Tag Archives: Faith Seeking Understanding

On Eschatology and the Beatific Vision

In my last episode of Thinking Theologically (see here), I reflected on the nature of the Christian’s hope in the face of death. Do we simply go to heaven when we die, or is there something more for which we are waiting? (See also my post, “On Christian Hope: Heaven or Resurrection,” here.) The point of all this is that we must recover the priority of resurrection and new creation in contemporary evangelical eschatology. Christian hope is not simply “dying and going to heaven.” We await bodily resurrection and the renewal of creation. However, there is a danger of swinging the pendulum too far in the other direction, as it were. A beautiful renewed earth, embodied existence, culture, work, relationships, and the like are genuine eschatological goods—but are they the highest good? What are we to make of the traditional doctrine of the beatific vision, the idea that the final blessedness of redeemed humanity consists in seeing and enjoying God forever? After all, Paul can say that to depart and be with Christ is “far better” (Phil 1:23). So, which is it? I would submit that the Christian eschatological hope is neither merely resurrection and new creation nor an immaterial vision of God detached from creation. Rather, the resurrection of the body and renewal of creation provide the embodied setting for the beatific vision, in which redeemed humanity reaches its final blessedness by dwelling in the unveiled presence of the Triune God.

Of course, the Christian hope is irreducibly bodily. This cannot be denied. In Romans 8:23, Paul reminds us that “we also groan within ourselves, eagerly waiting for adoption, the redemption of our bodies.” In the same way that Christ was raised bodily from the dead, so we too, as his people, will one day be raised in glorified bodies. His resurrection is the pattern for ours. This is the logic of the resurrection. (On which, see here.) Salvation, therefore, does not culminate in the permanent separation of the soul from the body. God created human beings as embodied creatures, and his work of redemption restores the whole human person rather than liberating the soul from embodied existence. This is important for how we understand the beatific vision. To say that our final blessedness consists in seeing and enjoying God does not require us to abandon the bodily character of Christian hope. The redeemed who see God will be resurrected human beings, restored to the embodied existence for which God created them. The beatific vision is not the replacement of embodied human existence; it is the perfection of embodied human existence in the presence of God.

Neither, by the way, does embracing the beatific vision require us to abandon our concept of a renewed creation. In Romans 8, Paul deliberately connects the liberation of creation with the glorification of God’s children. Creation presently “groans” under its bondage to decay, even as we ourselves groan while awaiting the redemption of our bodies (Rom 8:21–23). The two hopes belong together. Just as God will redeem our bodies from death, so creation itself “will also be set free from the bondage to decay into the glorious freedom of God’s children” (8:21). The biblical hope, therefore, is not the abandonment of the created order but its renewal. This trajectory reaches its culmination in Revelation 21, where John sees “a new heaven and a new earth” and the New Jerusalem descending “out of heaven from God” (Rev 21:1–2). The direction is significant: redeemed humanity does not permanently escape upward from creation; rather, God’s heavenly reality comes down to transform the dwelling place of humanity. Resurrection and new creation thus belong together as essential dimensions of Christian eschatological hope. But this raises an important question: what ultimately makes this renewed creation the blessed existence for which Christians hope? A renewed creation is essential to Christian hope, but the biblical story does not reach its climax merely by telling us that everything has been made new.

What, then, constitutes the supreme glory of the new creation? John provides the answer almost immediately: “Look, God’s dwelling is with humanity, and he will live with them. They will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them and will be their God” (Rev 21:3). The great hope of the new creation is therefore not merely that death has been defeated, the curse has been removed, or creation has been restored—glorious though each of these realities will be. Its supreme glory is the presence of God himself. Indeed, this is the destination toward which the entire biblical story has been moving. Humanity begins in Eden dwelling in the presence of God. After the entrance of sin and humanity’s exile from his presence, God nevertheless dwells among his covenant people through the tabernacle and temple. In the incarnation, the Word himself “dwelt among us” (John 1:14), and through the Spirit God now dwells among his people in the church. Yet each of these anticipates the consummation, when God will dwell immediately and permanently with redeemed humanity in the new creation. The glory of the new creation is not ultimately that everything has been made new, but that the God who makes all things new dwells there with his people.

Yet Revelation goes even further. The promise is not merely that God will dwell with his people, but that “they will see his face” (Rev 22:4). Here we arrive at what Christian theology has traditionally called the beatific vision. The word “beatific” refers to blessedness, and the doctrine describes the final blessedness of redeemed humanity as consisting in the immediate knowledge and enjoyment of God himself. This hope appears throughout the New Testament. Jesus promises that the “pure in heart” will “see God” (Matt 5:8). Paul explains that although we presently see “only a reflection as in a mirror,” we will one day see “face to face” (1 Cor 13:12). Likewise, John declares that when Christ appears, “we will be like him because we will see him as he is” (1 John 3:2). Of course, none of this means that finite creatures will somehow become capable of comprehending the infinite God exhaustively. The Creator-creature distinction remains. Rather, the redeemed will know and enjoy God with an immediacy, purity, and fullness impossible in the present age. We presently know God truly, but our knowledge remains mediated and incomplete. In the new creation, faith will finally give way to sight. The highest blessing of the age to come is therefore not merely that we will live forever, but that we will live forever in the unveiled presence of God.

