

When we confess that Christ is King, we are tapping into a longing that goes back to the very beginning of creation. Adam and Eve were placed in the garden of Eden to serve as God’s vice-regents, to rule and to establish his dominion in the world. Of course, our first parents failed when they succumbed to the deceptions of the serpent, and from that point on, the story of the Bible revolves around God’s plan to reestablish his dominion in the world. In a new book entitled Whispers of Revolution: Jesus and the Coming of God as King, Michael F. Bird applies this lens to the person and work of Jesus of Nazareth. Bird is Deputy Principle and Lecturer in Theology at Ridley College, Melbourne, and he is the author of over 30 books, including the award winning The Gospel of Lord: How the Early Church Wrote the Story of Jesus. In this book, Bird argues that Jesus was driven by the conviction that through his words and work, through his mission and message, God was unveiling his kingship in a way that would rescue Israel and eventually restore the whole world.

Bird’s essential thesis is that the life and ministry of Jesus is best understood within the context of Jewish restoration eschatology. Jewish restoration eschatology is simply the hope that one day God would bring an end to Israel’s exile, restore their national and spiritual life as his people, and through them bring the nations into submission under his rule. This hope is grounded in the visions of the canonical prophets, and it serves as the foundation for the theology and worldview of Second Temple Judaism. For Bird, this worldview “provides the key to understanding Jesus’ mission, aims, self-understanding and hope.” (56) With this lens in view, then, Bird goes on to walk through the Gospel accounts to show how the details of the Jesus earthly ministry fit within this framework. Along the way he discusses topics such as, the birth and early life of Jesus, Jesus’ self-understanding of himself as Messiah, his teaching about the Kingdom of God and other topics, his interactions with his contemporaries, his’ last days in Jerusalem, and his death and resurrection. In all of this, God is coming, coming as king. He concludes, “Jesus himself started the whisper of this revolution, one involving a reordering of power, Israel’s regathering, the redemption of the Jews, the defeat of Satan, and the renewal of creation.” (300) However, this good news could not remain a whisper; it had to be shared, repeated, declared, argued, and even shouted afar. And this is exactly what Jesus instructed his followers to do.

In terms of strengths, Bird is particularly helpful when he is discussing the place of historical Jesus studies in relation to New Testament Theology. After all, Jesus did not write any of the books that we have included in the NT canon. Technically, the NT Documents are written about him, but none of them were actually written by him. So, we may rightly speak of the theology of Matthew or Luke or Mark or John, but can we also speak of the theology of Jesus himself? Bird suggests that the study of the historical Jesus is a necessary prolegomena o our study of NT theology. Jesus is the church’s primal theologian, and it is his teaching, his ministry, his life and death that stands at the heart of the New Testament. Therefore, we cannot simply relegate historical Jesus studies to the domain of historians alone; no, the study of historical Jesus is a fundamental component of the theologians toolbox when it comes to understanding the theology of Paul or John or Matthew or Peter or James. Bird writes, “Jesus was the first theologian of the Jesus movement, and his is the creative mind behind so much of the church’s generative tradition.” (15-16) This means that the theology of the NT should find its impetus, not exclusively but at least initially, on the lips of Jesus of Nazareth. He goes on to write that, “the study of the historical Jesus is a reminder that the ‘word became flesh’.” (17). In other words, if we truly believe that our faith in grounded in the historical realities of Jesus life and ministry, death and resurrection, then we must give the study of the historical Jesus its proper place when it comes to understanding the New Testament.

One minor reservation that I have concerns Bird’s relatively frequent appeal to the Gospel of Thomas. Thomas is a mid-to-late second-century sayings collection comprising 114 logia attributed to Jesus, many of which exhibit clear literary and thematic dependence upon Synoptic tradition. While some scholars continue to argue that Thomas may preserve independent and possibly early Jesus traditions, the case for its independence remains highly contested. In numerous instances, the parallels suggest secondary development rather than primitive preservation, and several logia reflect theological trajectories consistent with the emerging Gnostic or proto-Gnostic tendencies. To be clear, Thomas is an important witness to the reception and reinterpretation of Jesus’ sayings in the second century. However, its value for reconstructing the historical Jesus is, in my view, extremely limited. For that reason, Bird’s approximately twenty-two references to Thomas—nearly half the number of his citations of the far more substantial and canonically received Gospel of John—feel somewhat disproportionate. While these references do not materially affect his overall thesis, a more restrained use of Thomas would have strengthened the historiographical clarity of the argument.

Whispers of Revolution is not a fifth gospel but at the same time it is not merely a gospel harmony. It is historically grounded, insightful, and clarifying reconstruction of Jesus within the context of first century Judaism and its hopes for restoration. And insofar as the historical study of Jesus of Nazareth is “indispensable for religious scholarship and the life of Christian faith” (14), Bird’s book is both accessible and academically rigorous. It will be a great benefit both to lay Christians who want to understand Jesus and the gospels better and to scholars who are looking for a clear and coherent understanding of Jesus to which they can correlate their own work. And so, I would gladly recommend this book, and if I were ever to teach a course on the life of Jesus or the Gospels, I would require it for my students. When Jesus was with his disciples at Caesarea Philippi, he asked them, “Who do people say that I am?”, and then, more importantly, he asked them, “Who do you say that I am?” This is the fundamental question we must all be able to answer. Bird has answered it: Jesus was a messianic prophet of Jewish restoration in fulfillment Old Testament hopes. While Jesus was certainly more than this, he was certainly not less, and Whispers of Revolution is a great book for those who want to understand the life and times, the ministry and message of Jesus as he himself might have understood it.

