Tag Archives: Gospel of Mark

On the Meaning of “This Generation” in the Gospels

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


On Mark 13 and the Return of the Shepherd: A Book Review

Sloan, Paul T. Mark 13 and the Return of the Shepherd: The Narrative of Zechariah in Mark. Library of New Testament Studies. London: T&T Clark, 2019.

One of the most difficult interpretive questions in the study of the Synoptic Gospels concerns the Olivet Discourse (Mark 13; Matt 24–25; Luke 21). When the disciples marvel at the magnificence of the temple buildings, Jesus responds by predicting the destruction of the temple itself. Later, on the Mount of Olives—from which the discourse derives its name—the disciples ask Jesus about the timing of these events and their relationship to the coming of the Son of Man. How these events relate to one another, namely the destruction of the temple and the coming of Jesus, is the crux interpretum of the discourse, and no shortage of solutions have been proposed within modern Gospel scholarship. (For an overview of the major interpretive positions, along with my own view, see here.) In his published PhD dissertation, Mark 13 and the Return of the Shepherd, Paul T. Sloan, Chair of Theology at Houston Christian University and Associate Professor of New Testament, offers his own answer to these questions by exploring the influence of Zechariah 9–14 upon the Gospel of Mark generally and on Mark 13 specifically. In the space that follows, I will offer my review of his work.

Sloan’s essential thesis is that Zechariah 13.7–14.6 provides the primary narrative scaffolding for understanding the logic of the Olivet Discourse in Mark 13. He takes his cue from Mark 14.27, which is a quotation of Zechariah 13.7, “I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered.” For Sloan, the “scattering of the sheep” entails more than merely the flight of the disciples on the night Jesus’s arrest. Rather, the striking of the shepherd, i.e. the death of Jesus, initiates a time of eschatological scattering that is described in Mark 13:5-23 and which spans the time between the death and the return of Jesus as the Son of Man. After examining the reception of Zechariah 13–14 in Second Temple Judaism and Mark’s use of Zecharian imagery elsewhere in the Gospel, Sloan develops his thesis through a detailed analysis of the logic and structure of Mark 13. According to Sloan, Jesus answers the disciples’ question concerning the timing of the temple’s destruction in verses 5–23 of the chapter, a section marked by an inclusio. He then turns to the coming of the Son of Man, not because the discourse changes subjects, but because this is the next stage in the eschatological sequence established by Zechariah 13–14. Thus, there is no break in logic between Jesus’s description of the events leading up to the temple’s destruction and his description of the coming of the Son of Man. Rather, both belong to a single prophetic scenario structured by the narrative flow of Zechariah’s vision.

One of the greatest strengths of Sloan’s work is the way that he brings coherence to the logic and flow of the Olivet Discourse. One of the persistent challenges in the interpretation of Mark 13 has been explaining the relationship between the destruction of the temple, the period of tribulation described in the discourse, and the coming of the Son of Man. Rather than treating these as disconnected subjects, Sloan argues that they belong to a single prophetic scenario structured by the narrative flow of Zechariah 13–14. Whether one ultimately agrees with all the details of his proposal or not, his reading has the significant advantage of explaining why the discourse unfolds in the sequence that it does. A second strength of the book is Sloan’s sustained attention to the Old Testament background of Jesus’s teaching. Too often discussions of Mark 13 become preoccupied with historical reconstruction or modern eschatological systems, but Sloan consistently grounds his interpretation in the scriptural world that shaped both Jesus and the Evangelist. In particular, he demonstrates that Zechariah functions as more than a source of isolated proof texts; rather, it provides an important theological and narrative framework for understanding the discourse as a whole. Finally, Sloan’s treatment of the relationship between the Olivet Discourse and the Passion Narrative is particularly illuminating. By connecting Mark 13 with the citation of Zechariah 13.7 in Mark 14.27, he highlights a literary and theological relationship that is often overlooked. The striking of the shepherd is not merely the occasion for the disciples’ flight, but the initiating event of the eschatological drama that unfolds throughout the remainder of the Gospel. Taken together, these features make Sloan’s work a significant and valuable contribution to the ongoing discussion surrounding Mark 13.

Despite these strengths, there are a couple of areas where Sloan’s proposal left me wanting further development. First, while he successfully demonstrates the narrative relationship between the destruction of the temple and the coming of the Son of Man, he gives comparatively little attention to the possibility of a typological relationship between these events. In my view, the destruction of Jerusalem in AD 70 functions not merely as an event that precedes the coming of the Son of Man, but as a historical anticipation of the final judgment and vindication that will accompany Christ’s return. A stronger account of typology would help explain not only why these events appear together in the discourse, but also why Jesus is able to move so naturally from one to the other. Second, although Sloan makes a compelling case for the importance of Zechariah 13–14, there are points at which Zechariah threatens to become so dominant that other important Old Testament backgrounds recede into the background. In particular, I would have appreciated more interaction with the book of Daniel, which plays a central role in Jesus’s eschatological teaching elsewhere and provides much of the conceptual framework for the coming of the Son of Man. These observations do not undermine Sloan’s thesis, but they do suggest avenues where the discussion might be further refined and developed.