We should not, therefore, think that we must choose between resurrection and the beatific vision, as though one represented a properly biblical hope while the other reflected an overly spiritualized view of salvation. The New Testament holds them together. We will see God as the resurrected and glorified human beings he created and redeemed us to be. Our resurrected eyes will behold Christ, our ears will hear the worship of the redeemed, and our glorified bodies will inhabit the renewed creation in which God dwells with his people. Indeed, the closing chapters of Revelation bring all these realities together. John sees a city, a river, the tree of life, the nations, the servants of God, and the throne of God and of the Lamb (Rev 21–22). Yet at the center of this renewed creation stands the remarkable promise that God’s servants “will see his face” (22:4). New creation is not an alternative to heaven because heaven comes down. Resurrection is not an alternative to seeing God because we are raised to enjoy God as whole human beings. And the beatific vision is not an escape from creation because God’s unveiled presence is the supreme glory of the new creation.

This is why Scripture can speak of God himself as the inheritance and supreme good of his people. The psalmist declares, “LORD, you are my portion and my cup of blessing” and confesses that “in your presence is abundant joy; at your right hand are eternal pleasures” (Ps 16:5, 11). Likewise, Psalm 73 asks, “Who do I have in heaven but you? And I desire nothing on earth but you” (73:25). Such language does not diminish the goodness of God’s created gifts. Rather, it places those gifts in their proper order. We should certainly look forward to a renewed creation free from death, suffering, and the curse. We should look forward to resurrected bodies, restored relationships, and the fullness of human life as God intended it. But none of these things constitutes our highest good apart from God himself. Indeed, Revelation describes the New Jerusalem as having no temple because “the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb are its temple,” and needing neither sun nor moon because “the glory of God illuminates it” (Rev 21:22–23). The greatest gift God gives his people in the new creation is ultimately himself. Every other eschatological good finds its proper place within that supreme and everlasting good.

What, then, is the Christian’s ultimate hope? It is not simply that our souls go to heaven when we die. Neither, however, is it merely that our bodies will be raised and we will inhabit a renewed creation forever. We await the return of Christ, the resurrection of the dead, the renewal of creation, the removal of death and the curse, and, above all, the unhindered presence of God himself. Resurrection describes the embodied form of our final salvation. New creation describes its created setting. The beatific vision describes its supreme blessedness and end. This is precisely the picture with which the biblical story concludes: “There will no longer be any curse. The throne of God and of the Lamb will be in the city, and his servants will worship him. They will see his face” (Rev 22:3–4). Christian hope is therefore gloriously earthly without being earth-centered and gloriously heavenly without being disembodied. We await resurrection and new creation because God intends redeemed humanity to live forever as the creatures he made us to be. But the supreme glory of that life will not be merely that death is gone, creation is renewed, or our bodies have been raised. It will be that we will see his face. The new creation is the world of our eschatological hope, but God himself is its object.


On Thinking Theologically (Weekend Vlog)


On Eschatology in the Book of Hebrews

One of the major themes of the Letter to the Hebrews is the theme of perseverance. But perseverance unto what? What is the destination toward which we are heading? Hebrews paints an extraordinarily “heavenly” picture. We share in a heavenly calling (3.1), we have tasted the heavenly gift (6.4), we desire a heavenly country (11.16), and we have come to the heavenly Jerusalem (12.22). All of this can create the impression that Hebrews replaces earthly and creational hope with an essentially spiritual, heavenly destiny. On the other hand, the strong fulfillment language found throughout the book can be pushed toward the opposite mistake, namely treating the eschatological horizon of Hebrews as if it were essentially exhausted by Christ’s first coming and other first-century events. But, in my opinion, neither of these extremes adequately captures the eschatological vision of the Book of Hebrews. Rather, Hebrews presents Christian existence as participation in an eschatological salvation that has genuinely begun through Christ’s death, resurrection, exaltation, and heavenly priesthood but awaits a future consummation at his return. That consummation cannot be reduced either to events surrounding the first century or to an immaterial heavenly existence, for Hebrews directs believers toward Christ’s future appearing, the resurrection and judgment of the dead, the final shaking of creation, and humanity’s inheritance of “the world to come.”

The author of Hebrews introduces this “world to come that we are talking about” in 2.5, and he immediately quotes from Psalm 8. Psalm 8 is a prayerful reflection on humanity’s God-given dominion over creation. In other words, it speaks of creational realities and of humanity’s God-intended vocation. The eschatological hope envisioned here is therefore not an abandonment of humanity’s creational vocation but its ultimate realization. And the author of Hebrews is clear that this vocation is fulfilled in the second Adam, Jesus Christ. Jesus fulfills humanity’s vocation, having been crowned with glory and honor because he suffered death (2.9). Yet Hebrews immediately acknowledges an obvious tension: “At present, we do not yet see everything in subjection to him.” The promise of Psalm 8 has not yet reached its complete realization in human experience. What we do see, however, is Jesus, who has already entered into the glory and dominion for which humanity was created. His exaltation therefore anticipates the destiny of those who belong to him. The “world to come” is the world in which humanity’s creational vocation, already realized in the exalted Christ, will finally become a reality for redeemed humanity. From the outset, then, Hebrews presents an eschatological hope that is both already realized in Christ and still awaiting its full realization in the world to come.