1 Comment | tags: Biblical Theology, Christianity, Gnosticism, Gospel of Thomas, Gospel Traditions, Historical Jesus, jesus, Jesus and Israel, Jesus of History, Jesus of Nazareth, Kingdom of God, Messianic Expectation, Michael F. Bird, New Testament Theology, Phillip Powers, Restoration Eschatology, Restoration of Israel, Second Temple Judaism, Synoptic Gospels, Theology of Jesus, Whispers of Revolution | posted in Book Review, Historical Jesus

05/31/2022

On Sola Scriptura and the Use of Bible Study Resources

By Phillip Powers

Five hundred years ago, the leaders of the Protestant Reformation championed the refrain sola scriptura, that scripture alone is the ultimate and final authority for all questions pertaining to Christian faith and practice. It is a refrain that continues to ring out today in Bible believing churches all over the world. The perspicuity, sufficiency, and authority of the Bible are convictions that are foundational for the overall health and wellbeing of the church, and this is especially so when these truths are under the kind of direct attack that they have suffered in this current cultural climate. It is no understatement to say that the trends of the culture are moving against the authority and sufficiency of Holy Scripture. Therefore, it is imperative for every new generation of Christians to affirm, proclaim and defend these truths.

However, in my experience, there is widespread misunderstanding about what the doctrine of sola scriptura actually means. Many Christians commonly confuse the doctrine of sola scriptura, or “scripture alone”, with a position that might be called solo scriptura, or “scripture only”. Solo scriptura is the position that Holy Scripture is the only valid resource for matters of Christian faith and practice, and usually, it holds that other kinds of extra biblical resources are unnecessary, nay even inappropriate. According to this perspective, biblical commentaries, historical studies, biblical and systematic theologies are typically viewed as distractions or obstacles in the study of the Bible rather than as aids in the process. These resources are typically viewed as merely the opinions of men, and so they are deemed to be inappropriate for the Christian who truly wants to hear the voice God in His Word.

Now, I think that the believers who hold this kind opinion are genuine in their desire to know and obey the Word of God, and this should be applauded. But, to eschew all extra biblical resources out of some supposed devotion to the primacy of Holy Scripture is fundamentally short sighted and unwise. This is primarily because God has gifted his church with pastors and teachers (Ephesians 4.11), and these gifts have been preserved for us in the form of commentaries, theologies, and the like that have been passed down through the ages. Moreover, the Proverbs remind us that “A fool’s way is right in his own eyes, but whoever listens to counsel is wise” (Proverbs 12.15), and “Without guidance, a people will fall, but with many counselors there is deliverance” (Proverbs 11.14). In other words, it is in keeping with Biblical wisdom to listen to the counsel of those who have studied the Bible before us. Or to put it another way, “[Interpretations] fail when there is no counsel, but with many advisers they succeed” (Proverbs 15.22).

Of course, the doctrine of sola scriptura rightly affirms that these extra biblical resources do not stand above the Bible in any kind of authoritative or determinative way. The Bible is norma normans non normata; it is the norming norm that is itself not normed. On the other hand, biblical commentaries, systematic theologies, and the like are norma normata, or “normed norms”, in the process of biblical interpretation. They are the guard rails that keep us from falling into the canyon of interpretive subjectivism, but they are ultimately subservient to that final authority which is the inspired and inerrant Word of the one true and living God. This is the doctrine of sola scriptura rightly understood; it is the affirmation that scripture the final and highest authority on matters pertaining to Christian life and practice, but it is not the only authority on these matters.

So, when it comes to reading and studying the Bible, Christians are right to avail themselves of the plethora of resources both modern and ancient that are available today. This includes but is not limited to biblical commentaries, biblical, systematic, and historical theologies, socio-cultural background studies, linguistic and literary aids, and many others. These are valuable helps in the interpretive process. However, as helpful as these kinds of books are, we must remember that nothing can substitute for simply reading the Bible; this is the God-ordained means by which we are transformed into His image by the renewing of our minds. As Charles Spurgeon once said, “Visit many good books, but live in the Bible. ” Or as the Bible itself reminds us,

“But beyond these, my son, be warned: there is no end to the making of many books, and much study wearies the body. When all has been heard, the conclusion of the matter is this: fear God and keep his commands, because this is for all humanity.”
~Ecclesiastes 12.12-13

For more on this topic, see also:
On the Use and Benefit of Tradition
On Hermeneutics & Interpreting the Bible

2 Comments | tags: Authority of Scripture, Bible Reading, Bible Study Methods, Bible Study Resources, Biblical Commentaries, Biblical Theology, Charles H. Spurgeon, Counselors, norma normans non normata, norma normata, Perspicuity of Scripture, Phillip Powers, Reformation, Scripture Alone, sola scriptura, solo scriptura, Sufficiency of Scripture, Systematic Theology, Wisdom | posted in Church History, Hermeneutics, Systematic Theology

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