In the final analysis, Sloan’s work represents a significant contribution to the ongoing discussion surrounding the Olivet Discourse and the interpretation of Mark 13. Whether one ultimately agrees with every aspect of his proposal or not, he succeeds in demonstrating the importance of Zechariah 13–14 for understanding the logic and structure of the discourse. His emphasis on the striking of the shepherd as the initiating event of the eschatological drama provides a fresh and compelling way of reading Mark’s Gospel as a coherent narrative whole. Moreover, his careful attention to Old Testament backgrounds serves as a helpful reminder that Jesus’s eschatological teaching must be interpreted within the scriptural world that shaped both him and his earliest followers. While I remain unconvinced that Zechariah alone can account for every feature of the discourse, and would have appreciated more discussion of the typological relationship between the destruction of Jerusalem and the final coming of the Son of Man, these reservations do little to diminish the overall value of the work. Sloan has produced a thoughtful, carefully argued, and highly stimulating study that deserves serious engagement from anyone interested in Mark’s Gospel, the Olivet Discourse, or the eschatological teaching of Jesus.


On Son of God as a Messianic Title

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.


On the Trinity, the Cross, and the Cry of Dereliction

Today is Good Friday, a day when Christians around the world will pause to think about the death of Jesus Christ. It is a scene that has gripped the imaginations of Christian artists and sculptors now for two millennia, the Son of God hanging, naked, beaten, and bleeding, nailed to a Roman cross, and left to die. The brutal and gory realities of the scene would probably turn even the strongest of stomachs. And yet, for followers of Jesus, the words of the old hymn writer capture it well, “O that old rugged cross, so despised by the world, has a wondrous attraction for me.” This is because for those whose sins have been washed away by the shed blood of Christ, there is simply nothing more beautiful, nothing more deeply profound, than the substitutionary death of Son of God.

The profundity of the scene is best expressed in the words of Jesus; “About three in the afternoon Jesus cried out with a loud voice, “Elí, Elí, lemá sabachtháni?” that is, “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?” (Matthew 27.46) This “cry of dereliction”, which Jesus quotes from Psalm 22.1, is typically explained as the moment in which the full weight of God’s wrath toward sin was placed on the Son, and because God is essentially holy and cannot look upon sin, “the father turned his face away”, as we often sing. Of course, I am not sure that we will ever understand what Jesus was feeling in that moment, but the significance of the moment invites us to spend the next few moments attempting to understanding its theological implications.

And our reflection on this scene must begin with the affirmation of the hypostatic union, or the truth that Jesus was both God and man. He was God the Son incarnate. So, what might it mean for the Son to be “abandoned” by the Father? From a trinitarian perspective, it cannot mean that the godhead was divided in any kind of way. We confess that the God of the Bible is three in one – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit – one in essence, three in person. As a corollary, we confess that there is one God; we are not tri-theists. So, if there is only one God, then, it is metaphysically impossible for God to be divided from himself. In other words, the “cry of dereliction” cannot be understood to imply a separation or a division of the Father from the Son, or of God from himself.

Secondly, the doctrine of the Trinity also implies the idea of inseparable operations, meaning that whatever the Father does, the Son and the Holy Spirit do also, because there is only one God. This means that when the Father poured out His wrath on Jesus at the cross, that wrath belonged equally to the Son and the Spirit as well. So, it is completely accurate to say that the Son poured out His own wrath toward sin on Himself at the cross. This is the beauty of the Gospel, namely that what the justice of God required the love of God supplied. God took into Himself, in the person of Jesus Christ, the wrath that we deserve, so that we could be saved from His wrath. This truth should always leave us absolutely breathless and without words.

So, can we still sing the words “the father turned His face away”? I think yes; as Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 5:21, “He made the one who did not know sin to be sin for us.” One commentator that I recently read explains, “In a sense beyond human comprehension, God treated Christ as ‘sin,’ aligning him so totally with sin and its dire consequences that from God’s viewpoint he became indistinguishable from sin itself.” Jesus knew this to be his fate. He was fully and completely human, and, on the night He was betrayed, the burden of this task was so heavy that it caused even to sweat great drops of blood. Whatever the god-man felt in that moment, hanging there as the perfect and final sacrifice for our sin, is simply beyond our capability to fathom. Nevertheless, it was a fate that He willingly embraced for the sake of our salvation. And so we sing,

In that old rugged cross, stained with blood so divine,
a wondrous beauty I see,
for ’twas on that old cross Jesus suffered and died,
to pardon and sanctify me.