This is exactly why we can speak of the “already” in the phrase “already and not yet.” The “last days” began when the Son came incarnate to earth, died on the cross, and rose again (cf. 1.1–2). “He has appeared one time, at the end of the ages, for the removal of sin by the sacrifice of himself” (9.26). The turning of the ages, then, is not merely a future expectation; it has already occurred through the saving work of Jesus Christ. Indeed, believers have even “tasted the powers of the coming age” (6.5). This is possible because Jesus has already entered the heavenly sanctuary on our behalf (9.11–12, 24) and has taken his place at the right hand of God (1.3; 8.1). Consequently, the blessings associated with the world to come have broken into the present through the exalted Christ. Christians can presently draw near to the throne of grace (4.14–16), enter the presence of God through the blood of Jesus (10.19–22), and participate in realities belonging to the coming age. In this sense, the eschatology of Hebrews is genuinely inaugurated. The future has become present in Christ without thereby ceasing to be future.

And yet there is still a future hope. As the author writes in 9.28, “so also Christ, having been offered once to bear the sins of many, will appear a second time, not to bear sin, but to bring salvation to those who are waiting for him.” The Day is approaching (10.25), and “he who is coming will come and will not delay” (10.37). Likewise, there remains a promised rest for the people of God into which believers must still strive to enter (4.1–11). Nor is this future expectation limited to Christ’s return. Hebrews includes “the resurrection of the dead and eternal judgment” among the foundational realities of the Christian faith (6.2), while the faithful who have gone before us have “not received what was promised,” so that “they would not be made perfect without us” (11.39–40). In other words, whatever first-century fulfillments Hebrews may encompass, its eschatological horizon exceeds them. Christ has accomplished the decisive work of salvation and presently reigns at the right hand of God, but the salvation secured by his first appearing still awaits its consummation at his second. The “already” of Hebrews is therefore substantial, but it does not eliminate the “not yet.”

Of course, as I stated above, Hebrews paints an extraordinarily heavenly picture of salvation. However, it is important that we distinguish between the heavenly location and source of our salvation and the ultimate nature of our salvation. A heavenly sanctuary does not imply eternal disembodiment, nor does present access to heaven require an ultimate escape from creation. As we saw in Hebrews 2 and its quotation of Psalm 8, our salvific destiny concerns humanity and “the world to come.” The goal is the realization of humanity’s God-given vocation over creation, a destiny already realized in the exalted Christ but not yet realized in us. Moreover, Hebrews 6.2 explicitly retains “the resurrection of the dead” as part of its eschatological expectation. Even Abraham’s desire for a “better country—a heavenly one” (11.16) must be read within this broader eschatological horizon rather than as a Greek-style escape from embodiment. The country is heavenly because it is prepared by God and belongs to the order of his promised salvation, not because salvation requires the abandonment of created existence. Indeed, Hebrews immediately associates this heavenly country with the city that God has prepared for his people. In other words, Hebrews has a heavenly Christology without an ethereal eschatology.

This is made clear when the author quotes Haggai 2.6: “Yet once more I will shake not only the earth but also the heavens” (Heb 12.26). In other words, final judgment has cosmic dimensions. God’s eschatological purpose is not merely private souls arriving in heaven. It involves the shaking of the created order and “the removal of what can be shaken—that is, created things—so that what is not shaken might remain” (12.27). Significantly, the emphasis is not simply upon destruction, but upon what remains after the shaking. As believers, we are therefore “receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken” (12.28). The contrast is between the present order, which remains subject to God’s eschatological shaking and judgment, and the permanent kingdom that God will establish beyond that judgment. This is the “world to come” toward which the author has been directing our attention: the promised order in which the purposes of God, already realized in the exalted Christ, reach their final and unshakable realization. The consummation envisioned by Hebrews therefore encompasses creation, judgment, kingdom, and the destiny of redeemed humanity. Its hope is not escape from the created order, but participation in the permanent order that remains when God finally shakes heaven and earth.

This already-but-not-yet tension explains why Hebrews so frequently describes the Christian life in terms of pilgrimage and perseverance. Abraham looked forward to “the city that has foundations, whose architect and builder is God” (11.10), while the patriarchs confessed that they were “strangers and temporary residents on the earth” because they desired the better and heavenly country God had prepared for them (11.13–16). Christians similarly have no enduring city here but “seek the one to come” (13.14). Yet this pilgrimage does not mean that believers are searching for a salvation they have not yet encountered. Jesus has already entered the heavenly sanctuary as our “forerunner” (6.19–20), opening the way into God’s presence for those who belong to him. Christians therefore live between promise and consummation. We already possess access to the heavenly realities secured by Christ, but we still journey toward the final inheritance of those realities in the world to come. This is precisely why perseverance matters so much in Hebrews. Christians belong to the world to come before the world to come has arrived in its fullness. We therefore press forward in faith because the destination toward which we journey has already been secured by the Christ who has gone before us.

So, we return to the opening question: perseverance unto what? Hebrews calls believers to persevere because the salvation inaugurated by Jesus Christ has not yet reached its consummation. We await his second appearing, the resurrection of the dead and final judgment, the promised rest, the city that is to come, the unshakable kingdom, and ultimately the “world to come” over which redeemed humanity will share in the destiny already realized in Jesus Christ. Hebrews therefore allows us neither to collapse its eschatological expectations into events surrounding the first century nor to transform its heavenly language into the hope of an immaterial existence removed from creation. Instead, its eschatology is grounded in what Christ has already accomplished and directed toward what God has yet promised to accomplish. Hebrews 2 captures this tension remarkably well: “At present, we do not yet see everything subjected to him,” but “we do see Jesus” already crowned with glory and honor (2.8–9). Christians therefore look upward because Jesus is already enthroned in heaven, but we also look forward because the world over which the enthroned Son reigns has not yet become what God has promised it will be. Until then, we persevere, following our forerunner and awaiting the world to come.


On Thinking Theologically (Weekend Vlog)


On Old Testament Conceptual Metaphors and the Christology of Luke’s Gospel: A Book Review

Lanier, Gregory R. Old Testament Conceptual Metaphors and the Christology of Luke’s Gospel. Library of New Testament Studies. London: T&T Clark, 2018.

The Christology of the canonical Gospels is remarkably multifaceted. From titles such as Son of God, Son of Man, Lord, and Christ, to John’s “I AM” statements, to the numerous Old Testament images and metaphors applied to Jesus, the Gospel writers employ a variety of categories to describe the complexity of Jesus’s person and work. No single title or image exhausts their Christological portrait; rather, it is through the convergence of these various titles, images, actions, and scriptural patterns that we begin to appreciate the fullness of their presentation of Christ. This is particularly important for the Gospel of Luke. While some have characterized Luke’s Christology as comparatively “low,” such a description can easily undersell the intricate ways in which Luke presents the identity and mission of Jesus. In his published dissertation, Old Testament Conceptual Metaphors and the Christology of Luke’s Gospel, Gregory R. Lanier takes up the question of Luke’s Christology by examining four characteristic metaphors that are distinctive to Luke’s Gospel. The result is a masterpiece of literary and exegetical analysis that demonstrates how deeply Luke’s presentation of Jesus is shaped by Old Testament patterns of thought. By tracing these metaphors through their Old Testament backgrounds and their distinctive deployment within Luke’s narrative, Lanier demonstrates that Luke’s Christology is considerably richer and more sophisticated than attention to explicit Christological titles alone might suggest.

Using the tools of conceptual metaphor theory (CMT), Lanier takes up four metaphors from the Gospel of Luke whose precise scriptural backgrounds and Christological significance have been variously interpreted. These four metaphors include the “horn of salvation” (Luke 1.68–69), the “dawn from on high” (Luke 1.78–79), the bird that gathers her chicks under her wings (Luke 13.34), and the “stone the builders rejected” (Luke 20.17–18). While scholars generally agree that these images draw upon the Old Testament and the interpretive world of Second Temple Judaism, there is considerably less agreement concerning which particular Scripture or Scriptures stand behind them and how those backgrounds illuminate Luke’s use of the images. Using CMT, Lanier approaches each image not simply as an allusion to a single Old Testament passage but as a conceptual metaphor drawing upon a wider network of Old Testament texts and images to map out the contours of Jesus’s person and work. Most significantly, Lanier argues that these metaphors draw upon imagery used in the Old Testament to describe the identity and activity of God, which Luke then reapplies to Jesus. The result contributes to a kind of “divine identity Christology” in which Jesus is portrayed as doing the kinds of things that Israel’s God does. Of course, these four metaphors do not exhaust Luke’s Christological perspective. Luke’s Christology is multilayered and must be constructed from the convergence of numerous titles, images, actions, and narrative patterns. Nevertheless, Lanier’s analysis demonstrates why the simple dichotomy between “high” and “low” Christology is inadequate for describing the complexity of Luke’s presentation of Jesus.

One of the greatest strengths of Lanier’s study is the explanatory power that conceptual metaphor theory brings to Luke’s use of Old Testament imagery. Studies of the New Testament’s use of the Old Testament often focus on identifying a particular source text behind a quotation or allusion. While this approach is useful when the textual relationship is relatively clear, it can prove more difficult when dealing with images that appear across a wide range of Old Testament texts. Lanier’s use of CMT provides a compelling way forward by allowing these metaphors to draw upon a broader network of scriptural associations rather than requiring them to depend upon a single identifiable source text. Thus, an image such as the “horn of salvation,” the dawning of light, the protection of a bird’s wings, or the rejected stone can evoke a constellation of Old Testament texts in which the same conceptual associations repeatedly occur. Importantly, this approach does not amount simply to collecting possible verbal parallels. Lanier demonstrates how recurring patterns of language and imagery establish conceptual relationships that would have shaped the meaning of these metaphors within the scriptural world inherited by Luke. This allows him to account for the richness of Luke’s imagery without reducing it to dependence upon any one passage. Lanier’s use of CMT therefore does more than identify additional Old Testament backgrounds for Luke’s language; it provides a compelling account of how a network of scriptural imagery can contribute cumulatively to Luke’s presentation of Jesus.