For further study, see
Matthew Emerson, “Parameters for Talking about the the Cry of Dereliction” (March 27, 2018)
and “Canonical Parameters for Talking about the Cry of Dereliction” (April 3, 2018)


On the Ending(s) of the Gospel of Mark

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In the Sunday School class that I am a part of, we have recently been studying the history and meaning of the cross, and as a part of that study, I suggested that while the historical specifics and the theological significance of the cross are important, to truly understand the cross, we must understand it narratively as the climax of the Passion of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. This led the class’s facilitator to ask me to walk us through the Passion narrative, an invitation that I was more than willing to accept, and so, for more than two months, we followed in the steps of Jesus as He made his way toward the cross. And we did this by focusing specifically on Mark’s version of these events, which is recorded in chapters 11-16 of his Gospel.

It has been said that Mark’s Gospel is simply a “passion narrative with an extended introduction.” And whether that is an accurate description or not, Mark does allocate a disproportionate amount of space to the final week of Jesus’ life as compared with the first three plus years of His public ministry or, even, the thirty-some years that Jesus had lived beforehand. To be specific, Mark dedicates six entire chapters of his Gospel, some 38% if you are doing the math, to the events leading up and following Jesus’ death on the cross. Obviously, he thought that these events were of supreme significance. And so, typical of Mark’s style, these final six chapters tell the story of Jesus’ passion with such action and drama as to constantly leave the reader on the edge of their seat waiting to see what might happen next.

However, all throughout this study of Jesus’ passion week, I found myself feeling somewhat more afraid with every step we took as we moved closer and closer to the ending of Mark’s Gospel. You see, I already knew that there is a text critical question regarding Mark’s Ending, but the vast majority of the members of the class, being King James faithful, were very likely unaware of this issue. I was terrified of how they might react when I explained that Mark, chapter 16, verses 9-20, as they appear in their Bibles, are most likely secondary in nature. Well, I am glad to report that my brothers and sisters in Christ were more than gracious in accepting my explanation of the issue, which, as I had presumed, most of them had never been exposed to. But, the vast ignorance of this issue among so many Christians, especially down here in the Bible Belt, breaks my heart, so in the space that follows I would like to give a brief overview of the issues related to Mark’s ending(s).

The fact of the matter is that there are actually four endings to the Gospel of Mark which are extant in the manuscript tradition. They are as follows:

  1. No ending, as is indicated in most modern translations, the earliest and most reliable manuscripts, particularly B and א, end the text of the second Gospel at verse 8.
  2. The Short Ending, immediately following 16:8, “But they reported briefly to Peter and those with him all that they had been told. And after these things Jesus himself sent out through them, from east to west, the sacred and imperishable proclamation of eternal salvation.”
  3. The Long ending (otherwise known as 16:9-20), which is included in all Bible translations that are available today, though usually with brackets, footnotes, and/or other indicators of its questionable authenticity.
  4. The Expanded ending, which expands the Long ending after verse 14, saying, “This age of lawlessness and unbelief is under Satan, who does not allow the truth and power of God to prevail over the unclean things of the spirits [or, does not allow what lies under the unclean spirits to understand the truth and power of God]. Therefore reveal your righteousness now’ – thus they spoke to Christ. And Christ replied to them, ‘The term of years of Satan’s power has been fulfilled, but other terrible things draw near. And for those who have sinned I was handed over to death, that they may return to the truth and sin no more, in order that they may inherit the spiritual and incorruptible glory of righteousness that is in heaven.”

Now, I am not here to argue the merits for or against any particular one of these four endings, but suffice it to say that the overwhelming consensus of New Testament textual scholarship has concluded that all of the endings that we have (numbers 2-4 above) are inherently secondary, and that, whether intentionally or unintentionally, the Gospel of Mark as we know it ends at 16:8. Based on both external and internal evidence considerations, this much seems reasonably certain.

However, what is important is not one’s conclusion regarding the original ending of the Gospel of Mark, but what conclusions should be drawn in light of the textual question. First, we must maintain our belief in the fundamental trustworthiness and historical reliability of the Bible in general, and of the Gospel accounts in particular. Just because the last twelve verses of the second Gospel as we know it are in question, this does not mean that the rest of the Gospel of Mark, or the other three Gospels for that matter, are inherently false. In fact, all of the events in the so-called Long Ending are attested in the other accounts, especially in Luke and Acts. Further, we must remember that we do not build theological conclusions based on the testimony of one verse in isolation. As important as scriptural citations are in establishing the Biblical basis for our theological conclusions, individual verses must be understood within the context of the whole of Holy Scripture.

Second, this does not mean that translations of the Bible which lack any indication of the textual issue, e.g. some editions of the King James Version, are fundamentally in error, or that the are trying to lead people astray. The history of the Bible in English is long and complex, and conclusions that are based on the presence and/or omission of this particular issue, or others like it, are simplistic and reductionistic. To the extent that any English translation of the Bible faithfully reflects the original text of the autographs, then it can be read with great spiritual benefit. As Jesus promised, the Spirit will lead us into all truth through His Holy Word. Ultimately, He is the one who inspired the original  biblical authors, He is the one who has providentially preserved the text, and He is the one who gives understanding of its truths and applies them to our hearts to make us more like Christ.

 

 


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