A second major strength of Lanier’s study is the Christological payoff that emerges from his analysis of these metaphors. Discussions of Luke’s Christology have often focused primarily on explicit Christological titles such as “Son of God,” “Son of Man,” “Lord,” and “Christ.” While these titles are undoubtedly important, Lanier demonstrates that Luke’s presentation of Jesus cannot be adequately reconstructed from titles alone. The conceptual metaphors examined in this study provide another important avenue through which Luke communicates Jesus’s identity and mission. Particularly significant is Lanier’s demonstration that each of these metaphors participates in patterns of Old Testament imagery associated with the identity and activity of YHWH. The significance of Luke’s application of these images to Jesus is therefore greater than the metaphors might initially suggest. Jesus does not merely perform actions analogous to those of other divinely appointed figures; he is portrayed through images that describe the saving, protecting, judging, and vindicating activity of Israel’s God. Lanier thus demonstrates how a robust Christology can emerge through the cumulative effect of Luke’s scriptural imagery without depending exclusively upon explicit statements concerning Jesus’s identity. This is one reason the traditional distinction between “high” and “low” Christology can prove inadequate for describing Luke’s Gospel. Lanier’s study shows that some of Luke’s most significant Christological claims are embedded within the scriptural images through which he narrates the identity and mission of Jesus.

The principal limitation of Lanier’s approach arises, somewhat ironically, from the same methodological breadth that makes his analysis so illuminating. By moving beyond the search for a single source text, CMT allows Lanier to account for the wider network of scriptural associations that may inform Luke’s metaphors. Yet this breadth also raises the question of how the interpreter determines the boundaries of that network. If a metaphor can draw upon a constellation of Old Testament texts without requiring a direct verbal correspondence with any one passage, it can become difficult to distinguish between conceptual associations that Luke plausibly intends to evoke and associations that are present within the broader scriptural tradition but may not contribute directly to the meaning of the Lukan text. Consequently, some of Lanier’s proposed connections are necessarily more persuasive than others, particularly where the linguistic or contextual relationship between Luke and the proposed Old Testament background is less explicit. This does not undermine the usefulness of CMT or the cumulative force of Lanier’s argument. Indeed, the recurrence of similar patterns across the four metaphors provides considerable support for his broader Christological conclusions. Nevertheless, the method places a significant burden upon the interpreter to demonstrate why particular texts and conceptual associations should be included within the relevant metaphorical network. Lanier’s study therefore demonstrates both the promise of CMT for the study of Luke’s use of Scripture and the need for careful exegetical controls when reconstructing the scriptural world that informs Luke’s Christological imagery.

In the final analysis, Old Testament Conceptual Metaphors and the Christology of Luke’s Gospel is an outstanding contribution to the study of Luke’s Christology and his use of the Old Testament. Lanier demonstrates both the explanatory value of conceptual metaphor theory and the importance of attending to forms of scriptural influence that extend beyond explicit quotations, direct allusions, and traditional Christological titles. His analysis of the “horn of salvation,” the “dawn from on high,” the gathering bird, and the rejected stone reveals how seemingly familiar images can carry a remarkable amount of Christological significance when situated within the broader conceptual world of Israel’s Scriptures. Although the breadth of CMT raises important questions concerning the boundaries and controls of these scriptural networks, Lanier applies the method with considerable exegetical care and produces a cumulative argument that is difficult to dismiss. More importantly, his study reminds us that Luke’s Christology cannot be adequately described simply by cataloguing the titles applied to Jesus or locating the Gospel somewhere along a spectrum from “low” to “high” Christology. Luke’s presentation of Jesus emerges from the convergence of titles, actions, narrative patterns, and deeply embedded scriptural images. Lanier has provided a compelling account of one important dimension of that portrait, and his study deserves serious attention from anyone interested in Luke’s Christology, Luke’s use of Scripture, or the relationship between the Old and New Testaments.


On Thinking Theologically (Weekend Vlog)


On Luke and Scripture: A Book Review

Evans, Craig A., and James A. Sanders. Luke and Scripture: The Function of Sacred Tradition in Luke-Acts. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2001.

According to the Commentary on the New Testament Use of the Old Testament, although Luke only quotes the Old Testament some twenty-five times throughout his Gospel, he alludes to it possibly as many as 439 times. Thus, any perception that Luke is relatively uninterested in the Old Testament is largely mistaken. Luke makes extensive use of the Old Testament in his portrayal of Jesus and the fulfillment of Israel’s hopes and expectations. In Luke and Scripture: The Function of Sacred Tradition in Luke-Acts, Craig A. Evans and James A. Sanders take up Luke’s use of the Old Testament in a collection of essays that attempt to shed light on the topic through the method of comparative midrash. First published in 1993, the book has become a standard part of the discussion, and deservedly so. Luke and Scripture offers a valuable collection of studies demonstrating the pervasive importance of Israel’s sacred traditions for understanding Luke–Acts. At the same time, the diversity of the essays means that the volume is more successful in demonstrating the extent of Luke’s engagement with Scripture than in offering a unified account of how Scripture functions within Luke’s narrative.

The essays cover a wide range of topics, from Luke’s use of Isaiah, to the function of the Elijah/Elisha narratives, to the ethics of election in Luke’s great banquet parable, to the use of Psalm 118 in Luke’s entry narrative, to the portrayal of the Jews in Luke’s scriptural apologetic. The essays are nevertheless united by their general use of the method of comparative midrash, which simply means comparing Luke’s usage with contemporary uses of the same Scripture in Jewish literature. The underlying assumption of this approach is that Luke’s use of Scripture did not take place in isolation. The same texts and traditions upon which Luke draws were being interpreted and reapplied within the broader Jewish world, and these contemporary interpretations can therefore provide an important context for understanding Luke’s own hermeneutical activity. By comparing Luke’s use of a particular passage or tradition with its interpretation elsewhere in Jewish literature, Evans and Sanders attempt to identify both the interpretive conventions Luke shares with his contemporaries and the distinctive ways in which he adapts Israel’s Scriptures to the story of Jesus and the early church. Comparative midrash thus provides the methodological thread connecting what might otherwise appear to be a rather diverse collection of essays. Despite the variety of texts and questions addressed, comparative midrash thus provides a common methodological framework for the volume as a whole.

The value of this comparative approach becomes apparent in the exegetical insights it produces throughout the volume. Rather than simply identifying Old Testament quotations and allusions, the contributors frequently demonstrate how attention to the wider interpretive traditions surrounding a particular text can illuminate Luke’s own use of it. This is especially important because Luke often draws upon Scripture in ways that extend beyond explicit citation. Scriptural characters, narratives, themes, and expectations provide patterns through which Luke interprets Jesus and the events of the early church. Reading these passages alongside their interpretation elsewhere in early Judaism therefore helps recover dimensions of Luke’s scriptural world that might otherwise be overlooked. At its best, comparative midrash allows the reader to see not merely that Luke has used a particular passage, but why that passage could carry the theological significance that Luke assigns to it. The method consequently provides an important safeguard against treating Luke’s use of Scripture as a collection of isolated Christian proof texts disconnected from their larger Jewish interpretive context. Luke’s reading is unmistakably Christian and Christological, but the essays repeatedly demonstrate that it remains deeply rooted in Israel’s Scriptures and the interpretive traditions that had developed around them.

A second strength of Luke and Scripture is the sheer breadth of Luke’s engagement with Scripture that emerges from the essays taken together. The volume demonstrates that the Old Testament does far more in Luke–Acts than provide a collection of individual proof texts or explicit predictions that find their fulfillment in Jesus. Israel’s Scriptures supply characters, narratives, themes, patterns, and expectations that repeatedly shape the way Luke tells his story. This breadth is reflected in the diversity of the essays themselves. Isaiah, the Elijah and Elisha narratives, the Psalms, Israel’s election, and other scriptural traditions are all shown to contribute in various ways to Luke’s presentation of Jesus and the early church. For example, Evans’s essay “Prophecy and Polemic: Jews in Luke’s Scriptural Apologetic” is particularly compelling in the way it challenges the conclusion that Luke is anti-Semitic in his portrayal of the Jews. Evans argues that Luke’s polemic against Jewish unbelief should be understood within the scriptural and prophetic patterns through which Luke interprets both Jesus’s rejection and the opposition encountered by the early church. The point is that the cumulative effect of the essays is significant. Even where one might disagree with an individual interpretation, the volume makes it increasingly difficult to read Luke–Acts without recognizing how thoroughly Luke’s narrative has been shaped by Israel’s Scriptures. Taken together, the essays demonstrate that the Old Testament does not merely provide occasional support for Luke’s theology; Israel’s Scriptures supply much of the conceptual and narrative world within which Luke tells the story of Jesus and the early church.

Nevertheless, the diversity that gives Luke and Scripture much of its value also contributes to one of its principal weaknesses. Although the individual essays provide numerous illuminating examples of Luke’s engagement with Israel’s Scriptures, the volume does not always bring these individual studies together into a unified account of how Scripture functions within Luke–Acts as a whole. This is particularly noticeable given the book’s subtitle, The Function of Sacred Tradition in Luke-Acts. The essays demonstrate a variety of ways in which Luke draws upon Scripture, but the reader is often left to determine how these individual examples relate to one another and what they reveal collectively about Luke’s larger scriptural hermeneutic. Of course, some degree of diversity is unavoidable in a collection of essays addressing different texts and questions, and that diversity contributes to the breadth that makes the volume so useful. Nevertheless, a concluding chapter drawing together the results of the individual studies and articulating more explicitly what they reveal about the larger function of Scripture within Luke–Acts would have strengthened the volume considerably. As it stands, Luke and Scripture is more successful in demonstrating the pervasive extent of Luke’s engagement with Scripture than in providing a comprehensive account of how that engagement functions across his two-volume narrative.

A second limitation concerns the method of comparative midrash itself. As noted above, comparison with contemporary Jewish interpretations can provide invaluable context for understanding Luke’s use of Scripture. Nevertheless, identifying parallels between Luke and other Jewish interpreters does not by itself explain how a particular scriptural text or tradition functions within Luke’s own narrative. At times, the volume’s emphasis upon comparative material can therefore leave questions of literary and theological function somewhat underdeveloped. Luke is not merely preserving individual interpretations of Israel’s Scriptures but incorporating them into a carefully constructed narrative in which scriptural themes and expectations develop across Luke–Acts. Consequently, understanding Luke’s use of Scripture requires attention not only to how a particular text was interpreted within early Judaism but also to where Luke places that text, how it relates to other scriptural traditions within his narrative, and what role it plays in the larger theological argument of Luke–Acts. This does not diminish the value of comparative midrash; rather, it highlights the limits of what the method can accomplish on its own. Comparative midrash is therefore most illuminating when it provides the historical and interpretive context for Luke’s use of Scripture while remaining attentive to the distinctive narrative and theological purposes for which Luke employs it.

Despite these limitations, Luke and Scripture remains a valuable contribution to the study of Luke–Acts and its use of the Old Testament. The individual essays vary in their subjects and conclusions, but together they make a compelling case that Israel’s Scriptures and the interpretive traditions surrounding them are indispensable for understanding Luke’s narrative and theology. The volume is particularly valuable for students and scholars interested in Luke–Acts, the New Testament use of the Old Testament, and the relationship between early Christianity and Jewish scriptural interpretation. More than thirty years after its original publication, some aspects of the discussion have naturally been supplemented by subsequent scholarship, but the volume continues to provide important exegetical insights and a useful methodological reminder: Luke must be read within the scriptural world from which his Gospel and Acts emerged. Luke and Scripture may not provide a comprehensive or fully unified account of the function of sacred tradition in Luke–Acts, but it convincingly demonstrates that such a function cannot be treated as peripheral. Israel’s Scriptures belong near the center of any attempt to understand Luke’s presentation of Jesus, the early church, and the fulfillment of God’s purposes.


On Thinking Theologically (Weekend Vlog)


On the Priority of the “Local” Church

Paul Washer has been quoted as saying, “Don’t look for the church nearest to your house; look for the church closest to the Bible.” I understand the point, and there is considerable wisdom in it. Christians need faithful, Bible-believing churches, and proximity can never compensate for serious theological or ecclesiological unfaithfulness. Yet I wonder whether, in emphasizing the first half of that equation, we have sometimes neglected the importance of the second. It has become increasingly normal for Christians to drive thirty, forty, or even fifty minutes to attend their preferred church, sometimes passing several faithful churches along the way. Of course, there may be good reasons for doing so. But the New Testament’s vision of the church is profoundly local. Churches are gathered in particular places, composed of people who worship together, bear one another’s burdens, submit to one another, serve one another, and bear witness to Christ within the communities where God has placed them. The local church is therefore more than a place where Christians receive good preaching on Sunday morning. It is a community in which they share the ordinary rhythms of Christian life. Perhaps, then, the question is not simply whether we have found a church faithful enough to attend, but whether we have planted our lives deeply enough within a local church to truly belong to one.

Part of the problem is that the modern world has accustomed us to living our lives across increasingly large geographical areas. We may live in one town, work in another, send our children to school in another, and regularly drive considerable distances for shopping, entertainment, and recreation. It is perhaps unsurprising, then, that we have begun to approach the church in much the same way. Rather than looking first for a faithful congregation within the community where we already live, we can survey churches across a wide area and choose according to our particular preferences: preaching style, music, children’s ministry, programs, demographics, theological distinctives, or any number of other considerations. None of these things is necessarily unimportant, and some may represent legitimate theological convictions rather than mere preferences. The danger comes when this way of choosing a church subtly transforms the congregation into another religious service that we consume. We drive somewhere on Sunday morning to receive the preaching, worship, and programming we prefer, and then drive back to a life that remains largely disconnected from the people with whom we have just worshiped. But a church is not merely a place where Christians gather for a few hours each week. It is a people to whom we belong. And if belonging to a church means sharing our lives with one another, then the distance between our church life and the rest of our life may matter more than we sometimes imagine.

This emphasis on belonging reflects the way the New Testament ordinarily speaks about the church. Certainly, there is a universal dimension to the church: Christ is building his church (Matt 16.18), and all who belong to him constitute his body. Yet this universal church repeatedly takes concrete expression in particular congregations located in particular places. We read of the church in Jerusalem (Acts 8.1), the church at Antioch (Acts 13.1), the church of God in Corinth (1 Cor 1.2), and the churches scattered throughout cities and regions across the Roman world. These were not merely collections of Christians who happened to attend the same worship service. They were identifiable communities of believers who knew one another, worshiped together, appointed and submitted to leaders, cared for members in need, practiced discipline, supported the work of the gospel, and shared responsibility for one another’s faithfulness. This is why Paul can describe the church as a body whose individual members belong to one another and depend upon one another for the health of the whole (1 Cor 12.12–27). The New Testament church is therefore universal in scope but irreducibly local in expression. Christianity does not merely unite individual believers to Christ; it joins believers to Christ’s people. And ordinarily, that belonging becomes visible not through an abstract relationship to Christians everywhere, but through committed participation in a particular congregation of Christians somewhere.

This local character of the church becomes especially important when we consider the numerous “one another” commands scattered throughout the New Testament. Christians are commanded to love one another (John 13.34), serve one another (Gal 5.13), bear one another’s burdens (Gal 6.2), encourage one another (1 Thess 5.11), confess their sins and pray for one another (Jas 5.16), show hospitality to one another (1 Pet 4.9), and teach and admonish one another (Col 3.16). These commands envision considerably more than occupying the same room for an hour or two on Sunday morning. They assume a shared life in which believers know one another well enough to recognize burdens, meet needs, offer encouragement, practice hospitality, and intervene when a brother or sister begins to wander. Of course, none of these commands establishes a geographical radius within which Christians must live, and modern transportation allows us to maintain relationships across distances that would have been unimaginable in the first century. Nevertheless, proximity ordinarily facilitates the kind of shared life these commands envision. It is much easier to bring a meal, open our homes, care for children, visit the sick, respond to an unexpected need, or simply participate in the ordinary rhythms of one another’s lives when the members of a church actually live near one another. The question, then, is not merely whether we can make the drive to church each Sunday, but whether we are close enough to its people to share our lives with them throughout the week.

The importance of this shared life becomes even clearer when we consider the means through which God ordinarily brings Christians to maturity. From the beginning, the church devoted itself to “the apostles’ teaching and the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers” (Acts 2.42). Christians grow through the preaching of the Word, prayer, baptism and the Lord’s Supper, fellowship, accountability, discipline, and the ordinary encouragement of other believers. Indeed, Paul describes the church as a body in which Christ gives pastors and teachers to equip the saints for ministry so that the entire body might grow together toward maturity in Christ (Eph 4.11–16). Christian growth is therefore not merely the result of receiving biblical information from a gifted preacher. It occurs as believers are joined to a community in which every member contributes to the spiritual health of the others. The same is true of pastoral ministry. Elders are not merely preachers whose sermons we consume each week; they are shepherds charged with keeping watch over particular souls for whom they will give an account (Heb 13.17). Such shepherding assumes that pastors know their people and that those people are sufficiently involved in the life of the congregation to be known. God certainly uses ministries beyond the local church for our good, but the ordinary pattern of the New Testament places our worship, discipleship, accountability, and perseverance within the life of a particular congregation.

There is also a missional dimension to the local character of the church. When God sent the exiles into Babylon, he instructed them to “seek the welfare of the city” where he had sent them (Jer 29.7). This passage is not, of course, a direct command concerning New Testament church membership, but it reflects a broader biblical principle that God’s people are called to live faithfully in the places where his providence has situated them. The church’s witness likewise occurs not merely in the abstract but in actual neighborhoods, towns, and cities where Christians live alongside unbelieving neighbors, coworkers, friends, and family members. Ideally, then, our church life and our community life should not exist in two entirely separate geographical worlds. When Christians worship, serve, and build relationships with believers who share the same communities in which they live, the church is better positioned to become a visible presence for the gospel within that place. Members can invite neighbors into relationships that naturally extend into the life of the congregation, churches can become more attentive to the needs of their communities, and evangelism can emerge from the ordinary relationships of everyday life. Again, none of this means that every Christian must attend the congregation geographically nearest to his or her home. But it does suggest that there is something valuable about churches that bloom where their members are planted: particular communities of Christians bearing witness to Christ together in the particular communities where God has placed them.

If the local church occupies this kind of place in the Christian life, then it should inevitably shape some of the larger decisions we make about where and how we live. Christians routinely make decisions about education, employment, housing, retirement, and relocation on the basis of numerous legitimate considerations: salary, cost of living, proximity to family, quality of schools, career opportunities, and countless others. Yet the local church can easily become an afterthought. We decide where we want to live and only afterward ask whether there happens to be a faithful church somewhere within driving distance. Perhaps we should reverse that order, or at least bring the church much earlier into the conversation. If God ordinarily intends Christians to grow, worship, serve, persevere, and participate in his mission through the life of a local congregation, then the availability of a faithful church should matter when deciding where we plant our lives. This does not mean that the church must always outweigh every other consideration, nor that Christians are wrong to accept jobs or pursue opportunities that require relocation. It simply means that belonging to Christ’s people should be treated as one of the defining priorities of the Christian life. Before asking only, “Where can I find the best job, house, or opportunity?” perhaps we should also be asking, “Where can I faithfully belong to Christ’s people and invest my life alongside them?”

None of this is intended to establish an arbitrary geographical rule for church membership. There are many legitimate reasons why Christians may need to travel some distance to belong to a faithful church. Those living in rural communities may have few healthy congregations nearby. Others may face significant theological disagreements with the churches closest to them, require a congregation that ministers in a particular language, or have family and ministry circumstances that make a more distant church the wisest choice. Churches themselves can change, decline, or depart from convictions that once made them faithful places to belong. Nor should proximity ever be used to justify remaining in a church that has abandoned the gospel or seriously compromised the teaching of Scripture. The point, then, is not that Christians must always attend the church geographically closest to their homes. Proximity should not trump faithfulness, but neither should it be treated as irrelevant to faithfulness. If two churches are genuinely faithful, there is real value in considering where we can most meaningfully share life, serve, practice hospitality, receive pastoral care, participate in mission, and bear one another’s burdens. The goal is not to calculate how many miles Christians are permitted to drive on Sunday morning. It is to recover a vision of church membership in which belonging to a local congregation means sharing our lives with a particular people rather than merely attending their services.

So, should Christians look for the church nearest to their house or the church closest to the Bible? If those were truly our only two options, the answer would be easy: we should choose faithfulness every time. But perhaps the choice is not always so stark. When God has placed faithful, Bible-believing churches within the communities where we live, there is something deeply fitting about planting our lives among them. The local church is not merely a place where we hear a sermon each week. It is the people with whom we worship, pray, break bread, bear burdens, raise families, serve our neighbors, pursue holiness, and persevere together in the faith. Recovering the priority of the local church therefore requires more than faithfully attending Sunday services. It means ordering our lives so that we can genuinely belong to Christ’s people and invest ourselves in their good. We should certainly look for churches that are close to the Bible. But perhaps we should also value churches close enough for their people to become part of the ordinary fabric of our lives. If Christ loved the church enough to give himself for her, then surely the local church deserves to be one of the defining priorities by which we order our own lives.


On Thinking Theologically (Weekend Vlog)


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